but it seemed to me that he'd gone frog-sticking without a light.
Never, never, never, on cross-examination ask a witness a question you
don't already know the answer to, was a tenet I absorbed with my
baby-food. Do it, and you'll often get an answer you don't want, an
answer that might wreck your case.
Atticus was reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. He drew out
an envelope, then reached into his vest pocket and unclipped his
fountain pen. He moved leisurely, and had turned so that he was in
full view of the jury. He unscrewed the fountain-pen cap and placed it
gently on his table. He shook the pen a little, then handed it with
the envelope to the witness. "Would you write your name for us?" he
asked. "Clearly now, so the jury can see you do it."
Mr. Ewell wrote on the back of the envelope and looked up
complacently to see Judge Taylor staring at him as if he were some
fragrant gardenia in full bloom on the witness stand, to see Mr.
Gilmer half-sitting, half-standing at his table. The jury was watching
him, one man was leaning forward with his hands over the railing.
"What's so interestin'?" he asked.
"You're left-handed, Mr. Ewell," said Judge Taylor. Mr. Ewell turned
angrily to the judge and said he didn't see what his being left-handed
had to do with it, that he was a Christ-fearing man and Atticus
Finch was taking advantage of him. Tricking lawyers like Atticus Finch
took advantage of him all the time with their tricking ways. He had
told them what happened, he'd say it again and again- which he did.
Nothing Atticus asked him after that shook his story, that he'd looked
through the window, then ran the nigger off, then ran for the sheriff.
Atticus finally dismissed him.
Mr. Gilmer asked him one more question. "About your writing with
your left hand, are you ambidextrous, Mr. Ewell?"
"I most positively am not, I can use one hand good as the other. One
hand good as the other," he added, glaring at the defense table.
Jem seemed to be having a quiet fit. He was pounding the balcony
rail softly, and once he whispered, "We've got him."
I didn't think so: Atticus was trying to show, it seemed to me, that
Mr. Ewell could have beaten up Mayella. That much I could follow. If
her right eye was blacked and she was beaten mostly on the right
side of the face, it would tend to show that a left-handed person
did it. Sherlock Holmes and Jem Finch would agree. But Tom Robinson
could easily be left-handed, too. Like Mr. Heck Tate, I imagined a
person facing me, went through a swift mental pantomime, and concluded
that he might have held her with his right hand and pounded her with
his left. I looked down at him. His back was to us, but I could see
his broad shoulders and bull-thick neck. He could easily have done it.
I thought Jem was counting his chickens.
18
But someone was booming again.
"Mayella Violet Ewell-!"
A young girl walked to the witness stand. As she raised her hand and
swore that the evidence she gave would be the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth so help her God, she seemed somehow
fragile-looking, but when she sat facing us in the witness chair she
became what she was, a thick-bodied girl accustomed to strenuous
labor.
In Maycomb County, it was easy to tell when someone bathed
regularly, as opposed to yearly lavations: Mr. Ewell had a scalded
look; as if an overnight soaking had deprived him of protective layers
of dirt, his skin appeared to be sensitive to the elements. Mayella
looked as if she tried to keep clean, and I was reminded of the row of
red geraniums in the Ewell yard.
Mr. Gilmer asked Mayella to tell the jury in her own words what
happened on the evening of November twenty-first of last year, just in
her own words, please.
Mayella sat silently.
"Where were you at dusk on that evening?" began Mr. Gilmer
patiently.
"On the porch."
"Which porch?"
"Ain't but one, the front porch."
"What were you doing on the porch?"
"Nothin'."
Judge Taylor said, "Just tell us what happened. You can do that,
can't you?"
Mayella stared at him and burst into tears. She covered her mouth
with her hands and sobbed. Judge Taylor let her cry for a while,
then he said, "That's enough now. Don't be 'fraid of anybody here,
as long as you tell the truth. All this is strange to you, I know, but
you've nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to fear. What are you
scared of?"
Mayella said something behind her hands. "What was that?" asked
the judge.
"Him," she sobbed, pointing at Atticus.
"Mr. Finch?"
She nodded vigorously, saying, "Don't want him doin' me like he done
Papa, tryin' to make him out lefthanded..."
Judge Taylor scratched his thick white hair. It was plain that he
had never been confronted with a problem of this kind. "How old are
you?" he asked.
"Nineteen-and-a-half," Mayella said.
Judge Taylor cleared his throat and tried unsuccessfully to speak in
soothing tones. "Mr. Finch has no idea of scaring you," he growled,
"and if he did, I'm here to stop him. That's one thing I'm sitting
up here for. Now you're a big girl, so you just sit up straight and
tell the- tell us what happened to you. You can do that, can't you?"
I whispered to Jem, "Has she got good sense?"
Jem was squinting down at the witness stand. "Can't tell yet," he
said. "She's got enough sense to get the judge sorry for her, but
she might be just- oh, I don't know."
Mollified, Mayella gave Atticus a final terrified glance and said to
Mr. Gilmer, "Well sir, I was on the porch and- and he came along
and, you see, there was this old chiffarobe in the yard Papa'd brought
in to chop up for kindlin'- Papa told me to do it while he was off
in the woods but I wadn't feelin' strong enough then, so he came by-"
"Who is 'he'?"
Mayella pointed to Tom Robinson. "I'll have to ask you to be more
specific, please," said Mr. Gilmer. "The reporter can't put down
gestures very well."
"That'n yonder," she said. "Robinson."
"Then what happened?"
"I said come here, nigger, and bust up this chiffarobe for me, I
gotta nickel for you. He coulda done it easy enough, he could. So he
come in the yard an' I went in the house to get him the nickel and I
turned around an 'fore I knew it he was on me. Just run up behind
me, he did. He got me round the neck, cussin' me an' sayin' dirt- I
fought'n'hollered, but he had me round the neck. He hit me agin an'
agin-"
Mr. Gilmer waited for Mayella to collect herself: she had twisted
her handkerchief into a sweaty rope; when she opened it to wipe her
face it was a mass of creases from her hot hands. She waited for Mr.
Gilmer to ask another question, but when he didn't, she said, "-he
chunked me on the floor an' choked me'n took advantage of me."
"Did you scream?" asked Mr. Gilmer. "Did you scream and fight back?"
"Reckon I did, hollered for all I was worth, kicked and hollered
loud as I could."
"Then what happened?"
"I don't remember too good, but next thing I knew Papa was in the
room a'standing over me hollerin' who done it, who done it? Then I
sorta fainted an' the next thing I knew Mr. Tate was pullin' me up
offa the floor and leadin' me to the water bucket."
Apparently Mayella's recital had given her confidence, but it was
not her father's brash kind: there was something stealthy about
hers, like a steady-eyed cat with a twitchy tail.
"You say you fought him off as hard as you could? Fought him tooth
and nail?" asked Mr. Gilmer.
"I positively did," Mayella echoed her father.
"You are positive that he took full advantage of you?"
Mayella's face contorted, and I was afraid that she would cry again.
Instead, she said, "He done what he was after."
Mr. Gilmer called attention to the hot day by wiping his head with
his hand. "That's all for the time being," he said pleasantly, "but
you stay there. I expect big bad Mr. Finch has some questions to ask
you."
"State will not prejudice the witness against counsel for the
defense," murmured Judge Taylor primly, "at least not at this time."
Atticus got up grinning but instead of walking to the witness stand,
he opened his coat and hooked his thumbs in his vest, then he walked
slowly across the room to the windows. He looked out, but didn't
seem especially interested in what he saw, then he turned and strolled
back to the witness stand. From long years of experience, I could tell
he was trying to come to a decision about something.
"Miss Mayella," he said, smiling, "I won't try to scare you for a
while, not yet. Let's just get acquainted. How old are you?"
"Said I was nineteen, said it to the judge yonder." Mayella jerked
her head resentfully at the bench.
"So you did, so you did, ma'am. You'll have to bear with me, Miss
Mayella, I'm getting along and can't remember as well as I used to.
I might ask you things you've already said before, but you'll give
me an answer, won't you? Good."
I could see nothing in Mayella's expression to justify Atticus's
assumption that he had secured her wholehearted cooperation. She was
looking at him furiously.
"Won't answer a word you say long as you keep on mockin' me," she
said.
"Ma'am?" asked Atticus, startled.
"Long's you keep on makin' fun o'me."
Judge Taylor said, "Mr. Finch is not making fun of you. What's the
matter with you?"
Mayella looked from under lowered eyelids at Atticus, but she said
to the judge: "Long's he keeps on callin' me ma'am an sayin' Miss
Mayella. I don't hafta take his sass, I ain't called upon to take it."
Atticus resumed his stroll to the windows and let Judge Taylor
handle this one. Judge Taylor was not the kind of figure that ever
evoked pity, but I did feel a pang for him as he tried to explain.
"That's just Mr. Finch's way," he told Mayella. "We've done business
