“Gosh yes,” said Jem. Happily, we sped ahead of Reverend Sykes to the courtroom floor.
There, we went up a covered staircase and waited at the door.
Reverend Sykes came puffing behind us, and steered us gently through the black people in the balcony.
Four Negroes rose and gave us their front-row seats.
The Colored balcony ran along three walls of the courtroom like a second-story veranda, and from it we could see everything.
The jury sat to the left, under long windows. Sunburned, lanky, they seemed to be all farmers, but this was natural:
townfolk rarely sat on juries, they were either struck or excused. One or two of the jury looked vaguely like dressed-up Cunninghams.
At this stage they sat straight and alert.
The circuit solicitor and another man, Atticus and Tom Robinson sat at tables with their backs to us.
There was a brown book and some yellow tablets on the solicitor’s table; Atticus’s was bare.
Just inside the railing that divided the spectators from the court, the witnesses sat on cowhide-bottomed chairs.
Their backs were to us. Judge Taylor was on the bench, looking like a sleepy old shark, his pilot fish writing rapidly below in front of him.
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