A certain rustling noise arose from among the spectators. Judge Fernandes asked for silence.
“We will now hear from the learned counsel for the defense. Mr. Soares.”
Joelmir Soares was tall, about 175 pounds, and sported a crewcut above his weather-beaten face. He strolled back and forth theatrically and in long strides.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I have listened attentively to the opening remarks of the distinguished judge and those of the prosecutor, Mr. Romão. It will be recalled that this proceeding was invaded by a group of ruffians whose actions shame all of us. Let this not happen again, for justice cannot be executed at the point of a gun or with the support of disorderly people. I am in solidarity with the distinguished judge and congratulate him on his bravery. Though seriously physically injured, he has placed his duty above all else and appears here today so that justice may be done. Few are they who so distinguish themselves.
“Next, we heard the speech of the learned attorney Mr. Colares. Pedro Teixeira the good, the correct, the friend; Noé Batista the bad, the miser, friend of his daughter, enemy of his son-in-law because he was black. The saint and the villain. What the learned advocate for the prosecution did not say, at any time, was that Batista gave his daughter a plot of land that enabled her to sustain herself and her family. All that was needed was for Teixeira to put himself to work on it. But what happened with the land that Elizabeth was given as a present? It did not bear fruit. No matter how much seed Batista offered, and even a few workers to help with seeding and planting, plans went awry. And do you know why? Because instead of caring for his plantings or his wife, instead of trying to establish good relations with his father-in-law who was so willing to help him, Teixeira disappeared for days on end, engaged in political plotting, from unions to the Communist Party. It was this, ladies and gentlemen, that the learned Mr. Colares left out. Could he have forgotten? Did he not know of this side of Pedro Teixeira, or did he fear the truth coming out?”
“Your Honor,” said Colares, rising to his feet. “I would remind my learned colleague for the defense that upon ending my remarks I said I would return to the subject. I left nothing out, nor did I forget what I must clarify for the benefit of the distinguished members of the jury.”
“Proceed, counsel for the defense.”
“Batista, ladies and gentlemen, is a father who wanted so much for his daughter—a daughter who would not follow a single one of his recommendations. Should we accuse him for this reason? Should we recriminate him for not accepting a son-in-law loath to work, who lived a troubled life during an era in which political agitation was taking its toll on the country and in which we had strikes and fights among workers, students and the police every day? I leave you with that question in mind so that we can proceed.”
“Your Honor, I would like to add one thing to what my learned colleague Mr. Soares just said,” proposed the second defense lawyer, Magalhães. “Pedro Teixeira did not only want the workers to have better pay for their work—we all agree he wanted that. I doubt that there is one employer who would not like to pay his workers as much as possible the minute he is able to do so. But it must be stressed, without further ado, that Teixeira, allied with the communists, intended to do away with private property, distribute land, confiscate the houses of those who owned more than one, and things of that sort. To this end he founded the Peasant League in Sapé, following the example of Francisco Julião in Pernambuco, who transformed the Galilee Sugarmill into a battleground.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” said Romão. “The learned advocate is trying to transform Pedro Teixeira into a terrorist. We cannot here be led astray by personal biases that obfuscate the spirit of the law. It is a concrete fact that Batista is accused by sworn testimony as having directly participated in the worker’s death.”
The judge rapped his gavel once more, demanding silence in the courtroom. A few people continued to file in, hoping to find room, while I doodled on my notepad.
“Dear ladies and gentlemen. The suggestion of the illustrious prosecutor is correct,” stated Soares, “but no doubt he will be amenable to our injecting a few additional comments so that reality will become palpable on both sides, on the part of accuser and defender alike. I never stated, at any time, that Batista was a saint. I said we were dealing with a father from a respectable family, who did what he could for his daughter’s future and got nowhere by it, for she disdained the security offered her in favor of adventures alongside a companion who had no defined profession. Suffice it to say that when he was courting Elizabeth, Teixeira worked as a manual laborer in a quarry, where skilled labor is unneeded, because everything is done by means of one charismatic character: dynamite.”
“The remark is stricken from the record. The jury will disregard the last sentence of the learned defense counsel. I understand it to be an irony that adds nothing to the debate. Mr. Magalhães, please proceed.”
“May it please the court. I wish to salute the court for its courage and attitude in the defense of justice. To continue, I would like to observe, distinguished jurors, that the other day there were two witnesses here when the troublemakers invaded the courtroom. Those witnesses singled out Mr. Batista as the man responsible for the death of Teixeira. One of them, on cross-examination, made contradictory statements and for that reason was excused; the other, Sister Genoveva, of the Order of Vincentians, which is so closely aligned with leftist groups, declared she knew people who can prove that Mr. Batista was the organizer of the crime. According to what she says they would say, he followed the instructions of Colonel Barros and other members of the so-called Lowland Group, linked in turn to the Christian Rural Assistance Service, created by Monsignor Martinho and Vicar Eugênio Valle to thwart trade unions considered to be communist-inspired. That was what Sister Genoveva stated. It is our duty to determine whether the gunmen who invaded this courtroom were simple troublemakers and have the police locate them. It is also our duty to note that the witnesses’ testimony was taken in its entirety. Every word of Sister Genoveva’s testimony was taken down. We did not ascribe to her any false testimony at the time. Yet today, when this court resumed its deliberations, to my surprise I do not see Sister Genoveva, and much less the person she guaranteed would provide further incriminating evidence against Batista. They say she went to Rio, or maybe São Paulo, and is going to linger there a few days. There is no information on anybody who supposedly holds the key to this mystery.
The first falsehood that Sister Genoveva uttered was to declare that Batista belongs to the Lowland Group. How can one offer such testimony if the alleged organization in fact does not exist? Where is her proof? She linked the name of Colonel Barros to a homicide, an irresponsible act for which she will be called to account in court.
“For all these reasons, distinguished jurors, I want to suggest that her testimony is untrustworthy. Here is what Sister Genoveva does not know: that Noé Batista, callused by hard work, is one of the respectable names in this township and in Paraíba. A father who fulfills his duty, a patriot of the first order, he would be the last to want Pedro Teixeira’s death, no matter how great the divergence in their political beliefs. Teixeira turned communist when young. He defended an inhuman ideology that preaches equality for he who works and he who does nothing. As my colleague Mr. Soares pointed out, his farm did not prosper. He sewed communism rather than the earth. At the end of each month, his wife asked her father for help. One day in April 1962, Pedro Teixeira turned up dead. Was he assassinated, as is alleged here, or did he die in a power struggle among the political factions in which he participated? That is the question! Yet the truth is that, even though he disdained the holy church and attacked the clergy, Pedro was buried in a Christian grave, interred where his widow chose. He who preached incessantly against Christ lies out there beside the Café do Vento road, in the shadow of the cross. The significance, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is that society, notwithstanding the discontent of its malcontents, is not inhuman. Why, then,
blame Noé Batista as the chief culprit? Why characterize him as a hateful racist? We are being unfair to him and to Colonel Barros when we make him out to be in league with degenerates. Only in a regime heading for chaos would such disrespectful language be uttered. I am sure that the members of the jury will be able to distinguish right from wrong. To point to Batista as masterminding the homicide of his own son-in-law is to flout the concept of law; it is to make a mockery of all of us, decent citizens, anticommunist, for being, happily, intransigent defenders of a strong country, united, free, and Christian.”
By the time Magalhães had finished his speech, I had accumulated three pages of notes. I had extra material for a new story. But I still needed a fact of real importance, something good for the lead. What could it be?
Some people applauded. Judge Fernandes intervened, more than once rapping his gavel on the bench.
“Ladies and gentlemen! No applause in court. Mr. Colares, please proceed.”
“Your Honor, I would confine myself to the facts, given that a jury trial is not a political soapbox. We are here to punish the killer or killers of Teixeira, assassinated in a cowardly ambush in April 1962 on the Café do Vento road. They killed a farmworker like you’d kill a dog. They destroyed his family and nobody cared about that. The police authorities in Sapé have never even closed the file on his case. Those who participated in his killing, directly or indirectly, knew that they were acting with impunity. It is incumbent upon us to correct that. Today is the day we are going to say to the professional killers and their bosses that the rule of law exists, justice exists; society, represented by this body of jurors, has the power to stop the delinquents from transforming Sapé and all Paraíba into a great crime syndicate. The accused cannot be considered a laborer like those who cut the cane and plant the pineapple. Before us is a landowner, albeit a small one. Before us is a grower who has craved riches and luxury. He has never bothered himself with the fate of the peasants he exploits. He has never given thought to the union struggle, except to try to stop it, as he did when he arrogantly joined the right-wing union that sprang up a few years ago with the misleading name Christian Rural Assistance Service. Yes, the infamous CRAS, headed by the vicar Eugênio Valle with a benign nod from Monsignor Martinho and generous funding from the Brazilian Institute of Democratic Action and the Anticommunist Movement, both maintained by the Central Intelligence Agency in our country. I will prove what I say, ladies and gentlemen.”
Colares took an envelope out of his pocket, shook it, and handed it to the judge.
“We must turn a deaf ear to the words that would transform Batista into the fall guy,” continued Colares. “No—he is an active agent for his side. He belongs to the Lowland Group and his participation in Teixeira’s death marks him as one of the privileged partners in the Syndicate of Death. It is this that we are dealing with, and don’t tell me that the organizations mentioned are made up out of whole cloth. Whether Batista is the most loving father, whether he likes blacks or not, whether his physical appearance reflects his essence or not—none of this matters. Let’s leave romanticism aside so that we can appreciate the problem squarely, in the light of law and justice.”
As Colares spoke, I tried to take photographs of the judge, who from time to time stirred in his chair, seemingly impatient, as if suffering. Would he be able to hold up if his work carried into the night or even until the next day? I missed having Luís nearby and looked around for him but couldn’t find him. Where might he have put himself? The room felt small with so many people in it. They were growing uneasy—looking behind them and murmuring. Eight or ten uniformed police were filing into the courtroom. Some placed themselves in the four corners of the room and others in the middle, pushing aside spectators who now could see the judge and lawyers only with difficulty. Judge Fernandes saw their arrival and seemed to gain confidence.
Luís reappeared and said that two buses from João Pessoa were parked in front of the courthouse and more soldiers were getting out to keep order in the streets. I felt enthused. Finally, the reinforcements missing for so many weeks. It showed that the Barroses and Martinhos were beginning to lose their allies’ support. Without a doubt it constituted a victory for that old man who sat there, gray-haired and full of pain and courage.
“Dr. Jansen, the police reinforcements just showed up,” I said animatedly.
The doctor rose and approached the judge on the red-carpeted elevated walkway. Colares was continuing to talk about the documents in the envelope, copies of which he was handing to the jurors.
“Odilon, the soldiers from João Pessoa are arriving!”
“So I figured. Better later than never,” he said in an undertone.
He rapped the gavel again for silence. I took another picture. There was happiness in the face and the eyes of Odilon Fernandes.
“Silence in the courtroom!”
“. . . So that, distinguished members of the jury,” continued Colares, “we are faced with a question that without a doubt has its political side and that is aggravated by personal considerations that have no place in court. It is of no moment, as we say, whether Batista is a racist or not. What counts is whether he was the chief conspirator in the plot that culminated in Teixeira’s assassination, the husband of his daughter Elizabeth and father of his grandchildren. I request that these documents be entered into evidence at the proper time.”
Soares stood up. Acting as if reflecting profoundly, he paced back and forth. He displayed all the canniness of an experienced lawyer, one who could move with confidence to escape Colares’s traps. The judge wiped his face with a handkerchief, pulled off his glasses, put them back on and adjusted them.
“Learned counsel for the defense Mr. Soares. If you would be so good.”
“Distinguished jurors. There are many ways to destroy the morale of a man who honors his duties like Batista. The most common is to say of such a man, in public, that he is a bad father, a bad head of his family. These accusations, which have an unequalled air of gossip and intrigue, also contain their subjective side. Does a father like all his children with the same intensity? It’s hard to say, because that is one of the secrets parents keep. How could we obtain irrefutable evidence engraved in stone of such a thing? Is the love of parents an expression only for caring and giving presents, or is it reflected equally in times of punishment, so that the child will not lose his grip, will not deviate from the right road? It would take hours and hours to discuss these thoughts and we would never reach a practical result. Often the father who beats his child is being a better friend than another who brings an expensive present: a motorcycle, a car, money for a trip abroad. The prosecution wants to transform Batista into a soulless creature so that he can be crucified. This because Batista has become a victim of political machinations….”
“The court suggests that learned counsel avoid the use of ‘political.’ We’re not in an election campaign, nor are there political parties inside here….”
A few people in the audience laughed. Soares agreed by changing his expression, and took up the thread of his speech:
“Noé Batista, my friends, is not Elizabeth Teixeira’s enemy, nor is he the enemy of his grandchildren; he is the enemy of the ideas his son-in-law preached, of the communist ideology he professed, of the rabblerousing meetings Teixeira held in their house—with Elizabeth’s acquiescence, to be sure, but only because he ended up influencing her. And what most hurt this man was this: that the meetings, aimed at creating disorder in the fields, took place in the very house he had given his daughter so that her family would not live in despair. That is the reality that must be articulated, and I have the proof of it that you ladies and gentlemen will need. Elizabeth got married against her father’s wishes, and as if that weren’t enough, her husband professed an ideology that none of us, I am sure, would tolerate. That ideology preaches an end to private property, to Catholicism, and to God. Batista was the first among us who, in a wise and serene manner, stood steadfastly against it.
Society owes him a medal instead of having him here accused of crime. Pedro Teixeira, as people say, bit the hand that fed him. Instead of uniting with he who was trying to help him, he linked up with leftist unionists who clandestinely weave a diabolical plan: the creation of so-called Peasant Leagues, all communist-inspired. That was the clarification I wished to make, Your Honor, given the failure of learned counsel for the prosecution to explain the political behavior of Pedro Teixeira. He was a materialist, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. He mocked God and his powers. His ideas were influenced by Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin and Mao Zedong, all atheists and all responsible for bloodbaths so that they could come to power by any means necessary. And we here in Sapé must not let ourselves by invaded by a form of materialism equivalent to Satanism.”
One of the jurors, Dona Zoé Albuquerque, raised a plump hand to her face and swooned. A police officer nearby tried to revive her, as did Dr. Jansen, who hurried over. Soares paced back and forth, pleased at the effect his speech had had. I continued to take notes and wondered about Luís, who had disappeared yet again. Judge Fernandes rapped his gavel loudly on the bench to call for a recess.
Land of Black Clay Page 18