Mr. Finch. He jist don't understand. If I go home, Papa will skin me 'fore God an my brothers an my sisters. Mr. Finch knew it all along, he knew it. He jist wanted them jury people to git it through there thick headed skulls.
Dunno what I'm gonna do if that Robinson is let out though. I could run away, but I got nowhere to go. Everyone'z gonna be on Papa'z and Mr. Heck Tate'z side, I believe. I know that Robinson is black, I know it, but I dont feel quite right lettin him lose like that. When I had ta talk ta Mr. Finch, I had 'em butterflies in my stumock. I didnt wanta let Robinson git the blame for it, but Papa said I had to or he da beat me fer all I was worth. It's not my fault though. Not my fault for kissin Robinson, I mean. Papa kept me in that house so long. Makin me watch the kids yonder and clean and chop up chiffarobes all the time. Beatin me like that every time I mess up and callin me names. I never had any comp'ny. My flow'rs were my comp'ny. Never had someone ta talk ta... like Robinson.
He was mighty tollable ta me unlike Papa when he come home after drinkin. Mr. Finch knew bout all of it. An he was still up there sassin me and yellerin at me and askin me questions. Prolly the worstest day o my life. Them blacks were a shakin their heads an them whites were memerin at every stinkin word ida said. Mr. Finch didnt look glad to be all court-like, niether. I sho' hope he's mighty sad about it cuz he should be. Robinson looked mighty sad too.
Mr. Gilmer kept on askin him questions bout what happened and then he said "You say she's lying, boy?" and Robinson kept on sayin "Mr. Gilmer, I say she's mistaken in her mind." Mr. Gilmer kept askin mean questions and Robinson said No, suh. No, suh. No, suh. No, suh. If he woulda said No, suh one more time I dunno what I woulda done.
I'm good as dead when i go home whether Robinson lives or not. Hope Mr. Finch gits that. I know one thing...I wont be kissin any Negros for awhile.
