He must have presumed me to be genuine and fair. Like Atticus Finch: dignified and reasonable and wise. Or the closest thing to it in this town. Or, maybe he just knows that I don’t have it in me to ever betray his confidence. Maybe it was a mix of both. Safety and trust. Though I prefer the thought of me sitting up late at night, poring over Mark Twain, while Jasper Jones rushed to me for my poise and wisdom. As though I were Solomon himself. The person you come to when it all goes horribly awry.
