“No suh, Mr. Finch, I never did. I wouldn’t do that, suh.”
Atticus sometimes said that one way to tell whether a witness was lying or telling the truth was to listen rather than watch:
I applied his test—Tom denied it three times in one breath, but quietly, with no hint of whining in his voice,
and I found myself believing him in spite of his protesting too much.
He seemed to be a respectable Negro, and a respectable Negro would never go up into somebody’s yard of his own volition.
“Tom, what happened to you on the evening of November twenty-first of last year?”
Below us, the spectators drew a collective breath and leaned forward. Behind us, the Negroes did the same.
Tom was a black-velvet Negro, not shiny, but soft black velvet. The whites of his eyes shone in his face,
and when he spoke we saw flashes of his teeth. If he had been whole, he would have been a fine specimen of a man.
“Mr. Finch,” he said,I was goin’ home as usual that evenin’,
an’ when I passed the Ewell place Miss Mayella were on the porch, like she said she were.
It seemed real quiet like, an’ I didn’t quite know why. I was studyin’ why, just passin’ by,
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