ON THE MORNING OF THE TRIAL, PEOPLE FILLED THE COURTROOM BENCHES early, long before it was to start. Jivan, Ram, Amarjeet, and Kishen seated themselves in the second row. They breathed in the summer heat, felt its weight on their arms and legs and minds. Other Punjabis were scattered throughout the room. At the door, the bailiff began turning people away. Ram would not look at the back corner where Jivan said Clive’s wife and her parents sat. If he saw them, he knew regret would overwhelm him.

Voices rose from the street and floated through the open windows. A horn blared. Ram and Amarjeet rose and stepped toward the open window. The courtroom was on the second floor. A crowd was forming around an automobile that had just arrived. Some women were among them, workers from town, domestic help. Some men sat on other men’s shoulders to see. In seconds, Karak emerged from the car and was led by a deputy to the building.

From the building’s front steps, Sheriff Fielding and a deputy yelled at the crowd to back away, but people were milling about, ignoring them. Men climbed the trees growing near the courthouse wall, situated themselves on creaking branches. Faces appeared in the courtroom windows. A man brought a ladder and sat astride the top rung. Finally, the attorneys filed in. Clarence Simms turned to acknowledge Jivan and Ram. The clerk took his seat before the judge’s dais.

From the side door, the bailiff led Karak into the courtroom. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, clean-shaven, dignified. A hush fell over the crowded room. Karak looked directly at Ram, and Ram knew: Karak was not scared. The bailiff led him to his place next to Simms. From where Ram sat, at an angle, he could the side of Karak’s face. When the jury filed in, Karak did not turn his head.

Seeing the jury, Ram felt a moment of despair. These were sunburned, hardened men, struggling to survive. How would they find compassion for an alien farmer who had been a success? But they were alert, he noted; they carried themselves as if tasked with something important. “Look at them, Jeetu,” Ram said, leaning toward Amarjeet. “How will they understand Karak Singh’s life?”

“They do not need to, bhai-ji,” Amarjeet said. “They need only decide that he was insane, or that he was protecting himself.”

“How will they do that without understanding him?” They were all thinking of Adela, but no one said her name.

The judge was a large man with thick, graying hair. People said he was stern, that he did not think like the common man, that he had come from Pennsylvania and his father had been an abolitionist. Amarjeet had told Ram that he saw hope in that.