I know what I seen. I ain’t wrong. I ain’t the one on trial. People questionin’ my say so. I say it was that black field hand and I know it be. You can’t trust a black (bad word that I don’t want to type) man. My daught’er she be telling the truth cuz I told her to. I’m a man of my words. This trial is pointless. Imma bout to put the noose on the tree myself if you sorry excuse of a jury don’t convict this monster. Now I didnt call the doc, that is waste of my time and money it pointless, I can damn handle it my damn self. It my family so don’t question my care. But you ask me what I did see and I did see him (point to Tom) 

Well, there I was, a-lurkin around the woods as usual. It was a quiet cool night when the brisk fall winds was making a rustlin in the leaves and all the woodland critters was quiet as a Christmas frog. From a long way off I hear the voices of some children  coming back from the direction of the school yard. That’s when I remember the fall pageant, when all the kids dress up in colorful costumes and act out their play for the community. At first, I can’t tell if theys horsin' around excited like, or maybe arguin serious like. Their voices all high-pitched. Then they get closer, the stompin of the leaves crunching underfoot. I duck behind a tree. I noticed the Finch kids. The bigger one, the boy was telling the younger one to hush. The little one, Scout I believe, was dressed up as a big ol ham bone, with the word H-A-M writ cross the front.

Maycomb had this reckoning coming, of that you can be certain. 

Now, let me make my position clear from the start. 

I don’t care a whit about Tom Robinson. None of this would have happened if he had kept to his place and never set foot on white folks property without a proper invitation. Yet, having done so, there is no taking back that footstep or it’s implications.

You can also be sure of this: as little as I care for Tom Robinson, I care less for the Ewells, every one of them, but particularly Robert E. Lee Ewell. He and his kind of been an bag a door knobs tied around the neck of this county since the war ended. Their family shack does an otherwise disservice to the good name of the Maycomb garbage dump. 

Now, folks around here treat Atticus Finch like he walked on water all the way from the Landing to Maycomb one Spring morning and the grass has turned green under his very footsteps. Atticus is a man of high ideals and lofty principles, but damned if his morals don’t make life unduly conflicted everyday.