When they passed a storage room, Smita gasped. Stacks of yellowing documents tied in string were piled from floor to ceiling. Small fragments of paper lay ground up into the floor. “Don’t they computerize their records?” she asked. But instead of answering, Mohan grabbed her hand and pulled her along, positioning his body so that no male hand brushed against hers.
They entered the large, cavernous courtroom. It appeared as if every chair was occupied, and people were constantly rushing in and out. Had they arrived too late? Anjali had said that it was possible that their verdict would be announced first, given the severity of the charges. Smita looked to the front of the room and was relieved to see that the judge had not yet arrived. But how would she find Anjali in this commotion?
She was about to dial Anjali’s number when Smita heard her name being called. She spun around to see Meena hurrying toward her. The girl threw herself into Smita’s arms. “Oh, Didi,” she said. “I am so happy you are here. I am so nervous.”
Smita returned Meena’s hug, then pulled away from her. Her heart sank. Meena looked as if she could barely stand up on her own. Perspiration coated her face, and her eye was wide with terror. “It’s okay,” Smita whispered, looking for Mohan, needing his help, and irritated to find him gone.
“Where did you go?” she hissed at him as he hurried up to her.
Mohan gestured to the woman standing next to him. “This is Anjali,” he said.
Anjali Banerjee was in her early forties, with short curly hair. She wore a small, worried frown that Smita imagined was etched in place. She gave Smita a quick smile; her handshake was as firm and brisk as her phone conversations had been. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said. “I was just looking at the docket. They’ve postponed the judge’s appearance by half an hour or so.” She spotted the cowering Meena. “Hi, Meena, how are you?”
Without waiting for an answer, Anjali began to walk away, leaving the others to exchange puzzled looks before following her. Mohan caught up with her, the two of them walking ahead while Meena linked her fingers with Smita’s as they hurried behind. Smita didn’t mind. She was way past the point of trying to remain dispassionate about Meena’s fate.
They were almost at the door when she felt Meena’s hand go limp. Smita tensed as Govind sauntered up to them. Arvind was nowhere to be seen. “Whore,” Govind said to his sister without preamble. “Cocksucker. We will show you.”
Meena made a piteous noise.
“The judge is in our pocket,” someone said from behind them, startling Smita. It was Rupal. “We are going to win. Mark my words.”
“Anjali. Mohan!” Smita called, but the noise in the corridor overpowered her voice. “Mohan!” she called again, and he turned around, a puzzled look on his face. She saw him take in the scene as he hurried back, Anjali at his heels.
“Don’t you dare talk to my client,” Anjali barked as soon as she reached them. “I will let the judge know and you’ll be . . . ”
To Smita’s mortification, Rupal chuckled. “Come,” he said to Govind. “Let’s leave these big-city folk alone. God has already ruled in your favor.”
Anjali led them to a semiprivate room off the hallway, where the four of them huddled together. She appeared to notice Meena’s terror for the first time. “What did that bastard say to you?”
But Meena was past the point of speech. She looked at Anjali mutely, tears spilling from her eye.
“The brother insulted her,” Smita said. “And the other one said something to the effect of, ‘The judge is in our pocket.’ ”
She smiled, expecting Anjali to laugh at the absurdity of Rupal’s statement.
Anjali frowned. “That’s not good news.”
“What do you mean?”
“It means that they’ve bribed the judge. Obviously.”
Her tone was so matter-of-fact, so detached, that Smita felt her temper rise. “Obviously?”
“Excuse me,” Mohan said. “I’m not a lawyer, but . . . a question. If it’s so obvious that they’ve bribed the judge, what’s to stop you from doing the same thing?”
There was a long, painful silence. Then, Anjali’s nose turned a rusty red. “I won’t do that,” she said, in a low voice. “That’s not what we do.” She flashed a quick look at Meena. “We had explained this to her. Before we took the case. In our organization, we are trying to change the system. If we . . . If we play dirty like the other side does, then there’s no social change happening, correct? We’re perpetuating the same system.”
Smita had a hollow feeling in her chest. She wished Meena were not present so she could speak candidly to Anjali. “So, what is she?” she said. “The sacrificial lamb?”
Anjali flushed. “We never hid the risks from her,” she replied. “Everything was explained.” She shook her head impatiently. “Look, this was never a clean case anyway. Every single eyewitness turned hostile. Why do you think those goons are walking free? Do you know how unusual it is to get bail in a murder trial?”
“Then why proceed?”
“Because we need to inform the public about how corrupt our police and court systems are.”
Smita felt a vein pulsate in her temple. “So, you’re not a lawyer,” she said. “You’re a political activist.”
Anjali’s eyes flashed with anger. “You should come work with us for a few months. Before passing judgment.”
“Didi, Anjali, what’s going on?” Meena cried. “I’m not following.”
They all turned to look at her, their faces sober. “Come, Meena bhen,” Mohan said. “I will sit with you until the judge calls your case. And don’t worry about your brothers. I’m here, na?”
“Look,” Anjali said, when it was just the two of them. “Would it help if I told you that I didn’t know they had bribed the judge until now? I honestly didn’t think they had the money.”
Smita shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said what I said to you. I can’t even fathom doing what you do for a living.”
Anjali’s eyes welled with tears. “You can’t imagine,” she said. “Sometimes, I hate my job so much, I just want to quit. Move to America and practice corporate law maybe. But then, I come across a case like Meena’s. And I take it, in the hopes that someone like her can win.”
She checked her watch. “We need to head back. Just in case this bird called justice flies off the endangered list and shows its face in court.”
Everything sounded so far away, muffled, as if Smita were deep inside a tunnel and the voices were traveling toward her from a great distance. She heard the roaring in her ears, which drowned out the other human voices.
The roaring had begun the instant she had heard the two words: “Not guilty.”
The judge was mouthing other words, his nondescript, bespectacled face impassive as he spoke, but his words were disjointed, out of order. From a distance, Smita heard screams, then yells of jubilation, but she didn’t have the energy to turn her head. She was still trying to make sense of the two words—Not guilty—was struggling to cut them up and rearrange them so that they somehow formed the word: Justice.
Justice.
How fine a word.
How rare.
And then, at long last, the judge stopped speaking, and Smita emerged from the darkness of the tunnel and into the glare of reality. Here was Meena, crumpled over. Here was Anjali, her face a patchwork of anger and disgust and disappointment. Here was Mohan, his mouth agape, as if he, too, were trying to right the world on its axis.
The shouting came from behind them. It came from Meena’s brothers, and several other men who had accompanied them. They were chanting something. Recognizing the chant before Smita did, Anjali swore softly. Then Smita heard it—“Jai Hind, Jai Hind.” Long live India. In the mouths of these animals, a patriotic cheer had suddenly become a communal taunt. “Your Honor!” Anjali yelled. “This is inexcusable. The defendants must . . .”
“What defendants?” Rupal shouted. “These are free men, falsely accused by these whores.”
“Order, order!” the judge thundered. He turned to the constable standing to his right. “Clear these people out. Okay, next. Case number 21630.”