Native Son - Richard Wright [145]
“I didn’t make the custom,” Mr. Dalton said.
“Do you think that custom is right?” Max asked again.
“Well, I think Negroes are happier when they’re together.”
“Who told you that?”
“Why, nobody.”
“Aren’t they more profitable when they’re together?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mr. Dalton, doesn’t this policy of your company tend to keep Negroes on the South Side, in one area?”
“Well, it works that way. But I didn’t originate….”
“Mr. Dalton, you give millions to help Negroes. May I ask why you don’t charge them less rent for fire-traps and check that against your charity budget?”
“Well, to charge them less rent would be unethical.”
“Unethical!”
“Why, yes. I would be underselling my competitors.”
“Is there an agreement among realtors as to what Negroes should be charged for rent?”
“No. But there’s a code of ethics in business.”
“So, the profits you take from the Thomas family in rents, you give back to them to ease the pain of their gouged lives and to salve the ache of your own conscience?”
“That’s a distortion of fact, sir!”
“Mr. Dalton, why do you contribute money to Negro education?”
“I want to see them have a chance.”
“Have you ever employed any of the Negroes you helped to educate?”
“Why, no.”
“Mr. Dalton, do you think that the terrible conditions under which the Thomas family lived in one of your houses may in some way be related to the death of your daughter?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That’s all,” said Max.
After Mr. Dalton left the stand, Peggy came, then Britten, a host of doctors, reporters, and many policemen.
“We will now hear from Bigger Thomas!” the coroner called.
A wave of excited voices swept over the room. Bigger’s fingers gripped the arms of the chair. Max’s hand touched his shoulder. Bigger turned and Max whispered,
“Sit still.”
Max rose.
“Mr. Coroner?”
“Yes?”
“In the capacity of Bigger Thomas’ lawyer, I’d like to state that he does not wish to testify here.”
“His testimony would help to clear up any doubt as to the cause of the death of the deceased,” the coroner said.
“My client is already in police custody and it is his right to refuse….”
“All right. All right,” the coroner said.
Max sat down.
“Stay in your seat. It’s all right,” Max whispered to Bigger.
Bigger relaxed and felt his heart pounding. He longed for something to happen so that the white faces would stop staring at him. Finally, the faces turned away. The coroner strode to the table and lifted the kidnap note with a slow, long, delicate, and deliberate gesture.
“Gentlemen,” he said, facing the six men in the rows of chairs, “you have heard the testimony of the witnesses. I think, however, that you should have the opportunity to examine the evidence gathered by the Police Department.”
The coroner gave the kidnap note to one of the jurors who read it and passed it on to the others. All of the jurors examined the purse, the blood-stained knife, the blackened hatchet blade, the Communist pamphlets, the rum bottle, the trunk, and the signed confession.
“Owing to the peculiar nature of this crime, and owing to the fact that the deceased’s body was all but destroyed, I deem it imperative that you examine one additional piece of evidence. It will help shed light upon the actual manner of the death of the deceased,” the coroner said.
He turned and nodded in the direction of two white-coated attendants who stood at the rear door. The room was quiet. Bigger wondered how much longer it would last; he felt that he could not stand much more. Now and then the room blurred and a slight giddiness came over him; but his muscles would flex taut and it would pass. The hum of voices grew suddenly loud and the coroner rapped for order. Then a commotion broke out. Bigger heard a man’s voice saying,
“Move aside, please!”
He looked and saw the two white-coated attendants pushing an oblong, sheet-covered table through the crowd and down the aisle. What’s this? Bigger wondered. He felt Max’s hand come on to his shoulder.
“Take it easy, Bigger. This’ll soon be over.”
“What they doing?” Bigger asked in a tense whisper.