Dear Diary.

The coming winter's cold. Pretty cold, I should say. Not nearly enough for it to snow like last year, but cold all the same.

The morning reports went like any other day. Still no leads on the Buford case. There's some minor dispute over a fence. As far as I can tell, it's just the Merriweathers acting up again. Some drunk lost a dollar. Too bad for him.

One of the niggers on the other side of town got all riled up about Tom Robinson, broke his master's cup. I felt kind of sorry for him, so I gave him a day's jail and a talking to. The master's still mad as heck, of course, but the nigger gets it. He knows we're both in the same boat.

Thinking about Tom always gets me down. Atticus got the case bang to rights. He'd damn near proven to God he was innocent, but the jury killed him anyway. Sometimes it's like there's no justice in this town. It's like Atticus, Link, Maudie and me, we're the only people who think things straight. Nobody else.

I'm thinking back to Atticus on the night before last. The verdict got to him pretty bad. The look in his eyes, it put fear in me.

Niggers. Negroes, coloured men, whatever you call them, they're people too. I can see a cook through the window as I'm writing this, and I'm thinking-- The only difference between yonder cook and me is his skin's a different color. He's got a wife, children, a job, memories, feelings. He's got a human life.

Why doesn't anyone else see that?

I'm going all deep and philosophical again. Best I stop writing till tomorrow.

November 2, 1937

For an assignment.

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