The witness stand was to the right of Judge Taylor, and when we got to our seats Mr. Heck Tate was already on it.
Chapter 17
“Jem,” I said, “are those the Ewells sittin‘ down yonder?” “Hush,” said Jem, “Mr. Heck Tate’s testifyin‘.”
Mr. Tate had dressed for the occasion. He wore an ordinary business suit, which made him look somehow like every other man:
gone were his high boots, lumber jacket, and bullet-studded belt. From that moment he ceased to terrify me.
He was sitting forward in the witness chair, his hands clasped between his knees, listening attentively to the circuit solicitor.
The solicitor, a Mr. Gilmer, was not well known to us.
He was from Abbottsville; we saw him only when court convened, and that rarely, for court was of no special interest to Jem and me.
A balding, smooth-faced man, he could have been anywhere between forty and sixty.
Although his back was to us, we knew he had a slight cast in one of his eyes which he used to his advantage:
he seemed to be looking at a person when he was actually doing nothing of the kind, thus he was hell on juries and witnesses.
The jury, thinking themselves under close scrutiny, paid attention; so did the witnesses, thinking likewise.
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