The black car dropped Aradhna at the high iron gates of the District Judge’s bungalow a little after eight in the evening. The driver did not wait. She stood alone under the weak yellow light of the gate lamp, the file of her case clutched against her chest, the same file that had been stuck for eleven months without a single meaningful hearing. A peon opened the gate without speaking and pointed toward the side entrance. She followed the narrow path past the garden to the study wing.

The study door was already open. Judge R.K. Mehra sat behind the heavy wooden desk, two men standing on either side of him. She recognised both: Advocate Sharma, who had appeared against her thrice, and Advocate Verma, the senior counsel who never took cases unless the outcome was already arranged. The air smelled of old paper, whiskey, and the faint smoke of cigars.