The door to the side of the judge’s dais opened and Karak appeared, wearing handcuffs and led by the bailiff. The air grew charged. Bodies shifted and people craned their necks to see. Karak searched the crowd. His eyes locked on Ram. He had shaved and was wearing the pants and dress shirt that Ram had fetched for him, but his skin was gray, his eyes sunken and dark. In the two days since Ram had seen him, deep lines had appeared around his eyes and mouth. What had the man experienced in those two days?

The bailiff removed his handcuffs, and Karak sat down at the table next to Simms, his back to Ram and Jivan and Amarjeet, facing the judge’s empty chair. They all rose when the judge entered. The courtroom was still as he settled himself in his chair, as he straightened his robes. His face conveyed no expression. As the charges were read, he addressed no one other than Clarence Simms and the district attorney.

Karak’s shoulders slumped, his head bent before the judge. He stood almost a head taller than his lawyer, but seemed the meeker man.

“How do you plead?” the judge asked, finally looking at Karak.

Ram heard Karak clear his throat. A familiar sound.

Clarence Simms cut in. His voice was stern and magnetic; not the same voice that Ram had heard in his office. It was a voice to which people listened, that knew command. “Not guilty, your honor. By reason of insanity.” A murmur rose from the audience.

“But I was not crazy, your honor,” Karak said. “I had a reason, I was damn mad—”

“Keep a civil tongue, Mr. Singh,” the judge said dryly.

Karak turned around to look at them, and Ram wished he had not. He saw despair in Karak’s face, humiliation. He was already a changed man. For a moment, Karak’s eyes rested on Amarjeet, as if only now recognizing him, realizing he was there.

“I’m setting the trial for June eighteenth,” the judge said. “Nine weeks.”

THEY KEPT HIM IN A CELL at the back of the courthouse, and the sheriff allowed him visitors, but only one at a time. In the waiting room, Jivan said that Ram should be the first.

Ram hesitated to go. He feared being alone with Karak now; the man’s misfortune was too great. But he followed the bailiff through a short, dark hallway, where three cells lined one side. Karak was in the middle. The other two were empty. He had changed back into the striped prison uniform. He was wearing shackles on his legs. They had finally vanquished him, Ram thought. Made him do the thing for which he could be legitimately punished. But Ram could not name who “they” were.