The heat in the courtroom was thick, settling into the wood benches. The heat wrapped around the murmurs in the crowd, their eyes all on me, some with hope in their
eye, some with anger and hatred, but most were certain they knew how the trial would end. Tom Robinson sat next to me, his hands on his lap, sweat slowly dripping down his forehead. He was a decent man, more mannered than most people in this room. I looked at the jury. These twelve men held Tom’s fate in their white, cold hands. The twelve men who had been told what to believe before stepping into this thick, heavy environment. As I took a deep breath, Tom turned his head towards me, his face losing color, I could see the stress in his eyes. He knew his life was going to be decided by twelve white men. He knew how this trial would end only because of the color of his skin, but I still could see a bit of hope left in him, hope that he will free, hope he will be able to go home, hope he will be able to hug his wife and kids, hope that the jury won’t plead him guilty just because he is black.
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