“I knew you’d be disappointed.”
“Why, of all the low-down…!”
“It’s hard for people to put themselves in the position of supporting the judge, Mr. Elias,” affirmed Dona Inês.
“I know that. It happens that I was sent here by a person from Sapé: Veiga de Castro, the all-powerful editor-in-chief of the country’s biggest newspaper, as they like to put it.”
“What are you going to do now?” asked Alice.
I glared at her, still annoyed at Veiga de Castro. I could hear the words of his initial briefing; I could see him leaning back in the comfortable chair that went with the title editor-in-chief. At least the edition didn’t have an advertisement from the Northeastern Sugarcane Planters’ Association. One provocation less. I thought of Barbosa and Vinhaes, and of Gordo already preparing new story ideas for me. Would I be sent back on the case of the “black locust,” which remained unsolved, or would I do something else? Alice offered me coffee. She was trying to be nice and assuage my worries.
“If I were you, sir, I’d tell them where to get off,” said Dona Inês. “If your reporting doesn’t appear in The Nation, it can come out in other newspapers.”
Against my better judgment I had another coffee. I smiled.
“You did your part—you fulfilled your obligation as a reporter. If your colleagues decide not to publish, it’s their problem!” commented Alice.
“I’m going to call a friend at The Weekly. We’ll see what he has to say. Maybe I’ll change jobs.”
I followed Alice down the somber corridor that surrounded the courtroom. At a certain point we ran into Sister Genoveva, prayerbook in hand, two strong-looking men accompanying her. They passed by us and went through a doorway.
“What’s that all about?”
“We’ll find out,” said Alice, pulling me along.
When we went into the courtroom, Soares was speaking. He was insisting on the defendants’ innocence, having been quoting from a report on the good qualities of Colonel Barros; he recalled the social works he had been engaged in and the donations he had made for the restoration of the Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception church.
Romão cut him short.
“Your Honor, as my learned colleague Mr. Soares mentioned Sister Genoveva a while ago, I suggest that she again be called to testify.”
An air of expectancy pervaded the room. Many people looked over their shoulders, focusing on the wide passageway, partitioned by a red curtain, that separated one group of seats from the other. Sister Genoveva walked with her prayerbook. She did not appear worried. She came up to the bench and the prosecution’s table.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Your Honor! Sister Genoveva, still under oath, has a few more words to say to us,” announced Romão.
Soares and Magalhães seemed surprised. Modestly, Sister Genoveva approached the microphone a court worker offered her. The court reporter put new paper in his machine.
“Dear friends, as I testified previously, I am Genoveva, of the Sisterhood of the Vincentians. I have served this community for twenty years. I try to do the most I can, but it is always little. I am certain that all those here know me. Our struggle is informed by the notion that people must always be ready to receive Jesus Christ. All of our efforts can be summarized as follows: to make our brethren understanding, patient, and humble, so that they can constitute the house of God. No physical labor, as important as it may be, can allow for advancement if we are not in the company of God and Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. What use are material goods, riches, or power, if we do not join in solidarity, do not love each other as the evangels determined? When we become lost on the road of sin, we also lose our sense of full liberty. There are many sins. They surround us and attract us. But God tells us that no sin is everlasting if we seek repentance. It was for that reason that I was here the other day. I didn’t come to accuse. Vengeance is the office of fools. I am here in hopes of repentance. Today is a feast day. Antônio Alexandre and Francisco Pedro da Silva came with me. They committed an error and here, before the judge, they wish to liberate themselves from that sin, so that they may attain the grace of God. From the moment they make their confession and ask God’s pardon, I am certain they will be unburdened of conscience and pure of heart, as if they had been born again. I ask Antônio and Francisco to come forward. It is their first step on the road to resurrection.”
The atmosphere in the courtroom grew tense. People stirred in their seats as more armed police came into the room. Employees from other departments also put down their work and looked on. Never before had they heard Sister Genoveva speak. The two men stood in front of the judge. Soares and Magalhães appeared nervous. The prosecutor indicated where the witnesses should stand and turned toward the defense team. I assessed the situation, looking over at the defendants. Colonel Barros and Cordeiro gazed into space, trying to feign that events were not affecting them. Batista perspired; he took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.
“Antônio Alexandre and Francisco Pedro da Silva, ex-military police, are accused of having shot the labor leader Teixeira,” said the prosecutor. “For months the Sapé police purported to search for them under the command of then police Chief Luiz de Paula. Never apprehended, here they are, thanks to Sister Genoveva. And they came of their own free will for, before anything else, they seek to reencounter God. They wish to redeem themselves beginning with their own error. We would do well to understand, ladies and gentlemen, that in this courtroom we do not rejoice at the unhappiness of anyone; we are not defaming or slandering. This court exists to do justice, not to offend or humiliate. The demonstration that Alexandre and Silva are about to give no doubt will become part of our legal lore. They committed an error and they fled, but they have returned to give their live testimony regarding Teixeira’s death in an ambush on the Café do Vento road, near the place where one of the daughters of Batista lives. I will begin by calling Francisco Pedro da Silva.”
A man about five feet ten inches tall, in a short-sleeved buttonless blue work shirt, sat down in the witness’s chair. The audience clearly was on pins and needles. Before speaking, the witness looked at Batista.
“Until ’62 I had a good service record in the department,” he began. “I intended to take a course to be a corporal. Around that time Chief Paula came to me with a task that needed doing. I had told him I’d like to earn a little more so I could study. I remember it as if it were today: he responded I’d be in a position to take the corporal’s course and later the sergeant’s exam. He’d give me a wad if I put an end to this guy who was persecuting the people who live in the Café do Vento road. I told him my job was to keep order and do what my superiors told me to do. He left, promising we’d get together again. A week later, Noé Batista called me, and offered me one million for the death of that guy. He didn’t tell me if he was a good or bad type. He said he didn’t want to see him hanging around out there any more. He didn’t tell me he was his son-in-law. I told him I wouldn’t do the job alone; there was another who could help. I told him I’d set up the ambush only after I’d gotten half the money. He paid me and Antônio, on a Tuesday, around three in the afternoon. I’d never seen Teixeira. Batista didn’t talk about him. We killed a guy who Chief Paula said was a bad element. He showed me some photos. I’m not excusing myself for what I did, but I want to be clear that if I’d known Teixeira was an ordinary farmworker I wouldn’t have taken the job. Right after the ambush, Batista paid the rest. With some of the money I bought a cottage and with the rest I got out of there, because the crime was the talk of the town. Antônio helped his father who lives out in the sticks. It was more than thirty days before I could show up again at the department. I was cashiered; lots of bad stuff started happening to me. Sister Genoveva came looking for us through a friend. I told her I wanted to turn myself in.”
“I would like to ask two questions of Mr. Silva,” said Soares as he paced back and forth. “First, where’s the proof of the mo
ney he received? A receipt is not required, that would be too ingenuous; but at least a deed for the purchase of the house. Second, what proof does he have of having quit the military police a month after Teixeira’s killing?”
“The deed I had, but I lost it: the house burned down, nobody knows how, during the time I was a fugitive. The neighbor said it was a monkey that climbed up to the top of the roof holding a burning twig. My discharge from the military police is in those files over there. I came back a month and five days afterward, and presented myself to Lieutenant Euzébio; he told me I had nothing more to do with the department and it would be better if I didn’t show my face there. It was orders from Commandant Hilário Santíni.”
“Let’s turn to the testimony of Antônio Alexandre,” said Judge Fernandes.
The second ex-military policeman was a dark-skinned half-Indian, with thick eyebrows and a nervous air. He didn’t look at anyone. The court employee adjusted the microphone again.
“Everything Francisco just said is the truth. I dunno where my head was at when I agreed to that deal. Ever since we got rid of Teixeira we haven’t had any peace, just moving around from here to there, on the run. One day we stabbed some guy who’d been hired to cut our throats. Except we acted quicker and he wound up dead. I’d never got mixed up in crime before. It began to eat at me. So when the sister’s friend came looking, I decided it was time to tell the truth. You can’t stay on the lam forever. I had lunch in the house of Mr. Batista’s daughter and it was there I found out Teixeira was his son-in-law. Mr. Batista didn’t like his son-in-law because he was black. It was the worst lunch I ever had. Me and Francisco hung out on the road behind a bush. Pedro got out of a bus and crossed the road. When he was about thirty-five feet from where we were hiding, we opened fire. I don’t know if I fired first. I know I got him in the chest and the ribs. He was carrying some books and notepads, and they fell on the ground. Francisco went to make sure he was dead and shot once more.”
“The witnesses will be taken into custody,” ordered the judge, rapping his gavel on the bench.
Sister Genoveva also got up. Batista and Colonel Barros eyed her with hate-filled expressions.
“From the beginning of the testimony we just heard,” said Romão, “the involvement of Batista in the death of Teixeira became clear. As the ex-military police testified, he paid for the execution of his son-in-law. What we must now clarify are Batista’s ties to the membership of the Lowland Group and the Syndicate of Death. Did Alexandre and Silva act alone? This is the right time, ladies and gentlemen, to show you the documents that my esteemed colleague Mr. Colares gave to the court earlier.”
The prosecutor’s assistant opened the envelope and displayed some papers containing minute handwriting.
“This is from Colonel Barros, asking Lieutenant Colonel Santíni, then commandant of the military police in João Pessoa, to send two soldiers to help patrol a certain area. It remains to be seen whether the police to whom Colonel Barros referred are Alexandre and Silva. Curiously, this ticket is dated March 30 and Teixeira died April 2, as we know. This other document is from Lieutenant Colonel Santíni himself, seeking placement for some police officers expelled from the department. And to whom did he address this request? To his friend, Colonel Barros. One of these men, we know today, is the gangster known as Vinte e Cinco; the other is Bezouro. As can be clearly seen, there were close ties between Colonel Barros and the commandant of the military police. But we will later return to amplify upon those items. First it is necessary to determine to what point Colonel Barros was utilizing his own police to put in play his sinister plans.”
“That’s absurd, your Honor!” yelled Soares indignantly. “What my learned colleague Colares is suggesting is an affront to a good man. It lacks foundation because it’s based upon two pieces of paper not appearing to bear Colonel Barros’s signature. We have here what the learned advocate calls ‘documents,’ two tickets, without any possibility that they are material proof of anything. And what could be more normal than an entrepreneur asking for police security assistance? We need to clarify, for our part, whether the police were in fact sent. How many times has this court asked for reinforcements from the military police command in João Pessoa? Several times, yet they only arrived a few days ago. There’s also a hypothesis I’d like to see confirmed, without which, for us on the defense side, the testimony of Alexandre and Silva lacks all validity. I need concrete proof they were in the military police; I want to see pictures of them in uniform; I want to see the serial numbers of their weapons and their service records. Without them, Mr. Prosecutor, everything that has been said is nothing more than coached testimony, and for this very reason, if the witnesses can’t prove what they’ve alleged, they should be immediately detained and later punished. I suggest that Lieutenant Colonel Santíni be summoned so that he can confirm or deny the allegations of these self-described ex-military policemen. If the prosecutor should find it difficult to communicate with Lieutenant Colonel Santíni, I myself could take the initiative. The important thing is to learn with what type of witnesses we are dealing, for Sister Genoveva forgot to say”—Soares emphasized ironically—“by what trickery did she take two men who were avowed criminals and get them to repent so easily? Are we dealing with a miracle? What happened to Antônio Alexandre and Francisco Pedro da Silva that they should put on such a display of repentance? This is another matter that I intend to explore, but I will only do so after we have heard Santíni’s testimony.”
Chapter 24
Alice tried to take down as much information as possible while I watched the proceedings. I was feeling a certain apathy, especially when Soares would begin to speak. I knew that he was an obfuscator, always trying to confuse and expert at doing so. He carried out his mission with precision. I tried to imagine the jury’s thinking. The testimony of Alexandre and Silva was good, even excellent, but Soares’s argument had called it into doubt. And now, what if Lieutenant Colonel Santíni should prove that the two had never been part of the military police? How would the jury and Judge Fernandes be affected? Soares’s intention of impeaching them was clear, and this seemed to be a propitious time. Had Romão not foreseen this tactic, or had he let himself be carried away by Sister Genoveva’s good, compassion-inspiring personality? Did the prosecutor lack the killer instinct? And the judge—why didn’t he stay a little more in touch with reality? As I thought over these minutia, Alice touched my arm.
“It’s almost two o’clock. Shall we get a snack?”
We sat down at the table of a dilapidated bar, strings of Portuguese linguiça sausage hanging from the kitchen window and the smell of fried food pervading the air. The clientele was composed of truck-drivers and their assistants, some of them eating shirtless, their hands filthy with grease.
“In Recife there’s a new paper called The Northeast Daily that might publish your stories. It’s offset-printed and has a well-organized editorial staff. I even went there once to ask that they print a news item about my dad. They gave it a really big play!”
“Where does The Northeast Daily circulate?”
“Well, it probably doesn’t have that wide a readership.”
“That’s one problem. And the other one, know what it is? Payment. How much can papers like that offer a reporter who needs money the way I do here? If by next week The Nation doesn’t send more, I’ll be in serious trouble.”
“Do you think they will?”
“Maybe, maybe not. We never know what goes on in the heads of people who run a big newspaper. First they want a series on pollution in the Beberibe River; next they regret it and want stories on the beaches of Olinda, without worrying about the contacts the poor reporter’s already made. And the interviewees, in turn, consider us irresponsible. Then there’s another trap for the unwary. You send the material up front and it winds up in the hands of the copy desk, which isn’t interested in Olinda. For some reason the copy editor doesn’t like beaches, he likes mountains; he makes changes, doodles arou
nd with sentences and makes conceptual errors. The next day, there it is: a sanitized text, grammatically correct, saying nothing. It’s the reporter’s fault, of course. What a grind. I don’t know how I’ve gotten used to it.”
“Why are you so irritated with your profession?”
“I feel like moving on. I’ve begun to realize I’m little more than a marionette—do this, do that, but forget about imagining anything or having your own opinion.”
“Could you suddenly quit being a reporter?”
“Who knows? If I decide to write a book, I have to be ready to confront the imponderable. It’s a new road altogether.”
Alice placed her hand on mine and looked at me with her piercing eyes.
“I’m glad you’re thinking that way. Even if it’s hard at first, you’ll win in the end.”
“It remains to be seen how I’ll earn money so I can get by until the work’s done.”
“How do you think the story should begin?”
“Chronologically. Beginning with that day that you showed up at the hotel, looking for Jorge Elias who had come from Recife? Remember?”
Alice shook her head and laughed.
“A difficult coincidence to explain. I was sure you would lead me to my father. I don’t know why—pure craziness!” She continued to laugh.
“How do you envision your father today?”
“If he’s alive, he’s got to be an elderly gentleman sixty-something years old. Friendly, a somewhat jowly face, sincere eyes, straight hair, graying, covering his ears.”
“Did he wear glasses?”
“Only when he worked at night.”
“What would your reunion with him be like? Can you envision it?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid he may have had a heart attack; he must be tired. I don’t even like to think about that.”
“Can you imagine if he should reappear? He could help typeset the book.”
Land of Black Clay Page 29