The Bombay High Court rose from the southern tip of the city like a fortress of justice, its Gothic spires and weathered stone a monument to a century of judgments. The central hall was a cathedral of echoes, its vaulted ceiling arching over marble floors worn smooth by the footsteps of millions. Statues of blindfolded goddesses held scales and swords in alcoves. The air smelled of old paper and dust and the particular gravity of places where fates were decided.

Today, the hall was packed. Journalists filled the wooden galleries, their cameras forbidden but their pens scratching furiously. Lawyers in black robes huddled over leather bound briefs. The public seats were crowded with the curious, the vengeful, the hopeful. And in the front row, directly behind the prosecutor's table, sat a woman in a white sari with a sleeping infant in her arms.