Inside the courtroom, it was calmer. Faces turned to greet them: Gugar Singh, Malik Khan, Harnam Singh. Ram’s throat constricted with emotion. Farther away from the aisle sat another man, wearing a neatly wrapped blue dastar. He rose to greet them. Only then did Ram recognize Amarjeet. Jivan clasped his nephew’s hands in both his own, tears welling in his eyes. “Chacha-ji!” Amarjeet whispered. His face had grown thin, even gaunt. He was young but not youthful.

Amarjeet sat between them. Reaching inside his suit jacket, Amarjeet brought out a small cloth bag, held it between slender fingers. He unwound a thick roll of bills. Jivan’s eyes grew wide. “Where did this come from?” he whispered.

“The granthi at the gurdwara telegrammed requests for support of Karak Singh. So many of our countrymen gave. Even from Vancouver and New York and Philadelphia.”

Ram stared at the money. Were there Hindustanees that far away who felt for Karak? Did they think Karak had done nothing wrong? He remembered Jivan’s accusation by the lettuce field. Perhaps Jivan was right; he was disloyal.

Clarence Simms entered the room and nodded at Jivan and Ram. His eyes swept over the other Hindustani men seated there. He was a slight man who rarely smiled. Ram did not understand why he was so respected. When they had visited him the previous day at his office, he would not look them in the eye. His voice was too soft. Ram wanted him to state an opinion about the murder, the weather, anything, but the man would not.

Simms settled himself at the table in front, next to the table where the district attorney sat.

The courtroom was full now: reporters from the Valley papers, men who led the American Legion, the Chamber of Commerce. The air was filled with their respectful murmur. In the far corner sat Clive’s wife and his in-laws. Kate Edgar was wearing a black dress, a black hat with a veil. She sat with her eyes lowered, meeting no one’s gaze.

It hit Ram fully, then. Clive Edgar was dead. There was a woman without a husband. There were children without a father—just as Ram had grown up, just as his son was growing up, far away. Karak Singh was responsible. How had he befriended a man who could do such an act? How could Ram hope for his release? Yet he did. He was loyal to Karak. The feeling came as a revelation.