Moth Smoke

14 judgment (after intermission)

The gavel weighs heavily in your hand. Suppressing a yawn, you use the handle to scratch yourself beneath your robe.

The actors sit upright in these, the final moments of the trial. Murad Badshah perspires comfortably, his wet face beatific as it catches the light. Any thought, no thought, could be passing through his mind.

Tension animates Aurangzeb’s handsome features, a streak of cruelty visible in his expression of uncertain triumph. It suits him. Women (and not a few men) cast admiring glances his way.

Mumtaz carries herself with the equestrian elegance of a woman who looks good in hats, leaning forward as she prepares for a jump. Her eyes glitter. She watches Daru.

And the accused, Darashikoh Shezad, coils without moving, explosive, motionless, barely contained. His smile is predatory. He stares at you.

The prosecutor is closing his closing.

‘The accused would have you believe, Milord,’ he is saying, ‘that our trials are on trial here, that our judgments are being judged. The accused would have you believe that a crime is in progress in this courtroom. The accused would accuse those who accuse him. Hooked by the line of truth, thrashing against the current of evidence, the accused would have you believe, Milord, that the fish is reeling in the fisherman.

‘But what are you to make of the testimony of the witnesses who saw the accused kill the boy, of the witnesses who recall the make, model, and registration of a car the accused concedes to be his, fleeing the scene of the crime? What are you to make of the testimony of the police officers who conducted this most thorough and professional investigation, of the confession the accused made in their custody?

‘Nothing. You are to make nothing of the testimony you have heard. You are to make nothing of the evidence you have seen. You are instead to put your faith in the promises of the accused, in his fantasy that he is being framed by interests powerful enough to corrupt the professionalism of the police, wealthy enough to bribe these legions of witnesses, and malicious enough to destroy the life of a man who is as innocent of this crime as the innocent can be.

‘But the accused has been unable to demonstrate the existence of foul play, unable to find an alibi, a single witness, an atom of evidence that might corroborate his version of events. The accused has been described as untrustworthy by a former employer, as a peddler of drugs by a father whose son he corrupted. He has been seen consorting with known outlaws. Illegal narcotics and an unlicensed firearm were found in his home. The words of such a man must be given little weight, Milord, if indeed they are to be given any weight at all.

‘It is true another voice has joined the accused in crying that he is the victim of a shadowy conspiracy. But surely, Milord, if the rule of law demands anything, it demands you ignore the voice of his adulterous lover, distraught at the thought that prison bars may do what the sacred contract of marriage could not: stand in the way of her carnal relations.’

The prosecutor licks his lips like a victorious mongoose.

‘Enough of this nonsense, Milord,’ he says. ‘Do justice.’

There is a pregnant pause, and one by one the other actors in this drama turn to you. The audience awaits. The director bites his nails. Critics and producers will judge your decision.

Here comes your cue.

‘Come on,’ someone hisses from offstage. ‘What’s it to be? Guilty or not?’