by Vish Dhamija
She had silently suffered and penanced for the crime for a decade more than she would have had to if she were incarcerated for manslaughter or even premeditated murder. Instead, she took the jolt on her mind and went down. All the psychiatrists, the therapies, the electric shocks could never even make her speak, leave alone make her sane again.
‘Why?’ Jay murmured again, then held her cold bloodless hand and sank on his knees. An avalanche of memories passed through in a flash; the party with college friends, party, the booze, the drugs, his state of unusual inebriation, the altercation between his parents, his intervention, his mother’s scream piercing the dawn, the body of his father in a pool of blood, the stranger in the house.
He finally broke down. The tears, like they had been waiting all along, ran down his face like a wild river that could never be staunched. He didn’t wipe them. Perhaps it was good she didn’t have to suffer anymore. Perhaps her soul could rest now. The contradicting emotions struck him concurrently. How could a single occasion cause pain and provide a cure at the same time?
Jay decided to leave the cremation to the hospital authorities. Not because he didn’t want to fulfil his filial duty, but for him, his mother had died the same night his father had, this was only the passing away of the mortal remains. Moreover, taking her body back to Delhi would raise eyebrows, instigate questions which he didn’t want to answer or entertain. No one knew about his mother, least of all that she was in a mental hospital. It was better left that way; sleeping dogs were better left asleep. There was a tiny wooden chest that contained whatever little belonged to his mother. Bhīma lugged that from her room into the boot of the car. The formalities were complete by the evening, but Jay — conscious that Bhīma had driven all through the previous night — decided to sleepover in Jaipur.
The bar at Rambagh Palace did not disappoint and neither did the service. Later at dinner, Jay took off his monogrammed cufflinks, rolled up his sleeves and wolfed on rice and Laal-Maas with his fingers and without a care in the fucking world. They might have known him by name, read about him in newspapers and magazines, but no one recognised him here. The mighty Jay Singh was a nobody this night and he was enjoying it. He should do this more often.
They started for Delhi at five in the morning. Jay felt ten years older as they drove back from Jaipur. The chapter had finally come to a close. Not the kind of closure he would have liked though. The journey home — and beyond — would be full of questions. At least, for Jay, Bhīma drove without any complaints.
Memories had deliquesced — faded and dissolved, and with what had happened it wasn’t surprising at all. There wasn’t even an illusion of cheer as they drove back. Bhīma cruised at ninety per hour. More than a kilometre per minute, but the traffic averaged the speed to less than fifty km/h. Motorists and truckers and tollbooths and farm vehicles and jeep taxis — there was no disengagement from them — all added to reduce the normal speed. Jay always sat in the rear on the nearside for many reasons. First, it was impossible for anyone but an elf to sit behind Bhīma; second, even if you squeezed behind the giant, the whole view ahead was blocked and, thirdly, Jay trusted Bhīma and his driving. Most often, in the case of an accident, the driver, by instinct, swerves his side to safety, thereby damaging the other side. It is a natural reaction. Jay knew even Bhīma’s natural reaction would be to save Jay irrespective of which side he sat. He played the odds; playing odds did not utilise his brain in this case, it just used the other man’s orientation.
Everything was a dead end now, except for the hurt and the undisclosed shame. The ink would never dry. The dark amber cloud of Jack Daniels was slowing Jay’s thoughts, making him numb, the way he liked.
Seven hours, considering the traffic.
They didn’t exchange many words.
No radio.
iPod. Jay had Led Zeppelin’s entire discography as a playlist. He put it on shuffle and asked Bhīma to plug it into the music system.
The big engine barely whispered. The sound of tyres on tarmac was the only killjoy.
Road. Traffic. “Stairway to Heaven.”
Civilisation. Manpura.
Road. Traffic. “When the Levee Breaks.”
Civilisation. Shahpura.
Road. Traffic. “Kashmir.”
Civilisation. Kotputli.
Road. Traffic. “Dazed and Confused.”
‘We’ll breakfast at Behror.’ Jay broke the silence.
Bhīma glanced in the rear view. No tail. All good.
They drove into the midway hotel at Behror. Despite no tail in sight and the near-zilch probability of anyone looking for Jay here, Bhīma got out first and looked around to see if he could spot any trouble. None. He indicated it was safe for Jay to exit the car.
They had coffees and sandwiches and were back on the road in twenty minutes.
Road. Traffic. “I gotta woman.”
They saw the Neemrana Fort from the highway. Someday, thought Jay, if I have a woman in my life I’ll bring her here. Manavi instantly bounced into the front of his mind, taking the aching thoughts away. Maybe, just maybe, Ali was right. If it hadn’t been for Ali’s instigation she was just another pretty girl, but Ali had put the thought of meeting her for a date in his mind and made him feel like he was in falling in… love?
It was Gurgaon, finally.
Delhi was now just around the corner.
It was traffic was all around. “Black Dog.”
Sheeba was the happiest to see Jay and Bhīma. For her Jay and Bhīma were equals: a dog’s unremitting love that wanted nothing in return. She didn’t care who paid for the bread, but only who loved her and both the men showered equal affection.
SEVEN
As predictable, the media didn’t disappoint. The docudrama had begun. “Ex-minister’s son’s girlfriend shot dead at her Saket residence”. Most morning newspapers professed it to be another “news-of-the-decade” — quite absurdly the moniker was bestowed to something different every week in the naked hope that at least some story would stick to sell paper and increase TRPs. Nearly all newspapers had covered the investigation with drops of facts and oodles of insinuations: less news, more opinions. Sad, but true, that bad newsflash always got better coverage. Ergo, the media incessantly foraged for such incidents to feed the scavenging public. The case had the potential of being big; some local television channels had given it its own branding: “Ex-minister’s son in the box” scrolled on the bottom of the screen. Thankfully, the police had not released much information, as they hadn’t received the forensic reports or post-mortem results yet.
Jay had known from the start that Kumar’s case would eat up his calendar like Pac-man swallowed pellets, and that was agreeable to him. More media meant more limelight meant good business. The return to the office wasn’t ceremonial, Bhīma having been briefed not to mention his mother and her demise or the mental hospital or their surreptitious jaunt to Jaipur. If the office missed them for a day, it could be that the boss was busy elsewhere on some case that might have been too private to discuss. Jay didn’t need to explain. Bhīma had called from Jaipur to notify Julie to reschedule all appointments. Vinay Kumar’s file was getting ready and all reports — permissible and proscribed ones — were chronicled at Jay’s desk, just in time, since Kumar was coming to see Jay again today.
But, first off, Jay asked Bhīma to run a search for the police officer in charge of the investigation of his father’s murder. ‘I’m fairly certain he must have retired by now, he looked old even back then when I was a teen. But please track him down if you can. We resided in Vasant Vihar at the time, so finding the right police station in the precinct and the name of the person should not be a challenge. Sussing out where the old man is now — if he is still alive, that is — might be a little tricky.’
Bhīma expressed acquiescence with his countenance. Jay didn’t require a verbal articulation that Bhīma understood the significance of the task or the confidentiality required. He didn’t need to mention to Bhīma t
hat this was personal business and that no records were to be kept for this search. Jay knew Bhīma would be on the job straightaway.
Jay spent the next hour on Vinay Kumar’s dossier. He speed-read the docket; his practised eye discerning the imperative from the routine. He read the unofficial material he had received from the informants before going through what was collected by his office staff. He examined everything closely; pulled out crime-scene photographs and looked at them under a magnifying glass. He studied the case, noting each name, drawing a character of witnesses. Then he started making a flow of activities chart to put everything in a bead. It wasn’t a day’s job and as such there wasn’t any rush to complete it.
***
‘Waiting for me?’ Kumar knocked, thrusting his head into Jay’s office at eleven.
‘Nope, was on a call with the President of India, but I told him I’m busy as I’m at your service,’ Jay quipped with a smile and got up to shake his client’s hand.
Kumar passed what appeared to be a genuine smile. Perhaps he understood the humour. Dressed in Diesel jeans, crisp powder blue Ralph Lauren button-down shirt and leather sneakers; although the brand wasn’t visible Jay knew they would be expensive too.
Diesel may adorn your ass, but is the denim strong enough to save it? The thought crossed Jay’s mind but he stopped himself. Administering too many humorous statements wasn’t appropriate.
Like a computer that tracked cookies and identified you if you logged on to the website the second time, Julie knew from the prior visit what a particular client preferred. Coffees arrived without being asked for.
‘I’ve been reading your file, Vinay.’ Jay raised his eyebrows to point towards the big box file that lay at his desk.
‘And?’
‘Do you have anything new to tell me?’
Kumar looked up, looked down, looked sideways indicating he didn’t have anything fresh. Maybe he wasn’t aware that Jay had got the details before the police.
‘No fingerprints, not even partials. No witnesses, no weapon. And the only person, at least apparently, who seems to have had a motive and the opportunity, is you. It’s a lot easier to send you to the cell than to save you. Obviously, it’s your hide anyone would come after first. You’re in so much shit even the world’s best proctologist can’t help you, Kumar. So I request you one last time: stop lying.’
‘I am not.’
‘Okay here’s my proposal. Every time you perjure, my fee doubles. Agreed?’
‘Of course, but you haven’t told me your fee…’
‘I will, after I add up all your lies. Was Gina pregnant?’
‘How’d you know?’
‘Doesn’t matter how I know, what matters is, did you know?’
‘Of course, I knew she was pregnant.’
‘And you forgot to mention that to me?’
‘I didn’t think that was important.’
Do I really look like a fucking idiot?
‘Drat.’ Jay was fast losing confidence in his client now. ‘May I request you once again to tell me everything; I don’t want you to be economical with the truth here. Let me be the judge if I need that info or not.’
Nod.
‘Vinay, I think the Chinese Triad wouldn’t have had any interest in Gina’s pregnancy, so I think it’s safe to rule them out.’ It was part-anger, part-frustration siring the sarcasm. No sooner had the words left his mouth than Jay realised the impropriety of the caustic remark, but what the heck, Vinay Kumar could either drop all pretences or leave. He didn’t need Kumar as much as Kumar needed him. Some verbal whipping was essential.
Kumar did not utter a word. He appeared dazed, either by the fact that Jay knew the fact before the police came looking for him or that he had been caught dodging by omission. The moron should have known that Jay would be verifying every word he spoke or the ones he did not speak: lying by omission.
‘So do you see what I see? A pregnant mistress, maybe asking for rights, maybe asking for money, got killed? And interestingly, you had just left her residence so you have no alibi, no witnesses, no contrary evidence, nothing? I could be wrong but it looks like being a real possibility that the rich, unbridled son of an ex-minister offed her. It’s not looking propitious for you, whichever way you look at it, Vinay.’
‘Are you saying that’s possible?’
‘Are you saying it is not?’
‘I mean… I did not do it.’
‘Vinay — let’s look at the possible scenarios the prosecution might present in the court. Scenario one: Mr Vinay Kumar, a married man with kids, recognising that his mistress was pregnant could not take the risk that it could bring to his political destiny, so he thought it was sensible to finish her off… ’ Kumar attempted to interrupt the monologue, but Jay stopped him with a hand gesture. ‘Scenario two: Mr Vinay Kumar impregnated his mistress Miss Gina Pinto, a single woman. Nowhere to go, she, rightfully, asked her par-amour to marry her. They had a fight and Mr Vinay Kumar was left with no choice but to off her. Which scenario do you prefer?’
‘Eh?’
‘There could be a third and fourth scenario that you got her killed by someone else — contract killing. But that doesn’t matter. If two scenarios are so similar that the difference was indiscernible — who actually pulled the trigger? — then the verdict would be the same. Remember if it walks like a fucking duck and talks like a fucking duck... ‘
Another, “eh.”
‘Then it has to be a fucking duck, isn’t it?’
‘I did not kill her.’ Kumar was literally in tears. He must be a consummate actor and could get a nomination for a Filmfare award. Or he was shit-scared and not pretending. As an advocate you need to pick up the subtleties in a yarn, the untold, the slipped up fragment of facts. Somehow, to Jay, Kumar’s countenance wanted to convince him that the latter was still in love with Gina. But it came across like a crocodile impersonation. How much could Jay trust a philandering client?
Why, who and how was something Jay had to figure out. Surprisingly, this was a city that never woke up, never opened its eyes; no one ever saw a crime being committed. Ergo, it was futile to expect someone would walk into the Saket Police Station to give a testimony. Vinay Kumar had the motive and Vinay Kumar had the opportunity. Just because the gun wasn’t traced it didn’t mean Kumar could — or would — be deemed innocent. There were more than a thousand and one ways in the book to dispose of the bloody gun.
‘My source tells me they suspect you,’ Jay mentioned it with blatant mendacity. He wanted to give Kumar one final chance.
‘That isn’t true. Who is your source?’
‘That I cannot tell you, and you should know that.’
‘You have to believe me.’
‘And I should believe you because…?’
‘Because, I’m telling you the truth… I loved her… I still love her.’ Tears started welling up in Kumar’s eyes. Liars can bring up tears too; in fact they say liars can call upon tears much more quickly. With one swift motion, to preserve his masculinity, Kumar wiped his face and came back in a strong voice. ‘Do you think anyone can kill the mother of their unborn child?’ He put on what only he must have believed was a disarming smile. Jay could see through the façade.
Ouch, that last dialogue could do some Bollywood dialogue writer proud.
‘Could you stop playing hypotheticals with me? Please? Tell me the truth. Let me hypothesise. That’s my job — to make up the case,’ Jay articulated pitilessly.
‘Do you believe me?’
‘Though you haven’t given me any reason to, as I’ve told you before, it’s not for me to believe. It’s for the judge to be convinced. You haven’t given me anything to build the case on yet and you should know that.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Firstly, no lies, not even by omission.’
Nod.
‘And certainly not by admission.’
Nod.
‘Is there anything you could think of that
might impact the case going forward?’
‘Like?’
‘Any other affairs, any insurances—?’
‘Gina was insured, certainly.’ He mentioned certainly like everyone in India was insured.
‘Now, please don’t tell me you are the beneficiary?’
‘Of course I am. I am the one who insured her and paid the annual premiums.’ There was a certain pride in his voice.
Jay’s elbows were already at his desk, his hands in a steeple against his lips as he heard his client speak. Catching these words from Kumar’s mouth made his head drop into his hands. Kumar was a sitting duck: pregnant mistress shot dead, insured, with him as the sole beneficiary. It didn’t require Einstein to solve this one.
Jay grilled Kumar for another two hours. Kumar had brought his handgun, which he showed and offered to surrender to Jay for tests. It was an altogether different make — Colt not Glock — and Jay didn’t fancy keeping it. It would need a lot of paperwork to confiscate a firearm, even for investigation. He wasn’t still entirely convinced Kumar hadn’t killed Gina, but he didn’t want to focus solely on him.
‘Let me reiterate that if at any point I find out that you’ve lied to me I will pull the carpet from under you and let you go to the gallows. On the other hand if you admit — even if the truth is that you deliberately or accidentally killed Gina — I promise to stand by you till the very end.’
‘I know, and I agree to your condition. I swear upon my dead mother that I did not kill Gina. If I had a choice I’d walk away from my wife and kids, denounce politics and be with Gina for the rest of my life.’
How romantic!
‘The police would most definitely take you for questioning. Do not, under any circumstances, agree to speak to them without me present. Tell them you need your advocate present.’
‘Of course.’
‘I shall get a bail organised for you, if required.’
The police had already discovered semen in Gina’s body. Soon they would also know that she was pregnant. She being Kumar’s mistress, the doctrine suggested he was the main suspect. His DNA would substantiate that both the seed in her body and the bun in the oven were his. Naturally, they would incriminate him, given his motive. Knowing he was a son of a once powerful politician and was currently being groomed for the next general election, the police were taking it slowly. Where would he run to if he were guilty? Why would he run if he weren’t? The police were known to stretch the charges, especially when they knew the accused was worth a lot like Vinay Kumar. It would be a ripe time to mention the fees then, Jay ameliorated with each case. In the end, it was all for mazuma wasn’t it?