Atticus sighed. “I’m simply defending a Negro—his name’s Tom Robinson. He lives in that little settlement beyond the town dump,”
“He’s a member of Calpurnia’s church, and Cal knows his family well. She says they’re clean-living folks,”
“Scout, you aren’t old enough to understand some things yet,”
“but there’s been some high talk around town to the effect that I shouldn’t do much about defending this man,”
It’s a peculiar case—it won’t come to trial until summer session. John Taylor was kind enough to give us a postponement…
If you shouldn’t be defendin’ him, then why are you doin’ it?
For a number of reasons,” said Atticus. “The main one is, if I didn’t I couldn’t hold up my head in town,
I couldn’t represent this county in the legislature, I couldn’t even tell you or Jem not to do something again.
“You mean if you didn’t defend that man, Jem and me wouldn’t have to mind you any more?” “That’s about right.”
“Why?” “Because I could never ask you to mind me again.”
“Scout, simply by the nature of the work, every lawyer gets at least one case in his lifetime that affects him personally,”
“This one’s mine, I guess. You might hear some ugly talk about it at school, but do one thing for me if you will:”
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