by Jigna Vora
*
I hardly got any time to mourn. The case was on and I had to throw myself into it. A few witnesses had deposed, but Public Prosecutor Raja Thakare excused himself, citing excess workload and other reasons. This delayed the trial. Chhota Rajan’s deportation and the transfer of cases to the CBI also led to more delays in my trial. In February 2016, the CBI filed a charge sheet against Chhota Rajan. But they did not have a public prosecutor in place! After considerable wait, Pradeep Gharat was appointed as the public prosecutor for all Chhota Rajan’s cases. But now that we had a public prosecutor, the judge was changed. Judge Sameer Adkar was appointed to hear all cases involving Chhota Rajan. The courtroom was also shifted back to the sessions court, to Room No. 57. The witnesses started deposing. The initial witnesses were those who were a part of my panchnama. After all, hadn’t the media made me into a prime accused? Witnesses against Chhota Rajan began deposing. His wife, Sujata, was also called to court. But I had taken an exemption from attending the hearing on that day.
Three witnesses were crucial to my fate: Nikhil Dixit—to whom J. Dey had shown the SMS I had purportedly sent; Manoj Shivdasani—who had conversed with Chhota Rajan on phone, when my name had allegedly come up; and Aariz Chandra, to whom Chhota Rajan had allegedly said that I had emailed him J. Dey’s photo, bike number and office address. All these witnesses had given such statements to the police. However, statements given before police are not admissible as evidence in court as they can be obtained under duress. What mattered now is what these witnesses would say in court, and if their versions could stand the cross-examination of the defence. After discussion with Jayesh, I approached senior lawyer Prakash Shetty to be the defence counsel for my trial. He was a methodical and calm lawyer and known to be a master in the art of cross-examination.
Nikhil Dixit appeared in court on 3 May 2017. I almost failed to recognize him because he had grown his hair and it was in a ponytail. Public Prosecutor Pradeep Gharat began the examination. Sitting at the back, I silently began chanting the Hanuman Chalisa. As part of his introduction, Nikhil confirmed that he had met J. Dey in 2002, and the senior reporter had been a mentor to him in crime reporting. Nikhil also admitted to knowing me as a journalist and meeting me around 2006–07.
‘Is Jigna Vora present in court today?’ Gharat asked. ‘Can you identify her?’
Nikhil pinpointed a finger towards the back of the courtroom, where I was seated with the other accused. Suddenly, necks turned and the entire room was staring at me. But by now, I had grown used to such humiliation. Then, Nikhil admitted that J. Dey had shown him the alleged SMS that I had sent. On being asked about the contents of the SMS, he replied in English, ‘You think you are too smart or what?’
The PP continued his examination of the witness on other topics related to the case. Then, defence counsel Prakash Shetty began the cross-examination. He eased Nikhil into the probe of the SMS, during which Nikhil admitted that he did not know Jigna Vora’s mobile number. He did not remember if Jigna Vora’s number was stored in his mobile phone. No, he did not remember if any calls had been exchanged between him and Jigna Vora. He did not remember the date on which J. Dey had shown him the SMS sent by Jigna Vora. He did not verify the mobile number of the person who had sent the SMS or who had received the SMS. And no, he had not actually seen the SMS, contrary to what he had said earlier. J. Dey had only told him about such an SMS. Yes, in his words, it would be true to say that he was not aware of the contents of the SMS.
I heaved a huge sigh of relief. Prakash Shetty continued with the cross-examination. All along, I had wondered if Nikhil had told the police that he had seen the SMS under any kind of pressure. But again, he put it on record that it would be incorrect to say that he was deposing falsely against Jigna Vora under directions of the police or the CBI. After the hearing, I thanked Prakash Shetty profusely. He smiled and said, ‘This is how the truth unfolds.’
This was a big development and a very positive one in my defence. Guess how many newspapers reported it?
Zero.
*
The prosecution had lined up another witness, Rajesh Kadam, who was from the HR and Admin of the Asian Age when the murder had taken place. On the day of his deposition, Rajesh was unusually cold towards me. He had brought along the attendance register, which was proof that I had gone on leave without notification to the HR, and then returned on my own. The prosecution wanted to build a case that I had deliberately gone to Sikkim on that day because I was aware that J. Dey would be killed on 11 June 2011. But under Prakash Shetty’s cross-examination, Rajesh admitted that the general norm in the office was that reporters were supposed to inform their direct supervisors when proceeding on leave, and a separate notification to HR/Admin was not mandatory. And then it was presented to the court that in keeping with this norm, I had informed the resident editor, Hussain Zaidi, about my leave, in advance and in writing over an email. Prakash Shetty kept the window open to confirm this fact with Hussain Zaidi if he were to be called as a witness for the defence. Rajesh’s testimony did not damage my case at all.
Other witnesses deposed before Manoj Shivdasani was called to the stand on 23 May 2017. Quite a few reporters had turned up for his testimony because his conversation with Chhota Rajan, which had been recorded by the police, was to be played in court. Also, Manoj’s statement was taken before a magistrate under Section 164 of Cr.PC, which makes it admissible as evidence in court. He was liable for perjury if he backtracked on his statement. Under examination by the public prosecutor, Manoj admitted that he was friends with Vinod Asrani, aka Vinod Chembur, who was also an accused in the J. Dey murder case but had died in 2015.
‘Can you recognize your statement which was recorded under Section 164 of Cr.PC if it was shown to you?’ the PP asked.
‘I can say that only if the statement is shown to me,’ Manoj said.
The statement, which was kept in an open envelope, was now shown to the witness. He admitted that it bore his signature on the last page. But then he went on to say that the statement was recorded in Marathi, and he did not know Marathi. When recorded, the statement was not read out to him in Hindi, a language he understood, and he had simply signed the statement. So now, the statement which was recorded in Marathi was read over and interpreted to him in Hindi.
‘I do not remember the contents of the statement,’ he said. ‘At the time of recording of my statement, I had stated the truth.’
When the recording of his call with Chhota Rajan was played in court, the part about me emailing J. Dey’s information to Rajan was not a part of it. The prosecution never made an application to try Shivdasani for perjury despite the fact that he did not remember his own statement. However, another battle had been won.
Aariz Chandra was the 100th witness in the case. He appeared only after multiple summons, as he had shifted to Delhi. My acquittal was now dependent on his deposition. He admitted that Chhota Rajan had called around August or September 2011 from the number +3444. Chhota Rajan had confessed to killing J. Dey because he suspected J. Dey was working for Dawood Ibrahim. But then, Aariz deposed that Chhota Rajan had mentioned that he (Rajan) had emailed J. Dey’s photo, bike number, and two articles by J. Dey about Chhota Rajan for a popular tabloid to Jigna Vora! The judge himself was flabbergasted to hear this and asked Aariz if he needed a glass of water.
‘No,’ Aariz said. ‘I am fine.’
The prosecution asked Aariz to repeat himself, which he did, and stated that Chhota Rajan had mentioned that he (Rajan) had emailed J. Dey’s photo, bike number, and two articles by J. Dey about Rajan for a popular tabloid to Jigna Vora. In a tactical move, Prakash Shetty declined to cross-examine the witness. He wanted to give no opportunity to Aariz to change the words he had just spoken. From rows ahead, Jayesh turned around to look at me. He had a smile on his face, and gave me a thumbs-up. The prosecution’s case against me had collapsed. I was close to freedom. Very close. But nothing could be taken for granted until the judgment was announ
ced on 2 May 2018.
25
ACCUSED NO. 11 ACQUITTED
The wait for 2 May 2018 was excruciating. The media trial had taken its toll on me. J. Dey’s murder, understandably, had angered his colleagues and peers, and they had played their part in raising voices for a death sentence against me. Even as per law, death sentences are reserved for the rarest of rare cases. But the media only wanted to play to the gallery, sell a few more copies, and conduct sensational prime-time debates. I confined myself to my bedroom and seldom stepped outside.
My grandfather, grandmother and my mother had all been alive when I was arrested on 25 November 2011. By the time the judgment day had neared, all of them had gone, one after another. That left me and my son against the might of the law, government and media. Though I had put up a hell of a fight, I had also gone through bouts of depression and severe anxiety. Having attended the trial punctually for the last six-and-a-half years, I had had no chance to supervise my son’s academics. He had been an excellent student, scoring more than 80 per cent in his SSC exams. But now, even he could not focus properly on his HSC exams. How could I blame him? I was sure he would pass, but he had slipped so much that getting into an engineering college would be nearly impossible for him. It was his dream to become a chemical engineer. My conviction would put his future in jeopardy.
I called Jayesh to my home and discussed the possibility of a conviction. He told me there was no way I was getting convicted. Though he was confident, nothing was set in stone. He knew this as much as I did. I told him that I would sign a few blank cheques he could use to pay for my son’s education and manage my legal expenses in case we had to go to the high court. Jayesh agreed to this idea with a heavy heart. Even Prakash Shetty told me not to worry. He was confident of securing a release. ‘Legally, there is nothing against you,’ he said. ‘But in the end, you will face what is in your destiny.’
I couldn’t bear to look at the calendar any more. A few days prior to judgment, a photographer from the Mumbai Mirror turned up at my door. I cited my bail order and refused to talk or allow a photograph. Before the verdict, a few close friends turned up to express solidarity. My best friend hugged me tightly. Maybe she was wondering if she would ever see me again.
*
On 1 May 2018, as I prepared to go to sleep, I wondered where I would be sleeping the next day. Would I be back on the hard floor of Byculla Jail, jostling for space with some of Mumbai’s most hardened criminals? I had met so many new faces in jail, and all of them came rushing back to my head—Paromita, Sadhvi Pragya, Usha Maa, the dreaded Jaya Chheda, the cheerful Fatima, and the lady constables. How many of them would still be there?
The media had turned up in full force when I had been arrested. Now that Chhota Rajan was back and facing his first judgment in India, the media would virtually occupy every inch of space in the sessions court. And what if the judge really sentenced me to death? I closed my eyes and imagined a black hood being put over my face, a noose tightening around my neck, hanging by the thick rope and kicking my legs until . . . I touched my face with my hands, reassuring myself that I was still alive. Though I wished for this night to never pass, I was also tired of the anxiety. I went to sleep with the conviction that I would face my destiny, whatever it was.
The next morning, three of my friends turned up to take care of my son. I gave them strict instructions to not let him out of sight until I (or my family members) returned in the evening. I left from Ghatkopar at 9.30 a.m. with another friend. A photographer from Mid-Day was standing below the building. I requested him to respect my privacy at this hour and covered my face with a pink dupatta.
First, I went to Chembur to my uncle and aunt’s place. There, I took the blessings of my grandfather’s younger brother and his wife. My aunt applied a tika on my forehead and prayed for my release. My uncle and aunt drove along with us from Chembur to Kala Ghoda, and I did not utter a word during the entire journey. I rolled down the windows and felt the breeze blow across my face. I felt the warmth of the sun. I breathed deeply, not knowing if this freedom would last beyond the next few hours.
As the car approached the court premises, I kept an eye out for media personnel. Luckily, no journalists were hounding the entry point of the first gate. I asked my uncle to stop near Irani Hotel and made my way inside the court. But the security guards did not allow my family members through this gate and asked them to enter from the other gates.
At 10 a.m., the court was empty except for the heavy security deployment. Policemen in civil clothes began entering the premises to review the security arrangements. This was a case involving Chhota Rajan and his dreaded shooters. The dog squad had sanitized the entire fifth floor. I passed by the staircase where my grandfather had once sat when he’d come to meet me at my first hearing. I could feel his presence trying to tell me that everything would be okay, just like he would console me when he was alive.
I was sitting on the bench on the fifth floor and crying, when Jane Borges, a reporter from Mid-Day who was also my friend, came along and sat next to me.
She spoke a few words for moral support. I handed my phone to her as I wouldn’t be allowed to carry it inside. My family members turned up too. Some relatives had travelled from far away. But they were not allowed into the courtroom. Around 10.45 a.m., I trudged into the courtroom and took a seat at my regular place. The lawyers had now started streaming in.
Around 11 a.m., the judge walked in. He jocularly quipped in Marathi that he had been reading the interviews that some lawyers associated with the case were giving to the media. Even by 11.30 a.m., the media was not allowed in the courtroom. But there was a sea of lawyers inside. The other accused who were in custody had not arrived yet. Paulson was next to me, wearing a white shirt and black pant. The tension had made him loud and excited.
‘What do you think will happen to us?’ he said.
I ignored him at first, but he repeated himself. ‘I don’t know,’ I said and rolled my eyes. He was only making me more nervous.
The judge asked a clerk why the aaropis were not in court yet. The clerk rushed to check, and came back with a response that the accused were on their way from jail in the police vehicles. Chhota Rajan had joined via videoconferencing and he was provided with the same update, which he acknowledged. I cast a glance at Chhota Rajan’s face, and the apprehension on his face was palpable. Paulson did not stop blabbering, no matter how many times I asked him to. The clock kept ticking away. My aunt had told me that rahu kaal would begin at 12.10 p.m. and that was worrying me now.
At 11.45 a.m., one accused entered. The others followed behind him. The judge did not even allow any time for the accused to sit. They were lined up according to their designated numbers. I was Accused No. 11, and Paulson was Accused No. 10. At least five policemen in plain clothes were guarding each accused. Jayesh looked back at me. I felt the confidence on his face had faded, or maybe he was just as nervous as I was. The judge had a small note in his hands. He started by pronouncing without wasting another minute. He said that the prosecution had proved the conspiracy.
‘What is he saying?’ Paulson asked me.
I felt like punching his face, but settled for saying, ‘I don’t know!’
Accused No. 1 was pronounced as convicted.
Accused No. 2: Convicted.
No. 3: Convicted.
Four: Convicted.
This wasn’t looking good. The series of convictions continued until Accused No. 8, Vinod Asrani, was ‘appended’. Vinod had died before the trial could conclude.
Chhota Rajan, Accused No. 12, was also convicted. The judgment had taken less than two minutes, an almost anticlimactic culmination of the last six-and-a-half years. My life as it had been flashed before my eyes. Was I going to walk through the Laal Gate again? My heart nearly stopped beating.
Jo Sat Baar Paath Kar Koi, Chhutahi Bandi Maha Sukh Hoi.
‘Accused number 10 and 11 are acquitted,’ the judge said.
What? What did
I just hear?
Paulson started jumping and shouting in his tapori lingo. ‘Apun dono acquit ho gaye na? Haan? Haan?’
I didn’t even know what to tell him. At that moment, someone from the media shouted, ‘Jigna Vora is acquitted,’ and rushed out to break the news to their peers. I began crying. The courtroom began to blur before my eyes.
The judge continued that no evidence had been found against Accused No. 10 and 11. My innocence had finally been proved. I was no longer an accused murderer.
I asked Jane Borges from Mid-day to tell my family that I was free again. Jayesh was crying. We had started our careers on the same day. My first day as a reporter in the sessions court had also been Jayesh’s first day as a lawyer. Prakash Shetty’s eyes were also moist. ‘Happy, na?’ he asked me. Truly, he was a man of few words.
I was required to post a bail bond. Once an accused is acquitted, the person is required to sign a bond saying that he/she will remain present whenever court calls upon them in the future. On Jayesh’s suggestion, I went out to ask my relatives to leave, as the procedure would take until evening. The judge would first pronounce sentences for all the convicts after lunch. As I was walking out of court, the security stopped me. ‘At least let me go now!’ I said.