The Good Samaritan

The back of Anita's neck prickled, as the Good Samaritan walked in. Tall, almost handsome in real life... No, the smirk was ugly. The eyes, too haughty. There was something repugnant about him. Or maybe, that's just how she was conditioned to feel about men like him. 

The officer seated him at the other end of the room, shackling him to the table. The table was bolted to the floor, thank God. He looked strong enough, still, to do serious damage. But then, he'd never killed that way. 

She lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke curl slowly to the ceiling. He watched it too. Small mercies that jails in India weren't non-smoking yet. 

"Can I offer you a smoke?" 

A flicker of a smile. The officer took the offered cigarette and lit it, before handing it to the man. 

He inhaled deeply, slowly; holding it in as if harvesting every last molecule of satisfaction from it, before letting it go. He leaned back, eyes raking over her. 

"These things will kill you, you know?" 

When he smiled, he looked like a different person, almost. 

"That's one thing less for you to worry about." she said, smiling. She pointed her recorder in his direction. "Did you think it would really come to this?" 

"Death sentence?" 

"Yes." 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"Why not? Have you even read my case files? I'm an innocent man. A bystander. Someone who tried to help, in fact." 

"A good samaritan?" 

He chuckled. "Your boss send you here to be a smart mouth? Or to get an interview?"

Anita leaned forward. "So you still think you helped those people?" 

"Absolutely"

"They died, Mr Ramakrishnan." 

"It's a fucking pandemic, Ms Journalist whatever your name is. That's what happens in a pandemic. People die." 

"They didn't die of the pandemic though, did they?" 

"Really? 8 people, in ICUs across Mumbai, died of Covid related complications. That's what happened, last I checked." 

"8 people you helped." 

"There… you said it. I helped. And they died anyway." 

"That's not what their doctors said." 

"Oh really? You think they'd admit to the truth?" 

"What truth is that?" 

"That they're incompetent." 

"Competent enough to save thousands of other lives." 

"Are you saying they lost no patients?" 

"Of course they did. Everyone lost some, before the protocol kicked in. But these deaths were special, weren't they?" 

"That's what they're saying?" 

"You know what they're saying, Mr Ramakrishnan. Come on. This is your last chance to give the families some closure… help us understand this." 

"Their fucking families are why I'm in this mess. Those… people! They came to me, not the other way around!" A vein jumped in his forehead as he spat out the words. 

"The way I heard it, it was an appeal sent out on social media, and you responded." 

"Yes." 

"So no one actually asked you." 

"Madam, lives were at stake. Wouldn't you have done the same thing?" 

"Offered fake Remdesivir to families of critical patients?"

"I did not know it was fake." 

"Did you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was genuine?" His stare didn't intimidate her. 

"Here's what confuses me. Three of the families refused your help… didn't they?" 

"It was because of that bitch!" 

"Ah, I see. You're referring to Mrs Singh, the wife of your colleague Mr Ajay Singh… the one who uncovered your little scam." 

"There. Was. No. Scam! I found them the Remdesivir they were begging for. And then, they changed their minds. Like all that effort… it was nothing! All those strings I pulled, all th-" 

"You mean, bullying the hospital admins?" 

"Is that what they told you?" 

"That is what happened isn't it? You called them, impersonating the Drug Commissioner of Mumbai, and authorised each of these 8 admins to give the patients the drugs you procured for them… even when the families told you that they didn't want to go outside official channels! What I don't get Mr Ramakrishnan, is... why. Why do this?" 

"They were the ones who asked for the Remdesivir, they-" 

"But they changed their minds." 

"You can't do that." 

"Excuse me?" 

"You can't do that. It's not fair. I made so many calls. I found them the drugs. I spoke to the admins, the doctors. I organised all of it. And they changed their minds. As if it were all for nothing." 

"There were so many scams at the time Mr Ramakrishnan. Couldn't you see that? Couldn't you see how dangerous it was to go outside the system?" 

"Then why ask for help?" 

"The shortage ended that very evening, didn't it?" 

"Yes." 

"So if it hadn't been for your interference-" 

"I helped!" 

"If it hadn't been for your interference, each of those 8 patients would've received the real drugs." 

"I didn't know the drugs were fake!"

"But you knew the shortage had ended. Each of the admins told you they were getting their supply of drugs that evening." 

"They asked for my help. They can't do that and then toss me asi-" 

Anita ground the cigarette butt under her heel and stood up. "I'm done here." 

The jail security office was stinking hot. Anita collected her phone and her purse from the surly officer and texted just one word to Mrs. Ramakrishnan: Unrepentant. 

Mrs Singh was surprised to find a newspaper outside her door the following week. She was about to toss it to her neighbor's mat, when the pink post-it caught her eye: Turn to Page 6. 

She did. The headline read: Good Samaritan declared unfit for hanging. 

Wait, what? Unfit for hanging? What kind of joke was that? 

She read the article. The mighty Mrs Ramakrishnan had appealed her husband's fitness to undergo the death penalty after being paralysed as a result of a severe beating in jail. The man was eating, breathing, shitting through a pipe. In a dirty jail clinic, no less. 

Death, when it came, would be painfully slow. 

Wow.

Her mind flashed on the many conversations between herself, the other plaintiffs and Mrs Ramakrishnan over the past 3 years. They had built the case together, but never dared to expect real justice. Nothing as poetic as this. 

She read the article once, then twice. She savored every word, reading them aloud, tasting them.

Who knew justice tasted this damned good?