Venom, page 32
The Nawab examined Bedi down the length of his long, beaked nose. Then he threw out a hand and on cue one of his junior assistants placed a photograph into his palm.
‘This is the photograph that the police showed you?’ he said.
‘Yes, Sahib ...’
‘You didn't recognize my client at that time?’
Bedi seemed to be having trouble speaking. ‘No, Sahib.’
‘Why not?’
‘His clothes. His hair.’
‘What was different about his hair?’
‘It was fair. Sahib—’
‘You said he was wearing a turban.’
Bedi realized the trap he had fallen into. He looked down at his feet.
‘How many times had you seen your boarder before the police visited you?’
‘I'm not sure, Sahib ...’
‘Once? Twice? A dozen times? Three hundred times?’
Bedi was shaking head to foot. Mohinder Singh looked away. He couldn't bear to watch.
‘Perhaps a dozen times.’
‘He always wore a turban?’
‘Yes, Sahib ...’
‘But you knew the color of his hair?’ Bedi did not answer. The Nawab looked triumphantly around the room. ‘All right then, when did you in fact decide that your boarder was the man the police were looking for?’
‘The next morning, Sahib.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I'm not sure ...’
‘You got to the police station at five o’clock. You went straight there when you realized your boarder was the man the police were looking for?’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘But it’s dark at that time, correct?’
A nod.
‘Weren't you asleep?’
‘I woke up, Sahib. I heard him moving about on the stairs.’
‘And you recognized him immediately in the pitch dark when you failed to recognize him in broad daylight on a dozen previous occasions? Is that correct?’ Bedi did not answer. ‘I said - is that correct?’
Bedi looked to be on the point of collapse. He stared resolutely at the floor, unable to utter a word.
Mohinder waited for the Nawab to administer the mortal blow.
‘All this happened on the 8th of July, 1972. Is that correct?’ When Bedi did not answer the Nawab shouted: ‘It's in your testimony! You said the man you thought was my client took a shrouded body to the ghats on the 8th of July, 1972.’ He waved the tattered FIR in front of the old Hindu's face. ‘It's in here! Well?’ Bedi nodded his head. ‘Speak up! The judge can't hear you!’
‘Y-yes, Sahib ...’
‘What day is it today?’
‘I don't know,’ Bedi mumbled.
The Nawab turned to face the courtroom, glowing with triumph. ‘He doesn't know.’ He put his hands on his hips and took a step closer. ‘Your whole testimony is a pack of lies, isn't it?’ the Nawab shouted.
Bedi nodded. ‘Yes, Sahib.’
Mohinder Singh groaned and put his head in his hands.
Chapter 48
Budjinski sat on the balcony of Engineer's villa in old Delhi. The garden was bright with hibiscus. Mynahs patrolled the high walls and a bulbul contested the lime tree with a family of sparrows. It was a bright warm morning but on the horizon the pillars of cumulus were gathering for the afternoon storms.
A servant brought a pitcher of lemonade. Engineer grinned apologetically. ‘I'm sorry. I do not drink in front of the servants.’
Budjinski shrugged, preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Engineer was worried about him. He had lost a lot of weight. Instead of looking fitter, he just appeared gaunt and old. He no longer had the same purpose when he walked. Once René Budjinski had been a battering ram. Now he was an old stick you could break across your knee.
‘What do you make of him?’ Budjinski said suddenly.
‘It is hard to say. I leave psychology to the experts.’
‘Women still fawn over him. In court yesterday I saw a girl - a white girl, a Westerner - throw a flower to him. He's killed twenty women! It doesn't seem to matter. Women still treat him like a film star.’ He ignored the proffered lemonade. ‘Can you get me into Tihar?’
‘Why?’
‘I want to talk to him. I want to know . . . about Noelle. I have to understand, or I'm going to go insane.’
‘I'm sorry. It is beyond my power. Even if I could arrange such a thing, I would not. I will not let you do such a thing to yourself.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘How long would you be able to just talk before you decided to put your hands round his throat? Then the police would put you in prison too.’
‘It would be worth it.’
‘I think not.’
Budjinski reached for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket and lit one. His hands were shaking. ‘Do you think he's insane?’
‘Possibly. Killing all those women … a man must be insane to do such a thing. But the robberies have a genius about them. I don’t think he’s mad, I think he is without a soul. We assume that every man has one, but I don’t think it’s true.’
‘Go on.’
‘A man without a soul can learn to be charming and attractive. These are just social skills after all. He can use his mind more efficiently than most because it is uncluttered with emotion. Yet when it comes to feeling empathy and compassion, he cannot do it. In this way, he is irredeemable.’
‘And yet he gave in to emotion, with Valentine. That is how he was caught in the end.’
‘Ah, the woman. Do you know where she is now?’
‘No,’ Budjinski said. ‘She's disappeared.’
♦ ♦ ♦
It was the fourth day of the trial.
Mohinder Singh had called his second witness, the old chandal from Varanasi. He was dressed in dirty cotton pajamas, and his turban was grey with grime. He was a harijan and the gaggle of lawyers and their sycophants shrank back from him.
Mohinder Singh rose with great confidence. He was sure today would go much better. ‘What is your name?’
‘Ranvir Laxman.’ The man's voice was rich and deep and confident. Even though he was a from a low caste, he maintained a quiet dignity.
‘What is your occupation?’
‘I am a chandal at the Hari Schandra ghat, Sahib.’
As with Bedi, Mohinder led the man through a string of routine biographical questions to put him at his ease and establish a rhythm. Then he pointed to Michel. ‘Have you seen this man before?’
Laxman turned his head slowly and looked at Michel. Michel met his eyes. ‘Yes, Sahib ...’
‘When did you see him?’
‘It was the day before he tried to kill the woman.’
The Nawab had been lounging on a wooden bench, like a Roman senator at an orgy. He sprang to his feet as if he had been stung. ‘Objection!’
The judge nodded. ‘Allowed.’
Mohinder Singh nodded quickly. ‘The day before the crime was committed. The 7th of July, 1972. Is that correct?’
Laxman nodded. ‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘And why did he come to see you?’
‘He said his wife had died. He wanted her body to be burned on the ghats and her ashes spread in the Mother Ganges.’
‘You didn't think this was strange? Such a request from a European?’
‘I did not know he was European. He wore a turban and dhoti. I thought he was Hindu.’
The Nawab jumped to his feet. ‘Objection! The defense maintains that the man the witness is referring to was a Hindu.’
‘Allowed.’
The PP pressed on. ‘So the arrangements were made?’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘And when did you next see him?’
‘The next morning, Sahib. He brought the woman. She was wrapped in a white sheet. He carried her down the steps in his arms. I saw nothing amiss.’
‘Then what happened?’
Laxman looked at Michel, hawked some phlegm from deep in his throat and spat squarely between his feet. The surrounding lawyers craned their necks to stare at the betel-colored blob of spittle as if it were a new exhibit.
‘The witness will refrain from expectorating in court,’ the judge said.
‘Then what happened?’ Mohinder Singh asked him.
‘He laid her on the pallet and the fire was lit. It was then that the sheet fell away and I saw her face. Her lips moved. I realized she was still alive.’
‘Did you then try and rescue the woman?’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘And did the defendant then step in to prevent you from removing her from the pallet?’
‘He threatened me with a knife. So I ran to get help.’
‘And it was at this point that the police arrived?’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘Thank you. Your witness.’
♦ ♦ ♦
The Nawab rose imperiously from his perch below the judge's bench and walked towards the press gallery. He stood a moment in profile, for the benefit of the court reporters who were hastily making sketches. Then he turned to Laxman.
‘You are sure my client is the man you saw that morning at the ghats?’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘Exactly like him?’
‘No, not exactly. He was wearing a turban and dhoti and—’
‘So he looked quite different then?’
Laxman was not sure how to answer. Judge Misra turned to the court stenographer. ‘The witness said the man he saw on the day before the crime was quite different from the defendant.’
The Remington clattered into life.
‘Continue,’ Judge Misra said.
Mohinder Singh shook his head.
The Nawab pressed on, encouraged. ‘How many Hindus come to you each year for your services?’
‘I do not know, Sahib.’
‘Hundreds?’
‘Very many.’
‘Very many. And you remember one unremarkable looking man in a dhoti.’
‘You never forget any man who threatens you with a knife.’
‘Ah, I see,’ the Nawab said, and he frowned, seemingly making a gigantic effort at understanding. ‘So what you're telling me is you only remember him from the next morning. When this incident took place.’
Laxman hesitated, uncertain now.
‘Yes,’ Laxman said.
‘What time was this?’
‘Dawn, Sahib.’
‘Dawn. So it was dark?’
‘Yes, Sahib but—’
‘So you are saying that you think my client was the man you saw that morning on the ghat from your memory of an incident that happened in the dark over twelve months ago?’
‘I am certain this is the man.’
‘But you have already told us that this crime happened before the sun came up. You must have extraordinary eyesight.’ The Nawab turned away and pointed to the wall clock that hung on the wall above the court entrance. ‘What time is it?’
Laxman squinted across the room. ‘I ... I don't know.’
‘It's a quarter to one. And the clock is only twenty-five yards away. Your eyesight certainly is extraordinary. Extraordinarily deficient. No further questions.’
♦ ♦ ♦
‘I call Andrew Rosen.’
The American slouched into the courtroom, his lank fair hair down to his shoulders, a thin beard covering his face. He had lost weight during his long stays in Indian prisons and the frayed white cotton shirt hung loose on his shoulders.
As he took his place in the courtroom he tried to avoid Michel's eyes.
Mohinder Singh put on his spectacles and consulted his trial notes.
‘What is your name?’
‘Andrew Rosen.’
‘What is your nationality?’
‘American.’
‘You are from the United States?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And your occupation?’
‘I'm a student.’
‘Hah!’ The Nawab removed a piece of lint from his jacket and dropped it at the witness’s feet. Mohinder ignored the interruption, having learned by now that he would get no assistance from the judge.
He pointed to Michel. ‘Look at this man.’
Andy forced himself to turn around. Michel leaned towards him: ‘I'm going to cut off your balls and stuff them down your throat,’ he whispered.
‘Do you recognize him?’
Andy struggled to find his voice. They had promised they would release him if he testified. He could not go through another five years in Tihar. He had to do this.
‘I said, do you recognize him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where have you seen him before?’
‘In Bombay. We shared a cell.’
‘You were cell mates in the Port of Bombay prison, is that correct?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can you tell us what you remember about him?’
‘Well, he was pretty . . . violent. He killed this guy. A Canadian.’
‘He killed someone?’
The Nawab rose, spreading his gown like a pair of giant wings. ‘Objection!’
‘Well, I didn't see him do it. It was just a rumor going around the prison. They said he'd cornered a guy in the latrines and smashed his head on a concrete block.’
‘What else do you remember about the prisoner?’
‘Well, he was pretty anxious to get out of the prison.’
‘Was there any particular reason?’
‘Yeah. He said he had a score to settle, with his old man.’
‘His old man?’
‘His father. He said he was going to kill him.’
Mohinder Singh hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat, feeling confident now. The Nawab half rose from his chair and thought better of it.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Just before … he …’
‘Speak up.’
‘Just before he escaped.’
‘Just before he escaped. Is that what you said?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So this man is an escaped convict?’
‘They didn't convict him of anything, man ...’
‘And when did the prisoner make his escape from Bombay jail?’
‘It was January, 1968.’
‘Thank you. Your witness.’
The Nawab seemed to have fallen asleep. After a few moments he yawned theatrically, stretching out his arms and legs and then rising slowly to his feet as if the effort was all too great. He regarded Andy Rosen for long moments as if he were something he had just found beneath a rock.
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-three, man.’
‘Twenty-three. Have you ever worked?’
‘What?’
‘I said, have you ever worked? Had a job?’
‘I told you, I'm a student.’
‘What did he say?’ Judge Misra said, craning forward.
‘He said he is twenty-three years old and has never done a day's work in his life,’ the Nawab interpreted.
Judge Misra repeated this verbatim to the court stenographer.
‘What is your present occupation?’
‘Jesus, man, what is this?’ Andy appealed to the PP, who shrugged helplessly.
‘Do you have a present occupation?’
‘You know I don't man. I'm in Tihar.’
‘You are in prison here in Delhi.’
‘Yeah.’
‘For what offence?’
‘I got busted for possession.’
Judge Misra frowned and looked at the Nawab.
‘He was arrested for possessing hard drugs.’
‘They weren't hard drugs, man. It was only a few fuckin' Buddha sticks.’
‘The witness was arrested for supplying heroin,’ Judge Misra dictated to the stenographer.
‘How long have you been in prison here in Delhi?’
‘Two years.’
‘And you have five more years to serve.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And before that you were in prison in Bombay.’
‘That was only for a couple of months. I went back to the States after that.’
‘And when you came back to India you were again arrested for drug-taking?’
‘Yeah, I got bad karma.’
‘How long have you been taking drugs?’
‘I don't know, man. Since I was fifteen or sixteen, I guess.’
‘Since when?’ Judge Misra asked.
‘Since he was a small child, your honor,’ the Nawab explained. He turned back to the young American. ‘So you are an habitual drug user?’
‘Isn't everyone?’
‘And do you frequently experience hallucinations?’
‘No, man, I don't hallucinate. What is this?’
‘So why do you take drugs?’
‘It's a good trip. Makes you feel good. Makes the world a nicer place, you know?’
‘So you take drugs because it changes your perception of the world?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘So being an habitual drug user you tend to see things that other people cannot see?’
‘Hey look, man, that's not what I said …’
‘You were pressured by the police to become an approver in this case. Is that not correct?’
That much was true. There wasn’t any other way out. His father had refused to help him anymore. He had made that clear enough. You're a stain on my reputation and a leech on your family. It's time you learned your lesson. That was two years ago. It might as well have been two hundred.
He could not go through another five years in Tihar.
‘No, they didn't pressure me.’
The Nawab smiled. ‘Really? Describe to me what Tihar prison is like.’
Andy was thrown by the sudden switch. ‘It's a shithole.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It's hell, man.’
‘What do they feed you?’
‘You get a chapati and half a cup of milk once a day. And maybe some dahl. If you don't have any money you starve. The guards make you pay for everything.’
‘And are your quarters comfortable?’
‘I sleep on a stone floor with one lousy blanket, winter and summer. There's rats everywhere.’ Andy felt tears welling up. His control was going. ‘It's shit, man. You couldn't understand just how bad it is.’
‘I imagine a person would do anything to get themselves out of such a place.’
