CLIVE’S MURDER WAS SPOKEN ABOUT IN THE VALLEY’S BUSINESS OFFICES and dining rooms, in the gambling halls in Mexicali, in the sun-scorched fields. It was written about in editorials in the newspapers. Slowly, pieces of the story were fleshed out. People learned that the shippers were stealing a field of early lettuce from farmers who had worked hard to bring it up. That lettuce prices that April had been high, so very high. Slowly, alongside their condemnation of the crazed Hindu, another opinion took root and spread its leaves to the sun. Hadn’t this man bought candy for their children, left gift credits at boutiques for the wives of his business associates? Hadn’t he brought chocolates for the girls at the telephone exchange? He was clean-shaven and handsome and a skillful farmer. And hadn’t they, themselves, suffered at the hands of swindling shippers?

Perhaps Clive Edgar had not deserved death—but it felt good that someone had finally stood up to those damn shippers. Always, always, the little man fought the big man, and always the big man won.

The trial was looming, Amarjeet stayed with them, and Ram’s plans for returning to Punjab receded into the future. The lettuce field remained unpicked and rotting and the flies and vermin came. Finally, Amarjeet hitched up the plow and turned it over. He did the work on his own. Somehow, Ram could not bring himself to help and Amarjeet did not ask him.

Clarence Simms wrote a letter that Amarjeet read to them before dinner one night: Had Jivan or Ram seen what had happened moments before Clive screamed? Before the fatal blow was struck? Had Clive disliked Karak? If they could find someone who had seen something, that could help. He would visit them soon, to discuss these matters and others.

“Have you spoken yet with Adela?” Jivan asked.

“No, bhai-ji.”

“Adela knows something?” Amarjeet asked.

“Maybe,” Ram said quickly.

“Then she should speak with us,” Kishen said, as if it were obvious. “She must.”

Jivan and Ram exchanged a glance.

“Kishen Kaur is correct,” Jivan said.

A WEEK BEFORE THE TRIAL WAS SCHEDULED, Clarence Simms pulled up to the farm in his yellow Packard. They gathered around him on the porch. Even Kishen stayed near, leaning against the door, listening and trying to understand.

They offered him the most comfortable chair. He pulled out papers and files and placed them on the table, but he did not open them. He looked at Ram and Jivan without smiling. He was not a friendly man, but he had a good reputation. They had to trust that.

“Unless we present evidence that shows that Karak acted insanely, or that he had some justification for what he did, he will hang,” Simms said.

Justification, Ram thought. He knew the justification, but that was not what Simms meant.

“They steal the crop. Right in front of him, they steal,” Jivan said. “It means nothing?”