Mysteries of Serendipity

Unjust

Inspired by "To Kill a Mockingbird" 

Content Warning: This short story contains depictions of rape, abuse and conflict which may be distressing to some readers.

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I was around fifty and the best-known lawyer in town. I didn't know what I did; everyone deceived me. I'm now seventy-eight and falling rapidly toward my deathbed. My parish advised me to confess before I die as my health declined rapidly. Here I am, writing this in regret, knowing that I, Atticus Finch, failed a twenty-five-year-old black, innocent man who died for a false rape allegation. I regret that I couldn't defend him from the prejudice that the courtroom held against him. Robinson had his whole life ahead of him, watching his kids grow and the milestones that they achieved. Robinson's death reminded me of her, my wife. She was the embodiment of everything I have ever achieved. It was like an award bestowed upon me when I was first elected to the state legislature. I was blinded by my grief when she passed away. Jem was only four, and Scout was two. Both without a mother. Losing a loved one and knowing that you will never see them again deepens the heartbreak that forever holds the remaining sanity.

I felt a pang of guilt as my hands started to tremble as the pen dropped out of my grasp. A chime rose around me; the church bell rang across the county as I stared out the window. Seventeen times it chimed, seventeen times it resurfaced in my mind. Seventeen shots had killed him. I swallowed the lump in my throat as my vision blurred. Why would they do this to me? Why would a jury go against the odds of the evidence that I laid out twenty-eight years ago? I knew everyone was against my defendant, but I still stood my ground, testifying that a black man shouldn't be put to shame for his race. He shouldn't have been labelled guilty because a nineteen-year-old girl couldn't have a loving father.

She was to blame. She should be guilty of framing a black man for a crime he didn't commit when she knew that she couldn't do the same to a white man. A white man who abused her throughout her life was now long gone, rejoicing in his afterlife that he was a sick and abusive person. A sadistic white man who got away with everything with only a shed of false sympathy to hold the county on its knees, and yet this court case doesn't file any recognition to change the hierarchy of this community. I failed. I failed as a father and as an attorney. I failed to bring rightful justice for all minorities. I will always remember Scout's face. Just thinking about it makes my head throb. A face of lifelessness in her eyes, staring down at me in disbelief. The same reaction as the black men and women who were standing on that colored balcony with my own children.

Slowly, I reached for my pen. My hand flailed helplessly as my skin made contact with the cold surface. I was on the ground, wheezing, looking through my eyebrows, and I grabbed my pen. I need to finish writing. I can't rest in peace if I die now. Hands shaking, I ended the letter, praying, "May God punish those who cause humanity to sin, as the mockingbirds will finally sing their joyous songs again".