Just when the buzzing of the jury had died away to a low universal murmur
of the crowd, and the judge's gavel had enforced silence throughout the
courtroom, another name was called.
"Mayella Violet Ewell – "
The girl in question raised her head in reply. As instructed, she rose from her chair, approaching the book the bailiff held. Her right hand was in the air.
"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
Mayella ran the truth through her mind, desperately hoping she would remember it all without letting slip otherwise. "I reckon I do."
The judge eyed her, and she suddenly remembered that nearly everyone in Maycomb was behind her watching. "Yes," she said meekly.
Mr. Gilmer approached the witness stand Mayella had settled herself in. She tried to keep in mind that he was on her side, but her heart was pounding too hard for her to feel at all calm.
"Tell the jury," he began, "in your own words what happened on the evening of November twenty-first of last year." When she glanced at the ceiling, he added, "Just in your own words, please."
There was so much Papa had told her. She wasn't sure where to begin.
To Mayella's relief, Mr. Gilmer began for her. "Where were you at dusk on that evening?"
She answered.
He questioned her answer.
She answered his question, hoping he would continue, which he did.
"What were you doing on the porch?"
She replied, but it was only nothing.
"Just tell us what happened," he said. Her gaze shifted to Mr. Finch. She knew she'd have to endure his interrogation with nothing short of perfection.
Pressure built inside her, and Mr. Gilmer added to his request. "You can do that, can't you?"
Mayella stared at him, knowing the jury was searching, if not interpreting her silence. They were bearing down on her, and she was only a young girl... and she knew in an instant she could use that.
The judge tried to comfort her after she'd started crying. She covered her face, just in time to catch the judge's question – "What are you scared of?"
She answered, but not loud enough. She indicated Mr. Finch. While explaining how bad he'd made Papa look, she was calmed to see the jury frowning in her favor.
The judge asked how old she was. "Nineteen-and-a-half," she answered him cooperatively, but quietly.
The judge said something to the extent that no one wanted to scare her, and she was a big girl, and if she could tell them what happened to her.
She began the story according to her own memory. She was on the porch – that was true. The chiffarobe needed chopping – that was somewhat true. Tom Robinson had come by – that was true. This was the simple part.
She indicated whom she'd meant. Tom Robinson shuddered when she pointed, but she didn't have the mind to notice.
She continued her story about calling him over, telling him she had a nickel for him, and then... foreign memories she'd told herself were real took full control.
He came behind her, choked her, cussed her. She fought, but he just kept hitting, again and again and –
"– agin an' agin – "
Then he... she stopped to remember what she'd said. Then the story played out in her mind again. She finished saying he'd taken advantage of her.
Mr. Gilmer asked if she'd screamed. "Did you scream and fight back?"
Mayella reckoned she would have. "Reckon I did – "
Then what happened? Mayella thought for a moment, then announced she didn't remember... "– but next thing I knew Papa was in the room a'standing over me hollerin' who done it, who done it?"
She'd done it. But he'd been hollering, alright.
The rest was a blur of truth and tale.
Then Mr. Finch was mentioned, and Mayella steeled herself. Her tale was her only defense, and she would stick to it.
Surely enough, Mr. Finch took his opportunity for cross-examination.
He greeted her cordially, asked politely for her age, and she answered. She was nineteen. He had nothing on her.
He was patient, friendly, and therefore blameless. She would be getting no more sympathy from anyone today, she could tell. Mr. Finch would make sure of that. She was furious, and it must have shown.
"Won't answer a word you say long as you keep mocking me," she said.
"Ma'am?" he asked. There he went again.
She explained that he was too polite, using different words, of course. She wanted him to stop, had to make him stop. He knew her tricks too well, and wanted to avoid them. How could anyone possibly favor a poor, defenseless girl while she was being treated with the utmost respect?
The judge, however, saw it for what it was – respect, and nothing else. He tried to calm her down, and urged Mr. Finch to continue.
He asked her tedious things, things she couldn't possibly find offensive. She was nineteen, she had seven siblings, she could read and write, what was her mother like?
He asked more and more until Mayella didn't realize what she was revealing. Her tale had all but left her mind. She was telling the truth, and when she realized it, she also found it was too late. The subject had long been on her father.
"Do you love your father, Miss Mayella?"
She didn't understand, and said so.
Mr. Finch elaborated. Was he easy to get along with? she asked herself. He was, except when he drank. She stopped herself before she'd voiced the whole thought.
Papa sat up straight. She took it back, and he relaxed.
"Except when he's drinking?" Mr. Finch asked. She heard the question echo in her mind and she knew it was true. She nodded.
Mr. Finch went further to suggest Papa beat her. She put her foot down right there. "He never touched me."
She answered his questions cautiously, Some required a good memory, some required quick thought, and some required a bit of an imagination.
Then Mr. Finch wanted her to basically repeat everything she'd said. Somehow he remembered it all, but she wasn't as confident in herself.
"You said he 'got you around the neck cussing and saying dirt' – is that right?"
Of course it was right. She'd said it, hadn't she?
"You say 'he caught me and choked me and took advantage of me' – is that right?"
It wasn't right to be completely honest, but according to him it was what she'd said earlier, so she agreed.
"Do you remember him beating you about the face?"
She hesitated. Was that part of the story? Did it seem right? Had she ever said he hadn't? Could this be used against her?
Mr. Finch repeated his question. The only person who knew the story better than her and Papa was Mr. Gilmer. He'd come up with it. She looked to him hopefully, helplessly, but Mr. Finch drew her gaze away by echoing himself again. And again. He wasn't as friendly now, but he wasn't harsh enough for her to cry again.
Mr. Finch was right – it was a simple question. Why couldn't she answer it? Why shouldn't she answer it?
She said no, but then miraculously remembered he did. He did, he did. He'd hit her about the face.
Mr. Finch confused her. She couldn't remember, and yet the memory was all too clear. Tears were blossoming, and she let them fall.
Mr. Finch asked her to identify the man who'd raped her. She identified whom she'd ought to identify. It was the same old story she'd told over and over, and yet she could hear clearly now the crowd murmuring.
That's the man that raped her. She confirmed it.
"How?"
Mayella felt fire erupt inside of her. She didn't care how, but he'd done it, it was him.
Mr. Gilmer tried to defend her, but to no avail.
Did she wish to reconsider her testimony? She evaded the question. Tell him what happened. She did. She did a hundred times.
"Then he released your throat and hit you?"
"I said he did."
"He blackened your left eye with his right fist?"
Mayella added to the story. She looked as if she remembered it, but it was all forming in her mind.
Yet, before she couldn't remember. Mr. Finch saw her mistake before she did.
Mr. Finch continued to question her testimony, but she would not waver, she would not say otherwise.
"All right, why didn't you run?"
Papa wouldn't let her run. She quickly remembered her tale. "I tried..."
But her tale was unraveling, failing. Why didn't she run? Did she scream? Where were the others? Why didn't they help? He kept asking, but she wouldn't answer. No, she wouldn't answer. Papa narrowed his eyes at her from where he sat. She didn't answer.
All too clearly now, the night of November twenty-first was coming back to her. Her cheek stung at the thought, her arms ached at the memory. She'd fought back, but for all the wrong reasons.
"Who beat you up child, Tom Robinson or your father?"
And slowly, ever so gradually, Mr. Finch asked her what happened that night. Finally, Mayella realized he'd known it all along, and there was no fooling him.
She was furious, indignant, and scared half to death. Papa'd beat her. She bit her tongue hard, noticing how angry Papa looked by now. She had to say something, or she'd feel the same beating she'd felt that night.
She told Mr. Finch and everyone else firmly her story. And there was no questioning it, no bending the law. She was innocent. She'd been taken advantage of. Whether it was Tom Robinson, or Papa telling her so, they'd both taken advantage of her.
For once, she didn't have to put on a show. She wept, and the defense rested. They'd gotten what they wanted from her.
~~~~~~~~~~
"She is a victim of cruel poverty and ignorance, but I cannot pity her..."
Mayella could remember Mr. Finch's words as clearly as if he'd been saying them all over again.
"She knew full well the enormity of her offense, but because her desires were stronger than the code she was breaking, she persisted in breaking it."
Mayella sat still. Furious, defeated, but still.
She'd only tuned in and out, catching various words at random; tempted, beaten, cynical, assumption, desire, equal, duty...
The hours it took for the verdict to be announced allowed Mayella enough time to play the day through her mind, and to think about how things might have changed.
She remembered November twenty-first now without corruption obscuring the facts. She'd had enough time in this courtroom without noise, without work, without interruption, to wonder... She wondered with an inward smirk if any of this would have been able to happen if that Tom Robinson had accepted every nickel she'd offered him.
Every time he would decline, Mayella would save it, stowing it away far from the reach of her younger siblings. She hadn't had a plan for that saved money until it occurred to her that lonely November day that seven nickels was enough to get the children out of the house.
That sad little thirty-five cents had made everything possible. A smug expression had claimed her, but quickly fled when Mr. Tate had called out that the court would come to order. Judge Taylor finally showed signs of life.
Hundreds of eyes followed the jury, which had stepped back into the courtroom, their gaze deliberately avoiding the defendant.
Judge Taylor finished with the final vote from the jury in a detached voice. It was difficult to tell, but he seemed to accept it with an air of weary disappointment.
Guilty. Mayella knew she was guilty. She knew what she'd done, along with the rest of Maycomb. Whether they decided to believe Tom Robinson or not, they knew what she'd done.
Guilty. The word rang out, echoing with all its condemning nature. It was the deciding fate to someone of this courtroom.
Guilty. It was a black man's downfall, and a white woman's conscience.
Guilty. Despite all the damage that was now being done, it was a blessing to a certain young girl.
~~~~~~~~~~
"Mayella Violet Ewell – "
The girl in question raised her head in reply. As instructed, she rose from her chair, approaching the book the bailiff held. Her right hand was in the air.
"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
Mayella ran the truth through her mind, desperately hoping she would remember it all without letting slip otherwise. "I reckon I do."
The judge eyed her, and she suddenly remembered that nearly everyone in Maycomb was behind her watching. "Yes," she said meekly.
Mr. Gilmer approached the witness stand Mayella had settled herself in. She tried to keep in mind that he was on her side, but her heart was pounding too hard for her to feel at all calm.
"Tell the jury," he began, "in your own words what happened on the evening of November twenty-first of last year." When she glanced at the ceiling, he added, "Just in your own words, please."
There was so much Papa had told her. She wasn't sure where to begin.
To Mayella's relief, Mr. Gilmer began for her. "Where were you at dusk on that evening?"
She answered.
He questioned her answer.
She answered his question, hoping he would continue, which he did.
"What were you doing on the porch?"
She replied, but it was only nothing.
"Just tell us what happened," he said. Her gaze shifted to Mr. Finch. She knew she'd have to endure his interrogation with nothing short of perfection.
Pressure built inside her, and Mr. Gilmer added to his request. "You can do that, can't you?"
Mayella stared at him, knowing the jury was searching, if not interpreting her silence. They were bearing down on her, and she was only a young girl... and she knew in an instant she could use that.
The judge tried to comfort her after she'd started crying. She covered her face, just in time to catch the judge's question – "What are you scared of?"
She answered, but not loud enough. She indicated Mr. Finch. While explaining how bad he'd made Papa look, she was calmed to see the jury frowning in her favor.
The judge asked how old she was. "Nineteen-and-a-half," she answered him cooperatively, but quietly.
The judge said something to the extent that no one wanted to scare her, and she was a big girl, and if she could tell them what happened to her.
She began the story according to her own memory. She was on the porch – that was true. The chiffarobe needed chopping – that was somewhat true. Tom Robinson had come by – that was true. This was the simple part.
She indicated whom she'd meant. Tom Robinson shuddered when she pointed, but she didn't have the mind to notice.
She continued her story about calling him over, telling him she had a nickel for him, and then... foreign memories she'd told herself were real took full control.
He came behind her, choked her, cussed her. She fought, but he just kept hitting, again and again and –
"– agin an' agin – "
Then he... she stopped to remember what she'd said. Then the story played out in her mind again. She finished saying he'd taken advantage of her.
Mr. Gilmer asked if she'd screamed. "Did you scream and fight back?"
Mayella reckoned she would have. "Reckon I did – "
Then what happened? Mayella thought for a moment, then announced she didn't remember... "– but next thing I knew Papa was in the room a'standing over me hollerin' who done it, who done it?"
She'd done it. But he'd been hollering, alright.
The rest was a blur of truth and tale.
Then Mr. Finch was mentioned, and Mayella steeled herself. Her tale was her only defense, and she would stick to it.
Surely enough, Mr. Finch took his opportunity for cross-examination.
He greeted her cordially, asked politely for her age, and she answered. She was nineteen. He had nothing on her.
He was patient, friendly, and therefore blameless. She would be getting no more sympathy from anyone today, she could tell. Mr. Finch would make sure of that. She was furious, and it must have shown.
"Won't answer a word you say long as you keep mocking me," she said.
"Ma'am?" he asked. There he went again.
She explained that he was too polite, using different words, of course. She wanted him to stop, had to make him stop. He knew her tricks too well, and wanted to avoid them. How could anyone possibly favor a poor, defenseless girl while she was being treated with the utmost respect?
The judge, however, saw it for what it was – respect, and nothing else. He tried to calm her down, and urged Mr. Finch to continue.
He asked her tedious things, things she couldn't possibly find offensive. She was nineteen, she had seven siblings, she could read and write, what was her mother like?
He asked more and more until Mayella didn't realize what she was revealing. Her tale had all but left her mind. She was telling the truth, and when she realized it, she also found it was too late. The subject had long been on her father.
"Do you love your father, Miss Mayella?"
She didn't understand, and said so.
Mr. Finch elaborated. Was he easy to get along with? she asked herself. He was, except when he drank. She stopped herself before she'd voiced the whole thought.
Papa sat up straight. She took it back, and he relaxed.
"Except when he's drinking?" Mr. Finch asked. She heard the question echo in her mind and she knew it was true. She nodded.
Mr. Finch went further to suggest Papa beat her. She put her foot down right there. "He never touched me."
She answered his questions cautiously, Some required a good memory, some required quick thought, and some required a bit of an imagination.
Then Mr. Finch wanted her to basically repeat everything she'd said. Somehow he remembered it all, but she wasn't as confident in herself.
"You said he 'got you around the neck cussing and saying dirt' – is that right?"
Of course it was right. She'd said it, hadn't she?
"You say 'he caught me and choked me and took advantage of me' – is that right?"
It wasn't right to be completely honest, but according to him it was what she'd said earlier, so she agreed.
"Do you remember him beating you about the face?"
She hesitated. Was that part of the story? Did it seem right? Had she ever said he hadn't? Could this be used against her?
Mr. Finch repeated his question. The only person who knew the story better than her and Papa was Mr. Gilmer. He'd come up with it. She looked to him hopefully, helplessly, but Mr. Finch drew her gaze away by echoing himself again. And again. He wasn't as friendly now, but he wasn't harsh enough for her to cry again.
Mr. Finch was right – it was a simple question. Why couldn't she answer it? Why shouldn't she answer it?
She said no, but then miraculously remembered he did. He did, he did. He'd hit her about the face.
Mr. Finch confused her. She couldn't remember, and yet the memory was all too clear. Tears were blossoming, and she let them fall.
Mr. Finch asked her to identify the man who'd raped her. She identified whom she'd ought to identify. It was the same old story she'd told over and over, and yet she could hear clearly now the crowd murmuring.
That's the man that raped her. She confirmed it.
"How?"
Mayella felt fire erupt inside of her. She didn't care how, but he'd done it, it was him.
Mr. Gilmer tried to defend her, but to no avail.
Did she wish to reconsider her testimony? She evaded the question. Tell him what happened. She did. She did a hundred times.
"Then he released your throat and hit you?"
"I said he did."
"He blackened your left eye with his right fist?"
Mayella added to the story. She looked as if she remembered it, but it was all forming in her mind.
Yet, before she couldn't remember. Mr. Finch saw her mistake before she did.
Mr. Finch continued to question her testimony, but she would not waver, she would not say otherwise.
"All right, why didn't you run?"
Papa wouldn't let her run. She quickly remembered her tale. "I tried..."
But her tale was unraveling, failing. Why didn't she run? Did she scream? Where were the others? Why didn't they help? He kept asking, but she wouldn't answer. No, she wouldn't answer. Papa narrowed his eyes at her from where he sat. She didn't answer.
All too clearly now, the night of November twenty-first was coming back to her. Her cheek stung at the thought, her arms ached at the memory. She'd fought back, but for all the wrong reasons.
"Who beat you up child, Tom Robinson or your father?"
And slowly, ever so gradually, Mr. Finch asked her what happened that night. Finally, Mayella realized he'd known it all along, and there was no fooling him.
She was furious, indignant, and scared half to death. Papa'd beat her. She bit her tongue hard, noticing how angry Papa looked by now. She had to say something, or she'd feel the same beating she'd felt that night.
She told Mr. Finch and everyone else firmly her story. And there was no questioning it, no bending the law. She was innocent. She'd been taken advantage of. Whether it was Tom Robinson, or Papa telling her so, they'd both taken advantage of her.
For once, she didn't have to put on a show. She wept, and the defense rested. They'd gotten what they wanted from her.
~~~~~~~~~~
"She is a victim of cruel poverty and ignorance, but I cannot pity her..."
Mayella could remember Mr. Finch's words as clearly as if he'd been saying them all over again.
"She knew full well the enormity of her offense, but because her desires were stronger than the code she was breaking, she persisted in breaking it."
Mayella sat still. Furious, defeated, but still.
She'd only tuned in and out, catching various words at random; tempted, beaten, cynical, assumption, desire, equal, duty...
The hours it took for the verdict to be announced allowed Mayella enough time to play the day through her mind, and to think about how things might have changed.
She remembered November twenty-first now without corruption obscuring the facts. She'd had enough time in this courtroom without noise, without work, without interruption, to wonder... She wondered with an inward smirk if any of this would have been able to happen if that Tom Robinson had accepted every nickel she'd offered him.
Every time he would decline, Mayella would save it, stowing it away far from the reach of her younger siblings. She hadn't had a plan for that saved money until it occurred to her that lonely November day that seven nickels was enough to get the children out of the house.
That sad little thirty-five cents had made everything possible. A smug expression had claimed her, but quickly fled when Mr. Tate had called out that the court would come to order. Judge Taylor finally showed signs of life.
Hundreds of eyes followed the jury, which had stepped back into the courtroom, their gaze deliberately avoiding the defendant.
Judge Taylor finished with the final vote from the jury in a detached voice. It was difficult to tell, but he seemed to accept it with an air of weary disappointment.
Guilty. Mayella knew she was guilty. She knew what she'd done, along with the rest of Maycomb. Whether they decided to believe Tom Robinson or not, they knew what she'd done.
Guilty. The word rang out, echoing with all its condemning nature. It was the deciding fate to someone of this courtroom.
Guilty. It was a black man's downfall, and a white woman's conscience.
Guilty. Despite all the damage that was now being done, it was a blessing to a certain young girl.
~~~~~~~~~~