Native Son - Richard Wright [130]
“Yessuh.”
“Here; take these cigarettes.”
“Thank you, suh.”
The door swung in and a tall, big-faced man with grey eyes came forward hurriedly. Max and Jan and the preacher stood to one side. Bigger stared at the man’s face; it teased him. Then he remembered: it was Buckley, the man whose face he had seen the workmen pasting upon a billboard a few mornings ago. Bigger listened to the men talk, feeling in the tones of their voices a deep hostility toward one another.
“So, you’re horning in again, hunh, Max?”
“This boy’s my client and he’s signing no confessions,” Max said.
“What the hell do I want with his confession?” Buckley asked. “We’ve got enough evidence on him to put him in a dozen electric chairs.”
“I’ll see that his rights are protected,” Max said.
“Hell, man! You can’t do him any good.”
Max turned to Bigger.
“Don’t let these people scare you, Bigger.”
Bigger heard, but did not answer.
“What in hell you Reds can get out of bothering with a black thing like that, God only knows,” Buckley said, rubbing his hands across his eyes.
“You’re afraid that you won’t be able to kill this boy before the April elections, if we handle his case, aren’t you, Buckley?” Jan asked.
Buckley whirled.
“Why in God’s name can’t you pick out somebody decent to defend sometimes? Somebody who’ll appreciate it. Why do you Reds take up with scum like this…?”
“You and your tactics have forced us to defend this boy,” Max said.
“What do you mean?” Buckley asked.
“If you had not dragged the name of the Communist Party into this murder, I’d not be here,” Max said.
“Hell, this boy signed the name of the Communist Party to the kidnap note….”
“I realize that,” Max said. “The boy got the idea from the newspapers. I’m defending this boy because I’m convinced that men like you made him what he is. His trying to blame the Communists for his crime was a natural reaction for him. He had heard men like you lie about the Communists so much that he believed them. If I can make the people of this country understand why this boy acted like he did, I’ll be doing more than defending him.”
Buckley laughed, bit off the tip of a fresh cigar, lit it and stood puffing. He advanced to the center of the room, cocked his head to one side, took the cigar out of his mouth and squinted at Bigger.
“Boy, did you ever think you’d be as important a man as you are right now?”
Bigger had been on the verge of accepting the friendship of Jan and Max, and now this man stood before him. What did the puny friendship of Jan and Max mean in the face of a million men like Buckley?
“I’m the State’s Attorney,” Buckley said, walking from one end of the room to the other. His hat was on the back of his head. A white silk handkerchief peeped from the breast pocket of his black coat. He paused by the cot, towering over Bigger. How soon were they going to kill him, Bigger wondered. The breath of warm hope which Jan and Max had blown so softly upon him turned to frost under Buckley’s cold gaze.
“Boy, I’d like to give you a piece of good advice. I’m going to be honest with you and tell you that you don’t have to talk to me unless you want to, and I’ll tell you that whatever you say to me might be used against you in court, see? But, boy, you’re caught! That’s the first thing you want to understand. We know what you’ve done. We got the evidence. So you might as well talk.”
“He’ll decide that with me,” Max said.
Buckley and Max faced each other.
“Listen, Max. You’re wasting your time. You’ll never get this boy off in a million years. Nobody can commit a crime against a family like the Daltons and sneak out of it. Those poor old parents are going to be in that court room to see that this boy burns! This boy killed the only thing they had. If you want to save your face, you and your buddy can leave now and the papers won