I was wondering when that’d occur to you,” he said.There are lots of reasons.
For one thing, Miss Maudie can’t serve on a jury because she’s a woman —”
“You mean women in Alabama can’t—?” I was indignant.
“I do. I guess it’s to protect our frail ladies from sordid cases like Tom’s.
Besides,” Atticus grinned, “I doubt if we’d ever get a complete case tried—the ladies’d be interrupting to ask questions.”
Jem and I laughed. Miss Maudie on a jury would be impressive.
I thought of old Mrs. Dubose in her wheelchair—“Stop that rapping, John Taylor, I want to ask this man something.”
Perhaps our forefathers were wise. Atticus was saying, “With people like us—that’s our share of the bill.
We generally get the juries we deserve. Our stout Maycomb citizens aren’t interested, in the first place.
In the second place, they’re afraid. Then, they’re—” “Afraid, why?” asked Jem.
“Well, what if—say, Mr. Link Deas had to decide the amount of damages to award, say, Miss Maudie, when Miss Rachel ran over her with a car.
Link wouldn’t like the thought of losing either lady’s business at his store, would he?
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