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 . . .”