“Because I had to try; and moreover the circumstances are not altogether ordinary: the men in power in Toomsville now are not the landlords of this county; they are poor whites. The Judge and sheriff were both elected by mill-hands who hate Cresswell and Taylor. Then there’s a new young lawyer who wants Harry Cresswell’s seat in Congress; he don’t know much law, I’m afraid; but what he don’t know of this case I think I do. I’ll get his advice and then—I mean to conduct the case myself,” Zora calmly concluded.
“Without a lawyer!” Bles Alwyn stared his amazement.
“Without a lawyer in court.”
“Zora! That would be foolish!”
“Is it? Let’s think. For over a year now I’ve been studying the law of the case,” and she pointed to her law books; “I know the law and most of the decisions. Moreover, as a black woman fighting a hopeless battle with landlords, I’ll gain the one thing lacking.”
“What’s that?”
“The sympathy of the court and the bystanders.”
“Pshaw! From these Southerners?”
“Yes, from them. They are very human, these men, especially the laborers. Their prejudices are cruel enough, but there are joints in their armor. They are used to seeing us either scared or blindly angry, and they understand how to handle us then, but at other times it is hard for them to do anything but meet us in a human way.”
“But, Zora, think of the contact of the court, the humiliation, the coarse talk—”
Zora put up her hand and lightly touched his arm. Looking at him, she said:
“Mud doesn’t hurt much. This is my duty. Let me do it.”
His eyes fell before the shadow of a deeper rebuke. He arose heavily.
“Very well,” he acquiesced as he passed slowly out.
The young lawyer started to refuse to touch the case until he saw—or did Zora adroitly make him see?—a chance for eventual political capital. They went over the matter carefully, and the lawyer acquired a respect for the young woman’s knowledge.
“First,” he said, “get an injunction on the cotton—then go to court.” And to insure the matter he slipped over and saw the Judge.
Colonel Cresswell next day stalked angrily into his lawyers’ office.
“See here,” he thundered, handing the lawyer the notice of the injunction.
“See the Judge,” began the lawyer, and then remembered, as he was often forced to do these days, who was Judge.
He inquired carefully into the case and examined the papers. Then he said:
“Colonel Cresswell, who drew this contract of sale?”
“The black girl did.”
“Impossible!”
“She certainly did—wrote it in my presence.”
“Well, it’s mighty well done.”
“You mean it will stand in law?”
“It certainly will. There’s but one way to break it, and that’s to allege misunderstanding on your part.”
Cresswell winced. It was not pleasant to go into open court and acknowledge himself overreached by a Negro; but several thousand dollars in cotton and land were at stake.
“Go ahead,” he concurred.
“You can depend on Taylor, of course?” added the lawyer.
“Of course,” answered Cresswell. “But why prolong the thing?”
“You see, she’s got your cotton tied by injunction.”
“I don’t see how she did it.”
“Easy enough: this Judge is the poor white you opposed in the last primary.”
Within a week the case was called, and they filed into the courtroom. Cresswell’s lawyer saw only this black woman—no other lawyer or sign of one appeared to represent her. The place soon filled with a lazy, tobacco-chewing throng of white men. A few blacks whispered in one corner. The dirty stove was glowing with pinewood and the Judge sat at a desk.
“Where’s your lawyer?” he asked sharply of Zora.
“I have none,” returned Zora, rising.
There came a silence in the court. Her voice was low, and the men leaned forward to listen. The Judge felt impelled to be over-gruff.
“Get a lawyer,” he ordered.
“Your honor, my case is simple, and with your honor’s permission I wish to conduct it myself. I cannot afford a lawyer, and I do not think I need one.”
Cresswell’s lawyer smiled and leaned back. It was going to be easier than he supposed. Evidently the woman believed she had no case, and was weakening.
The trial proceeded, and Zora stated her contention. She told how long her mother and grandmother had served the Cresswells and showed her receipt for rent paid.
“A friend sent me some money. I went to Mr. Cresswell and asked him to sell me two hundred acres of land. He consented to do so and signed this contract in the presence of his son-in-law.”
Just then John Taylor came into the court, and Cresswell beckoned to him.
“I want you to help me out, John.”
“All right,” whispered Taylor. “What can I do?”
“Swear that Cresswell didn’t mean to sign this,” said the lawyer quickly, as he arose to address the court.
Taylor looked at the paper blankly and then at Cresswell and some inkling of the irreconcilable difference in the two natures leapt in both their hearts. Cresswell might gamble and drink and lie “like a gentleman,” but he would never willingly cheat or take advantage of a white man’s financial necessities. Taylor, on the other hand, had a horror of a lie, never drank nor played games of chance, but his whole life was speculation and in the business game he was utterly ruthless and respected no one. Such men could never thoroughly understand each other. To Cresswell a man who had cheated the whole South out of millions by a series of misrepresentations ought to regard this little falsehood as nothing.
Meantime Colonel Cresswell’s lawyer was on his feet, and he adopted his most irritating and contemptuous manner.
“This nigger wench wrote out some illegible stuff and Colonel Cresswell signed it to get rid of her. We are not going to question the legality of the form—that’s neither here nor there. The point is, Mr. Cresswell never intended—never dreamed of selling this wench land right in front of his door. He meant to rent her the land and sign a receipt for rent paid in
