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           IpeekedatJem:hishandswerewhitefromgrippingthebalconyrail,andhisshouldersjerkedasifeach"guilty"wasaseparatestabbetweenthem.

           JudgeTaylorwassayingsomething.Hisgavelwasinhisfist,buthewasn’tusingit.Dimly,IsawAtticuspushingpapersfromthetableintohisbriefcase.Hesnappeditshut,wenttothecourtreporterandsaidsomething,noddedtoMr.Gilmer,andthenwenttoTomRobinsonandwhisperedsomethingtohim.AtticusputhishandonTom’sshoulderashewhispered.Atticustookhiscoatoffthebackofhischairandpulleditoverhisshoulder.Thenheleftthecourtroom,butnotbyhisusualexit.Hemusthavewantedtogohometheshortway,becausehewalkedquicklydownthemiddleaisletowardthesouthexit.Ifollowedthetopofhisheadashemadehiswaytothedoor.Hedidnotlookup.

           Someonewaspunchingme,butIwasreluctanttotakemyeyesfromthepeoplebelowus,andfromtheimageofAtticus’slonelywalkdowntheaisle.

           "MissJeanLouise?"

           Ilookedaround.Theywerestanding.Allaroundusandinthebalconyontheoppositewall,theNegroesweregettingtotheirfeet.ReverendSykes’svoicewasasdistantasJudgeTaylor’s:

           "MissJeanLouise,standup.Yourfather’spassin’."