Buying Brazil (Buying Brazil Trilogy Book 1)

by Arthur Rawl

  There was an unusual tenderness in Pedro’s voice. “You spent a lot of time here in the past when he was alive. Was he your mentor during those years?”

  “He was my grandfather’s older brother. He was head of our family until he died. You know how we Brasileiros are about family … it is our universe and defines who we are.” His eyes turned to a shadowed corner of the garden where a small table stood guard next to an empty chaise, “Yes, perhaps he was my mentor. He was many things for his family … for each of us.”

  Public questions about the military’s actions during the Golden Years were left unanswered as re-democratization took hold. Brazil hadn’t undertaken a “Truth and Reconciliation” process to heal past wounds. Simple people as well as the great and good just moved on trying to forget their scars but knowing in their hearts they couldn’t. I hadn’t thought much about the part Pedro played during the military years. He had been one of the regime’s insiders and it never entered my mind that he or his family could be among its victims.

  Seconds turned to minutes before Pedro’s attention returned from the garden’s shadowed past to his salad. “Yes … if I were you I would let things take their own course for a day or two. Maybe three days. I think by then our friend Sam Watson’s patience will have run its course. He and his type are predictable. He will be here stupidly trying to take control of his son’s case. Perhaps then will be the time for your new friends to contact you. We will have to wait and see.”

  “I don’t know Pedro. He doesn’t trust the laws down here. I think his distrust will translate into fear of exposing himself.”

  “Himself … maybe not … but, never when his son is at risk. Parents can be very strange. They forget about their own well-being when their children are in danger. Watson is no different. He thinks he is important and therefore to him his son is even more important.” Then, as if reading my mind, “You feel a responsibility to your employee. Do not worry about him. I assure you he is in no real danger. At the most, he will suffer a little discomfort and more than a little worry. Both should help him become more of a man. Oh yes, we confirmed he is in the separate, restricted part of the prison system kept for important prisoners and the doctor said he is in good condition and appears to have been handled correctly by the police.”

  Even after we left the café Pedro was distracted by the past and unusually quiet. When we stopped on Campinas for me to get out he put his hand on my arm, “There will be difficulty my friend. Please stay out of it. It would be very dangerous for you to create the wrong appearance by becoming too involved. Believe me, young Mr. Watson is in no danger of being charged with anything more than being stupid. In the end he will be expelled from our country and told he should never return. I tell you this because our history has taught us the meaning of duty and we understand how it can drive people to their own destruction.”

  “Don’t worry Pedro I plan to live to a very old age. Thank you for your concern and help.”

  “Was there anything new on the television?”

  “Did you have a nice lunch … we did. I had the Maksoud send over a spread and charged it on your credit card. That’s the price of fielding three delightful calls from Sam.”

  “… loud threats?”

  “No, he was just loud. He wants a chance to take a bite out of your ass as soon as you return. You know his shared misery approach to management.”

  “Get him on the phone please.”

  Chapter 16

  José Carlos waited patiently in front of the café on Oscar Freire while I took my time finishing breakfast and yesterday’s Herald Tribune. He would take me to the downtown National Airport for a commuter flight to Rio where Pedro’s partner would be waiting to take me to the prison. In my pocket was $500 in small denomination US notes and in my briefcase my satellite telephone. Pedro said I should bring the money to Skip for any incidental needs. ‘Incidental needs’, it sounded more like a hotel than a prison filled with members of Rio’s drug gangs.

  Sam quieted down a little yesterday when I said I was going to see Skip and if possible would call him from Rio with Skip on the line. Even though I clearly heard Pedro’s message about letting Sam stew for several days I had to look like I was trying to do something for Skip with my own hands. Sam was too damned smart. He knew me well enough and would smell something wrong if I did nothing but sit in São Paulo and work through our lawyers. Sam wasn’t trustworthy. His well-earned reputation with the Wall Street crowd ranked as a dangerous bastard with razor sharp survival instincts. I had to watch out for myself with him as well as worrying about my new friends, their shrouded interests and their calm two-faced behavior.

  The forty-five-minute flight from São Paulo’s crowded Congonhas to Rio’s equally old and crowded downtown waterfront air terminal Santos Dumont came to a tire-screeching stop more than an hour late and much too close to the dangerously short runway’s end. Across the bay Rio’s iconic Sugarloaf Island with its cable cars riding above the crowded harbor provided a background for the airport’s uncharacteristically hectic activity. Rio’s advertised pace of life was leisurely if not deceptively calm compared to São Paulo. Its Cariocas were absolutely certain their way of life in this former Imperial Capital City was the finest in Brazil even though seventy-five percent of them lived below Brazil’s painfully low poverty line. Still, the tightly packed, pensive crowd in the arrivals area together with the blare of horns from the adjacent drive seemed just as demanding as those I left behind in São Paulo.

  A small grey-haired tanned man in a dark grey suit holding a sign with ‘Sr. Carlton’ was standing at the curb when I finally pushed my way through the crowd. Our eyes met and the sign dropped to his side, “Hello, I am Jesus Perez Sr., Pedro’s Partner.”

  “Good morning. Thank you for meeting me.”

  “My driver is across the praça … forgive me, plaza. We will go for a coffee and I will tell you what is arranged.”

  We weaved through the tangle of waiting cars and mini-buses, crossed a grass circle marked by an anonymous monument topped by an aviator’s statue and climbed into the back of the waiting VW Passat. The door slammed behind us with a heavy thud announcing the car’s substantial armoring.

  Downtown Rio’s stately office towers were dressed in the classical style of another day when the city was capital of Brazil. Then banks and businesses strategically placed themselves near the government confident that close proximity would insulate them from the ever changing winds of politics. We passed block after block of grey, solid stone buildings whose borrowed old world style hoped to impart feelings of permanence to what was then new.

  “How far to the prison?”

  “It is about one hour as long as there are no problems along the road. We will stop before we get there for a coffee and some … quiet words.”

  “What kind of problems … accidents?”

  “Yes, but there are others. Sometimes the police set up security checks. We have to go past two of the larger favelas and sometime there is a shooting … or a police raid looking for drugs or guns.”

  “Shooting at who …?”

  “Anyone; they like to shoot at passing traffic to have fun and to make a statement unless a police car is stupid enough to drive by. Then they shoot to get even with the police. I would go another way if there was one. Drug kings now control the favelas with money and easy violence.”

  “What about the real police … the Military Police?”

  “No one wants open war inside the city so as long as the violence stays in the favelas the police look away. Shooting at passing traffic is a warning to the police to stay away.”

  “Does it happen often?”

  “Often enough so people don’t forget.”

  We passed through the short tunnel connecting downtown with the rest of Rio and immediately everything we passed was a reminder most of Rio lived in poverty. Buildings on both sides appearing no more than a step or two above slums wore the tired grey look of little or no maintenance.
Add the burning sun and poor neighborhoods and the people living in them appeared to be slowly losing the struggle to survive. Still, it was more civilized poverty far different from crushing Port-au-Prince. Well-stocked food stalls sporting placards filled with low prices dotting the street had to result from the government’s policy of keeping food and drink cheap as a way to pacify the poor. Hungry poor were a dangerous threat to the status quo but the well-fed poor were more focused on protecting their next meal than obscure political theories.

  Twenty minutes later we pulled into a large white and green PetroBras gas station complete with a restaurant, small market and a dozen outdoor tables gathered under its extended roof. “Would you prefer air conditioning and a crowd or hopefully a breeze and some privacy Sr. Carl?”

  “Privacy and a cold drink,” a decision I questioned the moment I stepped out of the car. It felt 20 degrees hotter than São Paulo with three times the humidity and it was only mid-morning. “Is it always like this?”

  “No, in the summer it is much hotter and there is no choice to make when air conditioning is available.”

  The driver brought iced espresso to us. We were alone in the shade provided for the tables. Everyone else was on the other side of the glass wall keeping the air conditioning from us. “There are some things you should know Sr. Carl.” A slight breeze flowed past without bringing any relief with it. “I have arranged for a personal visit with Sr. Watson but we will be observed at all times. There is a bag of toiletries and other comforts for Sr. Watson. It will be inspected and things may be taken away. Please do not say anything about the guards or object to anything they do. It will end the visit.” Another hot breeze passed through.

  “I understand. What about the money?”

  “Give it to the guards. They will take twenty-five percent but say nothing. When we are with Sr. Watson they will bring the things and money to him so we will know what he gets. Never mention what is missing to the guards or anyone else. It will not be good for him.”

  I put two spoons of the brown sugar crystals into my coffee and started to stir, “Iced coffee is so … American.”

  “Our great neighbor to the North has some things it can teach us. Unfortunately, we Brazilians listen but our neighbor never does.”

  “… how far to the prison?”

  “Twenty minutes but Building Seventy is no more than five minutes away.”

  “… Building Seventy?”

  “It is a special place for special prisoners like Sr. Watson. A separate place because no one’s safety can be guaranteed in any state prison. Five years ago the rioting at Rio’s state prisons went on for three weeks before the Military Police attacked the rioters. When the prison was subdued after another week more than two hundred were dead including many guards and nine ‘special’ prisoners. The State paid millions to the families of the special prisoners because they were very rich and powerful. A year later the new Governor built a remote detention facility for special prisoners. Building Seventy was built to protect his friends, their children and his re-election.”

  “Skip’s father will be a little less concerned when I tell him. He has a picture in his head of his son surrounded by thousands of hardened criminals.”

  “In the past his picture would be correct and his son would have been in great danger. Remember the things I have told you. The guards at Building Seventy know the prisoners are from rich families who will pay for safety and comfort. If there is any question about money the guards will raise the question of whether Building Seventy is the right place for the prisoner. One more thing, I will introduce you to the head guard. Quietly give him two hundred U.S. dollars from your own money with nothing more said than ‘thank you’.”

  “Will we see Skip alone without guards? I want to ask him about that night.”

  “We will be alone but the guards will watch though a one-way glass. We must not give anything directly to him. If you want to give him something I will signal the guard to come and inspect it. I have an envelope for the balance of the money you brought. I will hand it to the head guard as we go to the detention room. He will lock it up until Sr. Watson is ready for it.”

  “He’ll just steal the money.”

  “No, he has been paid enough to be sure he will take care of Sr. Watson correctly.”

  “What about our conversation? Will it be recorded?”

  “I am Sr. Watson’s lawyer. The law says whenever I am present the conversation is private and protected. Can I be certain we will not be listened to or recorded … no, I cannot tell you so. Still, the Courts are very sensitive about this area of the law so I am not very concerned.”

  All I heard was “not very concerned”.

  A long driveway took us at least a quarter of a mile away from the main road to a guardhouse built into an eight-foot-high concrete wall. Jesus handed the guard our papers and the pass he had obtained from the Criminal Court. The response was two fatigue clad soldiers armed with automatic rifles positioning themselves one in front and one behind the car.

  “We have to get out so they can inspect the car. Leave everything in the car, act natural and please move slowly.” Slowly we walked to a white circle to the left of the drive. Scowling in the direction of the guards Jesus mechanically said, “We will wait here until ‘they’ give permission to return to the car.”

  The seconds crawled past while we stood motionless under the scorching late morning sun. All the doors open. The bonnet was up, then the boot. The sharp snaps of Jesus’ briefcase locks marked the unrestrained invasion.

  “Thorough aren’t they.”

  “This is a prison and it is most probable that some of the Specials are political detainees with powerful friends on the outside.”

  “I thought that was over?”

  “Some things never end. All we can do is be sure to avoid things that do not concern us.”

  “How do you know what … and who to avoid?”

  “You know afterwards when there is a knock on the door in the middle of the night.” The last of the color drained from Jesus’ face, “my brother received such a visit five years ago …”

  “… and?”

  “In another five years a court will declare him legally dead and my sister-in-law will be paid his life insurance and pension.”

  Responding to the guard’s signal he walked to the car leaving me standing on the whitewashed target overcome by disbelief and suffering a chill the sun couldn’t melt.

  Tall, proud Skip sat on a bench in the corner of his room head in his hands. He didn’t look up when the door was unlocked and opened. There was no response when the guard called his name. I crossed the small room to him putting my hand on his shoulder, “Skip, it’s Carl. I brought some things for you.”

  Nothing, then slowly his head slowly came out of his hands. Unshaven, bloodshot eyes but wearing a clean, freshly pressed shirt he looked ten years older than the last time I’d seen him. “I thought he was being looked after. What’s going on?”

  “The doctor said the quantity of drugs in his blood when he was arrested could take as much as a week or more to pass from him. He has been given the food we had brought in three times yesterday but the doctor says he has eaten very little. He needs time I think.”

  “When did the doctor see him?”

  “Two times yesterday and today at nine this morning. I spoke to him when I was waiting for you at the airport. He knows you were coming. I believe he should be waiting for us in the administrative office so you can speak with him …”

  Skip’s cracking voice stopped Jesus, “Carl … I’m alright Carl … dizzy, I’m a little dizzy. Where am I? Who’s he?”

  “You’re in a special detention center in Rio … Jesus is your lawyer. He’s Pedro Rossi’s partner.”

  “Why do I need a lawyer?”

  “You have been arrested Sr. Watson.” Jesus kneeled down to Skip, “They found you with a dead woman. There is an investigation.”

  “Dead … who’s dead? Rio,
no, no I’m in São Paulo. How …”

  Skip’s head slumped back into his hands. “I can’t think … remember anything … Rio … I don’t know” … then silence.

  Jesus touched my arm, “We should see the doctor and then all of us will come back.” Reluctantly I turned away from Skip. “Sr. Carl, the doctor has some information you should hear. He also has some recommendations to make. Please …”

  I turned back, “We’ll be back in a few minutes Skip. Try to rest.” There was no response.

  “Thank you for waiting doctor. I understand you found no evidence of abuse during the arrest and in general, no evidence of injury.”

  “Yes, that is what I told the lawyer. His unnatural condition is from the drugs that were used. There are no needle marks beyond the one made by the police so he had to have taken them by mouth. From what I was told Sr. Watson does not use recreational drugs. Therefore, I have to believe he did not take them voluntarily or knowingly. Again, there is no evidence that he was forced to take drugs so he was probably given something in his food or drink. The police took a blood sample when he was arrested. When his lawyer gets his copy of the laboratory report we should know what was used.”

  “Could he have been given enough to keep him drugged for several days without his knowledge?”

  “I doubt it. Enough to put him to sleep could easily be put in a drink. Once asleep he could be given anything at any interval in order to keep him under control.”

  Now it was my turn to put my head in my hands, “What a damned mess … if you were going to guess Doctor, what would you say?”

  “A guess … I am called many times in situations like this. In time you see patterns that give some direction for cause and treatment. He had his money and credit cards so I do not think he was drugged by a woman he had just met. His condition yesterday, the way his eyes responded, the simple test I made of his reflexes was the same as many robbery victims brought to the emergency ward by the police. In the last two or three years most test positive for Rohypnol, a legal drug used illegally in many robberies and rapes. The victims wake up with impaired reflexes and they remember nothing about the recent past just like Sr. Skip.”