Native Son - Richard Wright [169]
A few moments before the trial, a guard came to his cell and left a paper.
“Your lawyer sent this,” he said and left.
He unfolded the Tribune and his eyes caught a headline: TROOPS GUARD NEGRO KILLER’S TRIAL. Troops? He bent forward and read: PROTECT RAPIST FROM MOB ACTION. He went down the column:
Fearing outbreaks of mob violence, Gov. H. M. O’Dorsey ordered out two regiments of the Illinois National Guard to keep public peace during the trial of Bigger Thomas, Negro rapist and killer, it was announced from Springfield, the capital, this morning.
His eyes caught phrases: “sentiment against killer still rising,” “public opinion demands death penalty,” “fear uprising in Negro sector,” and “city tense.”
Bigger sighed and stared into space. His lips hung open and he shook his head slowly. Was he not foolish in even listening when Max talked of saving his life? Was he not heightening the horror of his own end by straining after a flickering hope? Had not this voice of hate been sounding long before he was born; and would it not still sound long after he was dead?
He read again, catching phrases: “the black killer is fully aware that he is in danger of going to the electric chair,” “spends most of his time reading newspaper accounts of his crime and eating luxurious meals sent to him by Communist friends,” “killer not sociable or talkative,” “Mayor lauds police for bravery,” and “a vast mass of evidence assembled against killer.”
Then:
In relation to the Negro’s mental condition, Dr. Calvin H. Robinson, a psychiatric attaché of the police department, declared: “There is no question but that Thomas is more alert mentally and more cagy than we suspect. His attempt to blame the Communists for the murder and kidnap note and his staunch denial of having raped the white girl indicate that he may be hiding many other crimes.”
Professional psychologists at University of Chicago pointed out this morning that white women have an unusual fascination for Negro men. “They think,” said one of the professors who requested that his name not be mentioned in connection with the case, “that white women are more attractive than the women of their own race. They just can’t help themselves.”
It was said that Boris A. Max, the Negro’s Communistic lawyer, will enter a plea of not guilty and try to free his client through a long drawn-out jury trial.
Bigger dropped the paper, stretched out upon the cot and closed his eyes. It was the same thing over and over again. What was the use of reading it?
“Bigger!”
Max was standing outside of the cell. The guard opened the door and Max walked in.
“Well, Bigger, how do you feel?”
“All right, I reckon,” he mumbled.
“We’re on our way to court.”
Bigger rose and looked vacantly round the cell.
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” Bigger sighed. “I reckon I am.”
“Listen, son. Don’t be nervous. Just take it easy.”
“Will I be setting near you?”
“Sure. Right at the same table. I’ll be there throughout the entire trial. So don’t be scared.”
A guard led him outside the door. The corridor was lined with policemen. It was silent. He was placed between two policemen and his wrists were shackled to theirs. Black and white faces peered at him from behind steel bars. He walked stiffly between the two policemen; ahead of him walked six more; and he heard many more walking in back. They led him to an elevator that took him to an underground passage. They walked through a long stretch of narrow tunnel; the sound of their feet echoed loudly in the stillness. They reached another elevator and rode up and walked along a hallway crowded with excited people and policemen. They passed a window and Bigger caught a quick glimpse of a vast crowd of people standing behind closely formed lines of khaki-clad troops. Yes, those were the troops and the mob the paper had spoken of.
He was taken into a room. Max led the way to a table. After the handcuffs were unlocked, Bigger sat, flanked by policemen. Softly, Max laid his right hand upon Bigger’s knee.