by Vish Dhamija
'Good morning, sir.' His juniors stood up to greet him.
Sexy motioned them to sit before he started. 'I am under inordinate pressure from the top to submit a comprehensive report on what we've achieved so far in the enquiry related to the gruesome murders of Adit Lele and Samir Suri.'
Rita wondered if Sexy was equally proficient in adjectives and adverbs in Hindi.
'We have been on the case...' Joshi uttered and expectantly looked at Rita to take over. Rita, in a few minutes, recounted the entire findings of the case, the discovery of
Hegde, and the information breach which had given away news of his arrest to the killer that helped him wipe off the only pointer.
'Remind me to speak to the Juhu SHO later,' Sexy growled. Rita nodded and narrated the call made to her by the killer. 'Why wasn't I told about this?'
It was Rita's turn to look at Joshi. It was his job to update the Commissioner, not hers.
'I didn't think you needed to get involved, that would be playing to the tune that the killer wants: getting someone of your level to take an interest means the media would sense it was more serious than we were projecting, sir.'
Sexy didn't seem to buy the argument, but he didn't want to disagree with Joshi, at least not in Rita's presence. 'Have you provided a plainclothes police officer around DCP Ferreira's apartment 24 by 7?' he asked Joshi.
'I don't think that is required sir,' Rita expressed.
Sexy didn't as much as look at her. 'It's a must. If that vainglorious killer has dared to be in the vicinity of DCP's residence, we should ensure her apartment is watched for her safety. It might also help in providing some clue in case he revisits the area.’
I am a DCP, not some schoolgirl who needs security, Rita wanted to bang her palm at Sexy's desk, but refrained. That action might have instigated the Commissioner to put guards in her bedroom.
Sexy wasn't surprised the killer had gone cold after two murders. 'I told you there is no such thing as a serial killer in India,' he gloated. Joshi stared at Rita and dared her to say anything otherwise. 'I need an unwavering plan to get to this killer. The CM's office is keen to announce the arrest.'
'Yes, sir. We’re doing our best.'
'Do you need any more people? Maybe another DCP to assist Miss Ferreira?'
'Not at the moment sir.'
Joshi got up to leave. Rita took the hint. Both slipped out of the room.
Senior Inspector Nene had canvassed the entire area near Rita's residence and Pali Hill. Two separate men had noticed a red Maruti Suzuki 800 — in a state of dereliction, with darkened windows — parked oddly on the pavement on the night Rita had got the call from the same area. No, neither had seen it before or since that evening and hadn't found it odd then but, now, recollected that the engine had been running all the time. None had bothered to note the number or to report.
Out of the over a few million Marutis sold, how many were red?
Lack of sufficient info always gave birth to more possibilities than required. end.
Nevertheless, a fresh search had begun. It could be the break. It could be another dead
The blue sky, no longer blue, had long gone to sleep when Rita left Crawford Market. The inconspicuous police sub-inspector, planted near her apartment, in plain clothes was hardly discreet. Not for Rita at any rate, but then, her eyes were trained to notice. Cops had an ingrained attribute of absorbing as much as they could while looking at people, even when they tried not to. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of the mind, the brain made a note. Blue ill-fitting jeans, white shirt with a cotton jacket to hide the holster: that sort of thing. Rita jerked herself out of the sleuth-mode and took the lift up to her apartment.
Contrary to medical advice, Rita had worked out that aspirins worked best for her when assisted with whiskey. Like a viper, her tongue lapped her lips in anticipation of Jim. It was then that she saw the message light flashing on her phone. She took a sip and walked to listen to the message.
'Hi gorgeous.' It was Ash. 'Call me.'
It was close to 9 p.m. 4:30 p.m. in the U.K.
Rita hadn't spoken to Ash since he had left. There had been an e-mail exchange, but that was it. She looked for his number in her mobile and dialled him.
'Aye...how are you?' He sounded happy. 'Fine. How come you called?'
'I was missing you.'
Rita could never be certain if Ash was serious or joking. 'Oh really? I thought you'd never call.'
'I got busy. Sorry. I told you about this case I had to return to attend.'
'That's OK. I can understand, I mean…you can't keep in touch with every woman you sleep with.'
'You're being nasty today. Got the stick from someone?'
'Big one.'
'I see you still haven't caught that maniac killer.'
'How do you know?'
'Google. There's been nothing in the news.'
'So you’re keeping an eye on our work.'
'You could say that. Listen, I am coming over.'
'To Mumbai?'
'Yes, I had my vacation cancelled due to this emergency situation, so it's only fair I am given some time off in lieu.'
'When?' Rita could feel her pulse rise. For a few seconds the heartbeat went up to a hundred, but she made sure it didn't show in her voice.
'Next week.'
'Would be good to see you again.'
'Should I book my hotel or am I permitted to sleep on your sofa?' ‘Is that a new chat-up line?’
Six days, Rita smiled when she put the phone down. Convinced that this was a happy moment, she had a large swig from her tumbler. The taste of Jim lingered in her mouth long after she had switched off the lights.
-----------------------------------
SEVENTEEN
1990
State of Maharashtra versus Raja Kumar, R. Thapar, Y. Khan, K. Sharma and B. Raghavan
Case Reg No. APPLN/194/1990
Reg. Date. 11/01/1990
Appeal: Criminal
Disp By: Hon'ble Shri Justice J.K. Khanna
Petitioner: Viviane
Defendants; Raja Kumar and friends (R. Thapar, Y. Khan, K. Sharma and B. Raghavan) High Court of Judicature
Bombay
The Bombay High Court was boisterous, and packed with more people than the authorities had anticipated. The media hadn't spared any ink in building hype around the case, their stories uncovering history and geography of the plaintiff and the defendants. Whatever the outcome of the case, the citizenry had savoured every raunchy comment, every lewd page, and they were yet unsatiated. Honourable Justice J.K. Khanna had issued a fiat prohibiting media's presence. Nothing should be telecast or printed. No cameras. This was a criminal case, and till proven in this court, both parties were innocent and deserved privacy. He had deliberated if this should be a closed hearing, but ruled it out after discussions with his peers.
Citizens had a right.
The bailiff closest to the Bench moved, called the court to order, and all movement, all noise in the packed courtroom died. Justice Khanna, in his robe, entered his domain and the subjects respectfully stopped gossiping, or whatever they were doing, to pay due attention.
This was the moment Public Prosecutor Sham Verma had dreaded all along since the day he got the case assigned to him — a random allotment to the next available Public Prosecutor. Verma looked like someone who had retired from the courts several years back, but still kept turning up every morning. Thin, white haired — it would require a microscope to find a single black hair on his head — spectacled, mousy features and a moustache he never shaved since he had turned up in the court the very first time a few years after Indian Independence. His dishevelled clothes, too, seemed he hadn't changed in all those decades. His face carried a permanent expression of hopelessness written on it, like someone who wasn't even looking for the bus; forget missing it. He had cursed his stars to be the one next in queue, for no advocate, in his right mind, would have craved for this case. He had prepared Viviane for the m
ost brutal questioning, insisted that she look unglamorous, and a vapid mother, not her usual gorgeous self. The law might work on evidence, but a judge was always impressionable. Sympathy, in the right measure, was what was required to persuade someone — too much and it would appear histrionics on Viviane's part, yearning for pity; too little and the case could be over in minutes. The odds were very long, but what other option did he have? Verma had read the case, the evidence from police files, the medical reports.
Everything seemed right to take the case to trial. Except the client.
Viviane looked every bit a siren, and, that couldn't be good for this case. Sirens didn't get pity. And once her profession was conjured up in court on record, the Defence Advocate would rehash it mercilessly. It would be the one thing that was capable of providing misery to Viviane and harassment to the prosecuting advocate. It would be the one thing that would enthral the public most. Sadly, it was also the one thing that was incapable of being concealed.
When it was certain that Arjun Hingorani had taken the case for the defence, Verma was fazed. Hingorani was acclaimed to be lethal, one of the best Defence Advocates money could buy in Bombay. Or even in India. And money and law, in India, had forever been in matrimony.
No one in the world could do better justice to the word pompous than Hingorani. Every single thing he wore, carried, spoke and expressed conveyed he thought very highly of himself. He was an extremely successful lawyer, and like most other successful lawyers in India, he was a pedigreed lawyer. His father and grandfather had been lawyers too. Salt and pepper hair, gold-rimmed glasses, polished leather shoes, expensive watch, all displayed on a five-foot-nine mannequin. He argued cases like he played chess. For every word Hingorani spoke, for every move he made in the courtroom, he had the next twenty-five planned. Verma wasn't even a pawn on his chessboard; he was an empty space on the board as far as Hingorani was concerned. Only fifty years old, he had an unbeaten record in the courtroom and Verma had as much chance of winning the case as the Titanic against the iceberg; defeat would be as icy too.
Viviane wore a sari, the perfect attire for the courtroom. With years spent in India, her skin, her hair, her mannerisms, her language no longer seemed alien. Would the question of her origin come up? And would it affect the decision? A jury with women might have understood her plight better but, sadly, juries had gone out of fashion; abolished in India in 1960 after the flawed jury trial of Nanawati the preceding year. The Indian Naval Commander had shot dead his wife’s paramour. The legal bodies claimed the case had made headlines, and the newspapers — especially the biased tabloid Blitz — influenced and misdirected the jury members who, as reverent Indians, had been led to believe it was poetic justice: something any honourable man would have done. No one ever stopped to ponder how the honourable man got together with his same promiscuous wife later and left India to live in Canada, but the case had changed the rules of the land. And it had been this very High Court that had called it a mistrial, issued a writ of certiorari and dismissed the jury verdict.
Mistrial.
Would Viviane's case get a fair trial? Whatever the outcome, it had the potential of being made into a Bollywood film. Didn't Nanawati's case inspire two masala flicks?
Mistrial.
A few murmurs had started when people saw Viviane, but ceased as Justice Khanna tapped the gavel. The court was in order. The trial began. The bailiff read the charges against the defendants — gangrape of Viviane by the five men.
Verma got up and presented the case, the medical evidence, the FIR at Colaba Police Station. Prosecution claimed that Viviane, who worked for Pathak, had gone to meet Raja Kumar on business, only Mr Raja Kumar, but he had allegedly invited four other friends who repeatedly raped Viviane at Mr Kumar's Worli Sea Face apartment. Verma pointed towards the five accused men in the courtroom who were out on bail. Thapa, having been threatened of dire consequences by Pathak and by Kumar's men, stayed away from the case, but he had sent evidence in writing; he had returned to his native Nepal and could not be summoned by any court order. Verma highlighted that rape wasn’t merely about physical penetration; it wasn’t about a man, woman, young or old. Rape was against someone’s will. And yes, everyone had equal right to their will irrespective of their profession, financial status or social standing. It was inequity if a poor woman was denied the right to say no because of her profession.
As already intimated to Verma, Hingorani's first witness was Viviane. Oath taken, a daunted Viviane stood in the witness box.
Hingorani stood up, bowed to Justice Khanna, then to the courtroom, ran his left hand through his straight backcombed hair, like he was getting ready for his performance on a film set. He walked up theatrically to Viviane.
'Good morning.'
Viviane's lips quivered when she smiled to acknowledge his greeting.
'Your name, Miss…'
'Viviane Casey.'
'And your profession, Miss Viviane?'
'Objection, My Lord.' Verma arose. 'Overruled.'
'What is your profession Miss Viviane?'
'I am jobless.'
'I am sorry. You must be looking for one then?'
'Yes.' Tears had started forming in Viviane's eyes. She knew, precisely, what these questions would be preluding to.
'What kind of work are you looking for Miss Viviane?'
'Objection, My Lord. My client’s joblessness has nothing to do with this case.'
'Sustained. Mr Hingorani, please ask what is pertinent to this case,' Justice Khanna agreed.
'Apologies, My Lord. So, Miss Viviane, what educational qualifications do you…'
'Objection, My Lord,' Verma interjected again.
'Sustained. Mr Hingorani, please advance the case.'
'Apologies, again, My Lord. Miss Viviane, where are you from?'
'I live in Mumbai.'
'Miss Viviane, I didn't ask you that. I know where you live now, I asked you where do you come from?'
'Objection…'
'Overruled.'
'I am from Russia.' Viviane knew lying on oath was out of question. 'When did you arrive in India, Miss Viviane?'
'Almost eight years ago.'
'Eight years ago,' mumbled Hingorani, as if trying to calculate. 'Which means you arrived in India in 1982, is that correct Miss Viviane?'
'Yes.'
'And, you have been in India ever since?' Viviane nodded her assent.
'Sorry, I couldn't hear that.'
'Yes.'
'Do you live alone, Miss Viviane?'
'No. With my son.'
'And his father, of course…'
Hingorani was a complete bastard. He had alluded to her status as a foreign national living illegally in the country, and now he went for her unwedded mother status. It might have been acceptable in the West — or in Russia — but, in India, it was a social taboo.
Impermissible.
'Objection, My Lord. Mr Hingorani’s unnecessary questions and insinuations are wasting the court's time,' Verma cried, knowing well the court clerk had already docketed Viviane's legal and marital status; the damage had been done
'Sustained. Mr Hingorani, please keep your questions germane to the case,' Justice Khanna warned again.
'Since when have you been out of work Miss Viviane? How do you financially support yourself and your son in Bombay without a job? ' Hingorani resumed the onslaught.
‘One question at a time, Mr Hingorani,’ the judge interrupted. ‘Apologies, My Lord.’
Viviane looked at Verma, who had warned her of such questions. There was no way the defence team would let her professional status pass.
'Miss Viviane, how do you support your family?' Hingorani repeated.
'This is a sheer waste of the court's time, My Lord. Mr Hingorani has all information regarding Miss Viviane's education, profession and family on file. Her jobless status has as much relevance to this case as the registration details of Robert Mugabe's car. It is impertinent.'
There were
sneers in the room.
This wasn’t a discovery class, and Hingorani wasn’t an explorer. No defence advocate ever asked a question to which he didn’t already know the answer. The histrionics were for the judge.
His Lordship didn't appreciate levity in this court and down came the gavel.
When Justice Khanna refused to interject, Verma turned to Hingorani: 'What are you trying to derive by repeating the same questions in different ways? Are you attempting to deflect attention from the case?'
Hingorani remained unperturbed. He had run this track a hundred times, knowing every hump, every hole, every turn. 'I am only verifying what's on the file for the sake of the court.'
'Mr Verma, I don’t need to remind you that you shouldn’t interfere during the defence lawyer’s questioning of a witness. Proceed Mr Hingorani.'
'Thank you, My Lord.' Hingorani took a bow displaying his gratitude to the judge and continued without a break. 'So how do you support your family Miss Viviane?'
'I work...'
'You just said you didn't have a job. So do you have a job or not Miss Viviane?'
'I have no permanent job. I work part-time, whenever given an opportunity.'
'Opportunity,' Hingorani stressed on the word like it was immoral to look for opportunities, and paused for effect, for the judge and audience to carefully take note. But then, any good defence lawyer would obviously challenge, contend and contravene everything, and Hingorani was a master of the art. 'So, Miss Viviane, what kinds of opportunities come your way?'
'Objection.'
'Sustained.'
'Miss Viviane, it might be unprecedented for you, but I plead ignorant of how transactions take place whenever you get this opportunity for work. Could you tell me, and the court, what happened before you started for my client's house please?'
'We got a call, around five, from him...'
'Him? Miss Viviane, may I request you to drop pronouns and use proper names please?'
'I got a call from your client...'