“If he loses his appeal,” I asked one evening, “what’ll happen to him?”
“He’ll go to the chair,” said Atticus, “unless the Governor commutes his sentence. Not time to worry yet, Scout. We’ve got a good chance.”
Jem was sprawled on the sofa reading Popular Mechanics. He looked up.
“It ain’t right. He didn’t kill anybody even if he was guilty. He didn’t take anybody’s life.”
“You know rape’s a capital offense in Alabama,” said Atticus.
“Yessir, but the jury didn’t have to give him death—if they wanted to they could’ve gave him twenty years.”
“Given,” said Atticus. “Tom Robinson’s a colored man, Jem.
No jury in this part of the world’s going to say, ‘We think you’re guilty, but not very,’ on a charge like that.
It was either a straight acquittal or nothing.” Jem was shaking his head.
“I know it’s not right, but I can’t figure out what’s wrong—maybe rape shouldn’t be a capital offense…”
Atticus dropped his newspaper beside his chair. He said he didn’t have any quarrel with the rape statute, none whatever,
but he did have deep misgivings when the state asked for and the jury gave a death penalty on purely circumstantial evidence.
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