William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice by Styron William

Author:Styron, William [Styron, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-05-21T00:00:00+00:00

When dawn broke on that first morning, and cool white light began to fill the cell, Gray blew the lantern out. “Mercy, it’s gotten cold,” he said, shivering, buttoning his greatcoat. “Anyway—” And he paused, gazing at me. “You know, first thing today after the trial’s over I’m going to try to requisition you some winter clothes. ’Tain’t right for a body to set in a cell like this and freeze half to death. I didn’t pay it any nem’mine before, them clothes of your’n, it being so warm until now. But what you’ve got on there—what’s left of it—that’s plain old summer issue, ain’t it? Cotton? Osnaburg cloth? Pity, rags like that in this kind of weather. Now, about the confession, Nat, I got everything down that’s important; worked durn near all night on it too. Well, like I already hinted, this confession will, I’m afraid, comprise the evidence for the prosecution and there won’t be any other issue or issues at stake. I expect that I or Mr. W. C. Parker—that’s your defense attorney—will get up and make some kind of formal statement, but under the circumstances it can’t be much more than a plea that the judges carefully consider the evidence placed before them—in this case your full, free, and voluntary confession. Now, as I’ve already told you, before you sign it this mornin’ I wanted to read it out to you—”

“You mean, this Mr. Parker—” I put in. “You mean you’re not my lawyer?”

“Why sure. He’s my what you might call associate.”

“And I ain’t even seen him? And you tell me today?” I paused. “And you’re taking this all down for the prosecution?”

Impatience flashed across his face, curtailing a yawn. “Eyaw! The prosecutor’s my associate too. What difference does it make, Reverend? Prosecution, defense—it don’t make a hair’s difference one way or the other. I thought I made that perfectly clear to you—that I am a, uh, delegate of the court, empowered to take down the confession. Which I’ve gone and done. But your goose is cooked already.” He looked at me intently, then spoke in a cajoling, hearty voice: “Come on now, Reverend. Let’s be realistic about this matter! I mean—well, to call a spade a spade—” He halted. “I mean—Hell, you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know I’m going to be hung.”

“Well, since this is a priori and foregone there’s not too much use standing on the legal niceties of the matter, is there?”

“No sir,” I said, “I reckon not.” And there wasn’t. I even felt a kind of relief that logic, at last, had flown completely out of the window.

“Well then, let’s get down to business, because I want to have this written out as sensible as I can before ten o’clock. Now, as I said, I’m going to read the whole thing out to you here. You’ll sign it, and then it’ll be read out again in court as evidence for the prosecution. But while I recite the entire thing

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