“Do you know anything about Clive Edgar’s death?” Simms asked.

“I saw the killing with my own eyes.” A murmur went through the courtroom.

“Where were you when you saw this?” Simms said.

“I was in the packing shed, getting water from the olla that always hangs there, hidden in the corner.”

“What is your feeling toward Karak Singh?” Simms asked.

“I hate him,” she said grimly. “My cousin is his wife. He beat her. They no longer live together.”

“Do you gain anything by coming here today?”

“Yes,” she said, and swallowed. “The hatred of my neighbors. They threaten to hurt me. Today a man spat at me. Another pushed me in front of this building.”

“Then why did you come?” Adela glanced at Ram. For a microscopic moment their eyes met, her expression softened. Ram held his breath.

“Porque . . .” she said, hesitating.

“Because . . .” the translator said.

She stuttered, looked at her hands, the handkerchief, the bag. For a moment, her features strained for composure.

“As God is my witness,” the young man translated, “one must tell the truth.”

Clarence Simms allowed the silence to linger for a moment.

“Mrs. Rey, please tell us what you saw happen between Mr. Singh and Mr. Edgar,” Simms asked.

“Karak and Clive were arguing in the packing shed. When Karak would not stop building the crates, Jonathan Hitchcock entered the shed.” She paused. Her cheeks flushed. “Then Clive took out his gun and pointed it at Karak. He said, ‘A Hindu is worth only one boxcar of lettuce. Take your blanket and go!’”

Murmurs swept through the courtroom. Jivan and Ram exchanged a glance. The judge banged his gavel against his desk. As the courtroom grew quiet again, Simms resumed his questioning.

“So Mr. Edgar pointed his gun at Mr. Singh and told him that he was worth merely a ‘boxcar of lettuce’ and that he should ‘take his blanket and go’?”

“Yes.”

Ram looked at Karak. He was staring at his folded hands on the table, his head bent. Something about him seemed calm, resigned.

“What was Mr. Singh’s response?”

“Karak’s face grew red. I have never before seen him like that.” Adela held the handkerchief to her eyes. “Before Mr. Hitchcock came into the shed, they had only been arguing . . . just words. But when Señor Hitchcock entered, Clive pointed the gun. Karak was so angry.” She breathed deeply. Her chest shuddered, and Ram could feel the breath, the shudder, within his own body. “He ran toward Clive, shouting, screaming. Clive could have shot him at any time, but he didn’t. He just kept pointing the gun. Then Karak swung the axe and hit Clive in the shoulder, and Clive gave such a yell . . . he dropped the gun . . . Then Clive started to run, but Karak chased him. He swung the axe again, and Mr. Hitchcock was running too . . . and . . .” Adela covered her mouth with the handkerchief. Simms waited until she composed herself.