Cover Story: Jessica Lall; Murder of a Model

A week before she died, it was business as usual at the Colonnade where Jessica Lall tended bar ....

Not since an upright naval officer shot his wife's lover and sent the staid world of the 1950s Bombay into a flap has high society seen anything like it. The bullet from a .22 revolver that pierced 34-year-old Jessica Lall's temple in the early hours of April 30 didn't merely snuff out a young life, it killed the pretensions of an entire class. As the fun-loving model and part-time bartender collapsed on the floor of Delhi's No. 1 "happening place", it was not merely a killer and his three associates who were on the run. Suffering from shame and lapsing into collective amnesia were the rich and beautiful people of the Indian establishment. It took one wild act of an intoxicated son of a politician to expose the lies, duplicity and depravity of India's creamy layer.

MANU SHARMA
JEKYLL AND HYDE

Rich and Pampered: Once out of his father's care, Manu lived the good life.

What's he all about then, this cherubic 24-year-old, slightly plump, clean shaven, archetypal mama's boy? "He's never even swatted a fly. How can he kill a girl?" asks his distraught grandmother Raj Rani Sharma. His aunt, Jayashree, the daughter of former President S.D. Sharma, says that "not once in my 25 years in this house did he show any disrespect or aggression".

Some of his school friends from Mayo College, a top-rung boarding school in Ajmer, say much the same thing. "He wasn't, like, a rag or anything," recalls Vikram Singh, using school-slang to describe someone who gave other kids a hard time. Vikram "hung out" with Sidharth Vashist for a while until he left Mayo after Class X to study in Chandigarh. "He was quite friendly, not too keen on sports and not too keen on studies."

So what happened to this average boy next door between 1990 and 1999? What happened from the time he was known only as Sidharth to when he changed his name to Manu Sharma? From all accounts, he led a double life. Low key at home, party fiend outside. Under his father Venod Sharma's thumb in Chandigarh but strutting as director at the family's sugar mill near Kurukshetra, his take-off point for party hops to Delhi. He cut loose now and then. That night at Tamarind Court, he cut loose totally.

At Mayo, some schoolteachers remember this politically well-connected boy showing off about his relationship with the then President Sharma. A science teacher says he was part of a group with a "definite streak of disobedience". It earned him an exit from Mayo; not a direct expulsion, but a time-honoured suggestion to parents that their ward may be "better off" elsewhere. In the two years that he attended school in Chandigarh -- in a government-run institution -- and later as an undergraduate student of commerce from an average college, the Manu we now know started to emerge.

People now talk about his passion for swank cars, driving around in one of the family's three Mercedes Benz cars -- though the Tata Safari is his current favourite -- the girls he would take for a spin even while at school. The boy whose teachers "used to beg him to attend classes, not bunk", according to a Chandigarh schoolmate. They talk about when he was detained by the police for allegedly teasing a girl. They recall his father -- till the killing, a front-runner for the Chandigarh seat in the forthcoming Lok Sabha elections -- slapping him publicly after he got into a brawl with the son of former Union minister Harmohan Dhawan.

Manu rarely went to Chandigarh, scared of his father, turning a job that Venod thought would mature him into a ticket for a hard ride. From the mill, he would often drive down to Delhi, go to discos at five-star hotels and watering holes like the Tamarind Court. "When sober, he was coy like a cow. But when drunk he was a lout," says a family friend.

That's probably why it happened, says Vikram, quoting a close friend of Manu from Mayo. This boy seems to have spoken to Manu after the shooting. His tale is sketchy, but chilling. "Manu and his buddies were drunk, even Jessica was drunk, almost everybody was drunk." So there may have been some kind of provocation. "Ladkiyon ne kuchh kaha hoga (the girls may have said something) aur usne josh me akey kuchh kiya hoga (and he may have got worked up and done something)." Party hard. Fall harder.

-Ramesh Vinayak and Rohit Parihar

It was, some say, a tragedy waiting to happen. It was the seventh and last Thursday night of the summer season at the Tamarind Court in Qutab Colonnade, a tastefully refurbished haveli in Mehrauli overlooking the Qutab Minar. Depending exclusively on the chatterati bush telegraph, the occasion proved a magnetic draw. With the mercury touching the mid-40s, politics on temporary hold and the World Cup exodus still a fortnight away, the Colonnade became a natural draw for relieving the two commodities that Delhi isn't ever short of -- money and boredom. "There are very few places to go out in the city," says Malini Ramani, the life of the party and moving spirit behind the Thursday bashes. "My friends kept telling me you have such a nice place, why don't we have parties here. Thursdays were my lucky days so I decided to make it a fun day. Anyone could walk in because the restaurant was open anyway."

Anyone who was anyone did precisely that. It was a virtual who's who of the rich, young and not-so-young. All out for a boisterous night of fun. The fashion designers -- Rohit Bal, Rina Dhaka and Tarun Tahiliani -- were naturally there. No party in Delhi is complete without them. As were the art dealers, Rohini Sharma, Vishal Dhar and Ritu Walia. The CII convention having just concluded, outgoing president Rajesh Shah dropped by. As did Natasha Nanda of Escorts and Neeraj Kanwar of Apollo tyres. Jeh Wadia, son of Bombay Dyeing's Nusli Wadia, was there with Hollywood actor Steven Seagal. Former minister Kamal Nath's son Nakul was there. There was even a policeman in the form of Joint Commissioner Y.S. Dadwal. Others were there too but they are not telling any more.

It was indeed a happening night. Blessed with the services of disc jockey Moody's of Fireball fame, the loud techno music and the surfeit of balloons tagged to the chairs captured the mood. It was the time to let your hair down after purchasing coupons discreetly marked QC. Behind the bar Jessica, resplendent in a white shirt knotted at the belly button and denim shorts, served away furiously. "It was a wonderful party," says Tahiliani who arrived at 12.45 a.m. but didn't have a drink. "It had the nicest ambience where you could sit overlooking the Qutab Minar."

It wasn't only Tahiliani and the other celebrities who thought so. For Manu Sharma, the 24-year-old son of former Union minister Venod Sharma, it was too good a Thursday to take the train to Chandigarh with his mother as was planned. He had experienced a few Thursdays at the Colonnade and wanted more. At 10 p.m., he drove to the Friends Colony house of Amrinder Singh Gill (Tony), 32, a general manager of Coca-Cola bottling unit in Delhi. They were joined by 30-year-old Alok Khanna, a colleague of Tony, and Vikas Yadav, son of Rajya Sabha member D.P. Yadav, a rough and ready politician from Sambhal in Uttar Pradesh. The four downed a few drinks and then drove down to Mehrauli in two cars.

It was a curious group -- two yuppies and two political brats. Tony and Alok were archetypal upper middle-class south Delhi boys. Both MBAs, colleagues in Coca-Cola say they were "highly professional and nice guys" who were on the fast track. They may have loved partying but that was nothing unusual for young professionals of that age. But Manu and Vikas were different. Sons of politicians, their idea of fun was tinged with recklessness. Manu loved cars and guns and was an inveterate party-goer who couldn't hold his drinks. So did 25-year-old Vikas who ran a sugar factory in Sambhal and had already imbibed some of the fierce ways of his controversial father.

BINA'S WORLD
OPEN COURT

Bina's party was a must for the with-it crowd.

Bina Ramani was a friend who loved to throw parties.

Jessica Lall was a friend who loved to go to parties. A little while after the sun sets over smoggy Delhi, and the Qutab Minar becomes an enchanted tower shimmering in the night, we stand on the terrace of the Colonnade which George, Bina's husband, loves to garden on and watch the cars roll in. Watch the guests walk in through the nocturnal arabesque of the tamarind tree's branches, girls in miniskirts with lots of leg on the arms of Armani-scented young men in Chinese collars and baggy trousers with creases as sharp as knives. One of them could have been Jessica. And maybe, some of those pockets contained a revolver.

Vignettes of Bina's world. Years ago, on the afternoon lawns of Jai Mata Di Farms a portly man with whisky puffed-cheeks and baggy eyes is standing in a white kurta and a red turban welcoming wedding guests. He looks out of place, lunching with Ambassador Wisner and Bubbles (Bhawani Singh). "Romesh Sharma, my brother," Bina, the gleaming bride introducing him. Years later, fraternal amnesia grips her as he is sent to Tihar. For Bina, everything could be a social event while she played the hostess, seemingly guileless and charming. "She's not a snob," an old friend of Bina says. "She is so open about everything, from Chandraswami to Romesh Sharma." Until the shit hits the fan. Then, she slinks out of the associations with the adeptness of a nymphet getting out of a slinky dress. Brokering the marriage of Rekha with the doomed Mukesh Agarwal, burning bright in the society pages as the fairy godmother until the dream turns into a nightmare. Throwing a prayer party for Protima Bedi who was a friend and a frequent guest at Bina's Saket house. Or having select winter lunches for Vasundhara Raje and Michael Dalvi and Jacqueline and Dick Celeste. Posing with Richard Gere for the cameras until it turns into a society fiasco. Inviting Steven Seagal as the main draw to the Colonnade that fatal night. She is the woman with the right connections, the cocktail alchemist who turned everything into false gold.

And there are the others who come to drink and dance, like moths attracted to flaming celebrity. Unknown faces with dubious money, wearing dresses by Rohit Bal and Rina Dhaka who also came there to party, along with politicians and bureaucrats and policemen, the rich and the socially powerful whose photos would appear in the Saturday newspapers. Neo-money trying to belong, and willing to be spent. And that was the lure for girls like Jessica, open faced and young, with a yen for the fast life and the quick buck, for whom life was a never-ending party. They were somewhere in the middle, between Bina and her invitees, the necessary glamour of her salon. Partying is serious business.

In the end, they pay for it with more than the tacky "QC" booze coupons which were sold at the Tamarind Court. Sometimes with their lives.

-Ravi Shankar

The group reached the Colonnade at 11.15 p.m. They purchased a wad of coupons, sipped their drinks and did what most single males do -- ogle at the uninhibited girls with their daring dresses, bare legs and provocative dancing. They mixed little but got more and more drunk. Particularly Manu.

The bar, an innocuous notice proclaimed, closed at 12.30 a.m. But that night, thanks to the heavy rush, the supplies ran out by midnight. A friend of Jessica came to the bar and asked for a drink, only to be told that it was all over. "Why do you close the bar so early?" she asked. "Bina (Ramani) has applied for a licence but till it comes it's all a private party," Jessica replied. "Why don't you give me one under the table?" she persisted. Prompt came the reply, "It's a big table and everything is under the table."

Manu too had the same idea. Around 2 a.m., when only the stragglers were left, he walked up to the bar counter and asked for a drink. He was told the bar was shut. He persisted and offered to pay Rs 1,000. Malini, who was passing that way, heard him. By her own account, she told him, "I won't give you a sip even if you give me a thousand bucks." The police have quite another interpretation of "sip". Says Joint Commissioner Amod Kanth: "Liquor is not the only reason Manu shot Jessica. She probably said something provocative for Manu to say 'Can I have a sip of you?'"

It's impossible to know what Manu heard or thought he heard. Before anyone could react, he flashed out a gun. "It's a toy," someone sniggered. Manu fired once at the ceiling. The next shot and Jessica keeled over, shot in the head. It took some time before the shooting registered on the revellers. Most were just too inebriated. The music went off gradually. "There was much confusion and people became leaden-footed," recalls an eyewitness. Rohit Bal and some waiters rushed to the unconscious Jessica, bleeding from the head. Cell phones began locating ambulances, doctors and the police. In 20 minutes, they took her to Aashlok Hospital in Hong Kong-based businessman Sanjay Mehtani's car.

In the melee, Manu swaggered out brushing aside Bina who tried to collar him saying, "Where is the gun? Who are you? Why did you shoot Jessica?" A composed Manu replied, "I haven't done anything." So confidently that Bina thought she had got the wrong man. Manu's three friends slunk away in Alok's car and made their way to Tony's house. At around 3 a.m., Manu joined them. All were aware of the crime and their first thought was how to get away. After a week of playing hide and seek in Himachal Pradesh, Manu surrendered. Speaking from his cell phone after his arrest, he sounded unfazed. "I did nothing. Yes, I am innocent. I don't care for what anyone presumes."

Manu's brazenness may be understandable given the magnitude of his offence. Less comprehensible, however, is the behaviour of Bina, the socialite owner of the Colonnade. Even as she rushed Jessica to hospital, she was busy containing the damage. According to DCP (South) Sudhir Yadav, "Surender Garhwali (a waiter) was specifically asked by the Ramanis to clean the place so that the blood stains from Jessica's body could be removed quickly." It's a charge that Bina denies. "The staff had to come back to work the next morning and they were desperate to get home. Like every night they cleaned up before leaving." Under Section 201 of the JPC, the penalty for suppressing or tampering with evidence is life imprisonment or death.

It's an explanation that isn't being readily bought despite the fact that Bina's husband George Mailhot provided the police the number of Manu's Tata Safari. The reason is her curious behaviour immediately after the incident. "Her one-line instruction to all of us after the shooting was 'get your story straight, it was a private party and no liquor was sold'," says cosmetologist Rubina Sharma who was present that night. According to Jessica's sister Sabrina, "Bina put up this private party story even in Aashlok Hospital when my sister was there and even when she was declared dead. It's absurd, it was no private party." Bina, according to Sabrina, went further: "She intimidated this young man who was giving a description of the killer as if she were protecting her son or relative." Bina told him: "Be careful about what you say. You don't know what you could be up against. These are dangerous, gun-toting politicos."

The remark is strange because Bina has consistently maintained the four boys and their names were "not known to us". In that case, how did she link them to politicians on the night of the murder? Says Bina: "He seemed to have that kind of clout. Who else would brandish a weapon, either a politico or someone who has political support. Half our politicians are criminals." The profundity is repeated in her public statement: "A cult of violence is threatening our society and city and is a threat to every civilised gathering, as ours was."

It may have been an eminently civilised party but it glosses over the fact that Bina was running an illegal operation. She had no liquor licence and broke every rule in the book by selling alcohol in the guise of a private party. It's an offence she now admits to. "I told a partial lie. I know there is a penalty for selling unlicenced booze and I'm prepared for it. It wasn't such an important issue at that time. I'm not trying to pass the buck but everyone is bending the law because it is so outdated." Bina was only one step away from getting a licence but she couldn't wait. This is not the first time a Ramani establishment has come into the news for running an illegal bar, the penalty for which is a maximum of two years imprisonment and a Rs 2,000 fine.

These transgressions didn't seem to bother the Ramanis. With their formidable connections, rules have become instruments of convenience to Delhi's beautiful people. Says Mehrauli sho S.K. Sharma, "It is difficult to touch these people. They are big, they treat us like inferior beings." For Bina, in particular, a casual brush with the law seems a seasonal occurrence. Yet, from Chandraswami to Romesh Sharma, the controversies left her social standing unaffected.

The problem begins when the disease becomes infectious. Delhi has traditionally suffered from an epidemic of contact-itis, whereby the worth of an individual is measured by the range of his connections. "As long as I can remember, my mother has always been on the 'you should be meeting new people and expanding your horizons' trip," wrote Malini in a column for a city magazine. It was a lesson Manu had already imbibed. He had formidable connections and he was rich. Coming from Punjab, he also acquired a taste for guns. The combination was explosive. Perhaps as explosive as the Katia rape in Chandigarh and the obnoxious conduct of the sons of Om Prakash Chautala, Mulayam Singh Yadav and Kalraj Mishra. In a world where money talks, he couldn't comprehend why a thousand rupees couldn't buy him a drink. And so what if he was breaking the rules of an illegal bar? What made him inferior in the "dahling" circles? In his world, in the world of Vikas in the wild west of Uttar Pradesh, you could get away with everything. Tampering with evidence. Even cold-blooded murder.

It was the arrogance of a boy who had bullied his way through. Was he outlandish? Wasn't he merely mirroring the code the more refined elite seem to have set for itself? Manu and Vikas, sons of earthy politicians, were replicating a law of the jungle they saw around them. Remember the BMW case last winter? Some did it with style, some with better accents and social graces. In the end, it amounted to the same. For India's elite, the moral codes governing right and wrong have broken down.