Native Son (40 page)

The black woman sobbed. Finally, she quieted enough to speak.

“Thank you, sir. God knows I thank you….”

She turned again toward Bigger, but Max led her from the room. Jan caught hold of Vera’s arm and led her forward, then stopped in the doorway, looking at Jack and G.H. and Gus.

“You boys going to the South Side?”

“Yessuh,” they said.

“Come on. I got a car downstairs. I’ll take you.”

“Yessuh.”

Buddy lingered, looking wistfully at Bigger.

“Good-bye, Bigger,” he said.

“Good-bye, Buddy,” Bigger mumbled.

The preacher passed Bigger and pressed his arm.

“Gawd bless you, son.”

They all left except Buckley. Bigger sat again upon the cot, weak and exhausted. Buckley stood over him.

“Now, Bigger, you see all the trouble you’ve caused? Now, I’d like to get this case out of the way as soon as possible. The longer you stay in jail, the more agitation there’ll be for and against you. And that doesn’t help you any, no matter who tells you it does. Boy, there’s not but one thing for you to do, and that’s to come clean. I know those Reds, Max and Erlone, have told you a lot of things about what they’re going to do for you. But, don’t believe ’em. They’re just after publicity, boy; just after building themselves up at your expense, see? They can’t do a
damn
thing for you! You’re dealing with the
law
now! And if you let those Reds put a lot of fool ideas into your head, then you’re gambling with your own life.”

Buckley stopped and relit his cigar. He cocked his head to one side, listening.

“You hear that?” he asked softly.

Bigger looked at him, puzzled. He listened, hearing a faint din.

“Come here, boy. I want to show you something,” he said, rising and catching hold of Bigger’s arm.

Bigger was reluctant to follow him.

“Come on. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

Bigger followed him out of the door; there were several policemen standing on guard in the hallway. Buckley led Bigger to a window through which he looked and saw the streets below crowded with masses of people in all directions.

“See that, boy? Those people would like to lynch you. That’s why I’m asking you to trust me and talk to me. The quicker we get this thing over, the better for you. We’re going to try to keep ’em from bothering you. But can’t you see the longer they stay around here, the harder it’ll be for us to handle them?”

Buckley let go of Bigger’s arm and hoisted the window; a cold wind swept in and Bigger heard a roar of voices. Involuntarily, he stepped backward. Would they break into the jail? Buckley shut the window and led him back to the room. He sat upon the cot and Buckley sat opposite him.

“You look like an intelligent boy. You see what you’re in. Tell me about this thing. Don’t let those Reds fool you into saying you’re not guilty. I’m talking to you as straight as I’d talk to a son of mine. Sign a confession and get this over with.”

Bigger said nothing; he sat looking at the floor.

“Was Jan mixed up in this?”

Bigger heard the faint excited sound of mob voices coming through the concrete walls of the building.

“He proved an alibi and he’s free. Tell me, did he leave you holding the bag?”

Bigger heard the far-away clang of a street car.

“If he made you do it, then sign a complaint against him.”

Bigger saw the shining tip of the man’s black shoes; the sharp creases in his striped trousers; the clear, icy glinting of the eye-glasses upon his high, long nose.

“Boy,” said Buckley in a voice so loud that Bigger flinched, “where’s Bessie?”

Bigger’s eyes widened. He had not thought of Bessie but once since his capture. Her death was unimportant beside that of Mary’s; he knew that when they killed him it would be for Mary’s death; not Bessie’s.

“Well, boy, we found her. You hit her with a brick, but she didn’t die right away….”

Bigger’s muscles jerked him to his feet. Bessie
alive
! But the voice droned on and he sat down.

“She tried to get out of that air-shaft, but she couldn’t. She froze to death. We got the brick you hit her with. We got the blanket and the quilt and the pillows you took from her room. We got a letter from her purse she had written to you and hadn’t mailed, a letter telling you she didn’t want to go through with trying to collect the ransom money. You see, boy, we got you. Come on, now, tell me all about it.”

Bigger said nothing. He buried his face in his hands.

“You raped her, didn’t you? Well, if you won’t tell about Bessie, then tell me about that woman you raped and choked to death over on University Avenue last fall.”

Was the man trying to scare him, or did he really think he had done other killings?

“Boy, you might just as well tell me. We’ve got a line on all you ever did. And how about the girl you attacked in Jackson Park last summer? Listen, boy, when you were in your cell sleeping and wouldn’t talk, we brought women in to identify you. Two women swore complaints against you. One was the sister of the woman you killed last fall, Mrs. Clinton. The other woman, Miss Ashton, says you attacked her last summer by climbing through the window of her bedroom.”

“I ain’t bothered no woman last summer or last fall either,” Bigger said.

“Miss Ashton identified you. She swears you’re the one.”

“I don’t know nothing about it.”

“But Mrs. Clinton, the sister of the woman you killed last fall, came to your cell and pointed you out. Who’ll believe you when you say you didn’t do it? You killed and raped two women in two days; who’ll believe you when you say you didn’t rape and kill the others? Come on, boy. You haven’t a chance holding out.”

“I don’t know nothing about other women,” Bigger repeated stubbornly.

Bigger wondered how much did the man really know. Was he lying about the other women in order to get him to tell about Mary and Bessie? Or were they really trying to pin other crimes upon him?

“Boy, when the newspapers get hold of what we’ve got on you, you’re cooked. I’m not the one who’s doing this. The Police Department is digging up the dirt and bringing it to me. Why don’t you talk? Did you kill the other women? Or did somebody make you do it? Was Jan in this business? Were the Reds helping you? You’re a fool if Jan was mixed up in this and you won’t tell.”

Bigger shifted his feet and listened to the faint clang of another street car passing. The man leaned forward, caught hold of Bigger’s arm and spoke while shaking him.

“You’re hurting nobody but yourself holding out like this, boy! Tell me, were Mary, Bessie, Mrs. Clinton’s sister, and Miss Ashton the only women you raped or killed?”

The words burst out of Bigger:

“I never heard of no Miss Clinton or Miss Ashton before!”

“Didn’t you attack a girl in Jackson Park last summer?”

“Naw!”

“Didn’t you choke and rape a woman on University Avenue last fall?”

“Naw!”

“Didn’t you climb through a window out in Englewood last fall and rape a woman?”

“Naw; naw! I tell you I didn’t!”

“You’re not telling the truth, boy. Lying won’t get you anywhere.”

“I
am
telling the truth!”

“Whose idea was the kidnap note? Jan’s?”

“He didn’t have nothing to do with it,” said Bigger, feeling a keen desire on the man’s part to have him implicate Jan.

“What’s the use of your holding out, boy? Make it easy for yourself.”

Why not talk and get it over with? They knew he was guilty. They could prove it. If he did not talk, then they would say he had committed every crime they could think of.

“Boy, why didn’t you and your pals rob Blum’s store like you’d planned to last Saturday?”

Bigger looked at him in surprise. They had found that out, too!

“You didn’t think I knew about that, did you? I know a lot more, boy. I know about that dirty trick you and your friend Jack pulled off in the Regal Theatre, too. You wonder how I know it? The manager told us when we were checking up. I know what boys like you do, Bigger. Now, come on. You wrote that kidnap note, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I wrote it.”

“Who helped you?”

“Nobody.”

“Who was going to help you to collect the ransom money?”

“Bessie.”

“Come on. Was it Jan?”

“Naw.”

“Bessie?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why did you kill her?”

Nervously, Bigger’s fingers fumbled with a pack of cigarettes and got one out. The man struck a match and held a light for him, but he struck his own match and ignored the offered flame.

“When I saw I couldn’t get the money, I killed her to keep her from talking,” he said.

“And you killed Mary, too?”

“I didn’t mean to kill her, but it don’t matter now,” he said.

“Did you lay her?”

“Naw.”

“You laid Bessie before you killed her. The doctors said so. And now you expect me to believe you didn’t lay Mary.”

“I
didn’t
!”

“Did Jan?”

“Naw.”

“Didn’t Jan lay her first and then you?…”

“Naw; naw….”

“But Jan wrote the kidnap note, didn’t he?”

“I never saw Jan before that night.”

“But didn’t he write the note?”

“Naw; I tell you he didn’t.”

“
You
wrote the note?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t Jan tell you to write it?”

“Naw.”

“Why did you kill Mary?”

He did not answer.

“See here, boy. What you say doesn’t make sense. You were never in the Dalton home until Saturday night. Yet, in one night a girl is raped, killed, burnt, and the next night a kidnap note is sent. Come on. Tell me everything that happened and about everybody who helped you.”

“There wasn’t nobody but me. I don’t care what happens to me, but you can’t make me say things about other people.”

“But you told Mr. Dalton that Jan was in this thing, too.”

“I was trying to blame it on him.”

“Well, come on. Tell me everything that happened.”

Bigger rose and went to the window. His hands caught the cold steel bars in a hard grip. He knew as he stood there that he could never tell why he had killed. It was not that he did not really want to tell, but the telling of it would have involved an explanation of his entire life. The actual killing of Mary and Bessie was not what concerned him most; it was knowing and feeling that he could never make anybody know what had driven him to it. His crimes were known, but what he had felt before he committed them would never be known. He would have gladly admitted his guilt if he had thought that in doing so he could have also given in the same breath a sense of the deep, choking hate that had been his life, a hate that he had not wanted to have, but could not help having. How could he do that? The impulsion to try to tell was as deep as had been the urge to kill.

He felt a hand touch his shoulder; he did not turn round; his eyes looked downward and saw the man’s gleaming black shoes.

“I know how you feel, boy. You’re colored and you feel that you haven’t had a square deal, don’t you?” the man’s voice came low and soft; and Bigger, listening, hated him for telling him what he knew was true. He rested his tired head against the steel bars and wondered how was it possible for this man to know so much about him and yet be so bitterly against him. “Maybe you’ve been brooding about this color question a long time, hunh, boy?” the man’s voice continued low and soft. “Maybe you think I don’t understand? But I do. I know how it feels to walk along the streets like other people, dressed like them, talking like them, and yet excluded for no reason except that you’re black. I know your people. Why, they give me votes out there on the South Side every election. I once talked to a colored boy who raped and killed a woman, just like you raped and killed Mrs. Clinton’s sister….”

“I didn’t do it!” Bigger screamed.

“Why keep saying that? If you talk, maybe the judge’ll help you. Confess it all and get it over with. You’ll feel better. Say, listen,
if you tell me everything, I’ll see that you’re sent to the hospital for an examination, see? If they say you’re not responsible, then maybe you won’t have to die….”

Bigger’s anger rose. He was not crazy and he did not want to be called crazy.

“I don’t want to go to no hospital.”

“It’s a way out for you, boy.”

“I don’t want no way out.”

“Listen, start at the beginning. Who was the first woman you ever killed?”

He said nothing. He wanted to talk, but he did not like the note of intense eagerness in the man’s voice. He heard the door behind him open; he turned his head just in time to see another white man look in questioningly.

“I thought you wanted me,” the man said.

“Yes; come on in,” Buckley said.

The man came in and took a seat, holding a pencil and paper on his knee.

“Here, Bigger,” Buckley said, taking Bigger by the arm. “Sit down here and tell me all about it. Get it
over
with.”

Bigger wanted to tell how he had felt when Jan had held his hand; how Mary had made him feel when she asked him about how Negroes lived; the tremendous excitement that had hold of him during the day and night he had been in the Dalton home—but there were no words for him.

“You went to Mr. Dalton’s home at five-thirty that Saturday, didn’t you?”

“Yessuh,” he mumbled.

Listlessly, he talked. He traced his every action. He paused at each question Buckley asked and wondered how he could link up his bare actions with what he had felt; but his words came out flat and dull. White men were looking at him, waiting for his words, and all the feelings of his body vanished, just as they had when he was in the car between Jan and Mary. When he was through, he felt more lost and undone than when he was captured. Buckley stood up; the other white man rose and held out the papers for him to
sign. He took the pen in hand. Well, why shouldn’t he sign? He was guilty. He was lost. They were going to kill him. Nobody could help him. They were standing in front of him, bending over him, looking at him, waiting. His hand shook. He signed.

Buckley slowly folded the papers and put them into his pocket. Bigger looked up at the two men, helplessly, wonderingly, Buckley looked at the other white man and smiled.