“No. There were no soldiers by those names in the entire contingent.”
“Did you know that these two men are now saying they were military police and have declared that they killed Teixeira?”
“I was so informed. It’s absurd for them to say they were military police.”
“Thank you very much, Colonel. I am satisfied with what I have heard. I believe the jury henceforth will have a lot to mull over. In truth it is two impostors we have heard making accusations against Batista.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” exclaimed Romão to an obviously worried Judge Fernandes. “I demand authentication of the book that Lieutenant Colonel Santíni has presented, notwithstanding my entire respect for him. The witnesses who were here are indeed former military police and when they carried out the killing they belonged to the military police detachment in João Pessoa. The .38-caliber bullets found in the victim’s body were fired from revolvers of the type used by the military police. I recall Sister Genoveva to the stand.”
Judge Fernandes ordered the witness to the stand.
Alice came back, happy.
“How’s it going?”
“A fiasco! Santíni testified that Teixeira’s killers never belonged to the military police.”
“I heard that out in the street.”
“The prosecutor objected; Sister Genoveva’s going to try to help. I’m worried about this.”
“Poor thing. She’s so old to experience such stress.”
“And your uncle?”
“He took his time but ended up agreeing to let me help him testify. Mainly when he heard Santíni over the loudspeakers.”
“We’ve got to turn this situation around.”
“When do you think we should go in?”
“Dr. Jansen will tell us. Although witnesses ordinarily are supposed to be called from the witness list, you’ll appear as a special witness on behalf of the court.”
“I wonder if I’ll have enough courage.”
“All you need to do is talk normally, as though we were having a conversation.”
“And my uncle?”
“He’ll answer what you ask him. Don’t ask long questions. Everything’s got to be very simple and direct.”
Sister Genoveva looked out at the audience focused on her, then fixed her gaze on the frightened and quiet defendants. Lieutenant Colonel Santíni avoided looking at her.
“Sister,” began Romão. “As you and everyone else here has heard, Lieutenant Colonel Santíni’s testimony was unequivocal: during the time he commanded the military police, there were no police there the same as the men who testified against Mr. Batista. It was you, ma’am, who brought those men to us. What do you have to say?”
“I say that Lieutenant Colonel Santíni’s memory is not as good as he boasts, or he’s playing fast and loose with the truth.”
“But the witnesses’ names nowhere appear in the agency register, Sister,” declared a smiling Soares. “And the book is in the hands of his Honor the judge.”
“I reaffirm what I’ve stated,” declared Sister Genoveva calmly and humbly. “Antônio Alexandre and Francisco Pedro da Silva are ex-soldiers of the military police. They stripped off their uniforms the day they set up the ambush to kill João Pedro Teixeira.”
“Can you prove this, madam?” asked the prosecutor.
“I can!” yelled Alice from amid the audience as people turned to see her agile, tall and thin figure. She had a certain angelic air about her; her hair brushed her shoulders.
The judge rapped his gavel. “Approach!”
Alice threaded her way through the seats. I felt agony at not being able to help her. Armed police drew closer to the accused. A smile played on the faces of Wenceslau and Júlio Martinho. Among the surprised audience, Father Juliano spoke in a low voice to Alves.
“Please state your name,” asked the prosecutor.
“I am Alice Quitéria de Albuquerque, daughter of Elindo José de Albuquerque, niece of Dilermando Cruz de Albuquerque.”
“What do you have to tell us about the witnesses—Antônio Alexandre and Francisco Pedro da Silva—who were brought here by Sister Genoveva?”
I tried to control myself. I could never have imagined Alice involved in these problems. Was she crazy? No. She seemed tranquil and modest. Not an iota of arrogance or snobbery. She kept her hands on her legs like a high-school student. And she seemed even prettier from a distance.
“I would like permission to call my uncle Dilermando. He can resolve some doubts.”
The judge asked Dilermando to come forth, once again causing a stir among members of the packed audience. The taciturn giant did not seemed to be bothered by the ambiance. He crossed his arms. Batista and Cordeiro trembled.
“Mr. Dilermando de Albuquerque, what can you tell us about the men who said they killed Teixeira?” asked Romão.
“I’d like to explain I was hired by the foreman Jesuíno; I was hired on at Alvorada Plantation, Colonel Barros’s place, until the other day, as an enforcer, same as Vinte e Cinco, Bezouro, Pamonha, Zé Anta, Tinguá and lots more. The men who testified here were always going out there to the ranch to get money. We knew they’d rubbed out Teixeira and five other peasants.”
“Tell why you came to Sapé, uncle!”
“My niece wants me to tell you why I came to this town. It wasn’t because Jesuíno the foreman called me. No, I’ve been looking for my brother Elindo who disappeared from where he worked in 1975, in Recife. I went a lot of places, until I found out he was around these parts, a cabrocó, out at Capim Navalha Plantation. How could I get there? I tried a few ways. Until one day, talking with some guys in the market square, a guy named Galho Dentro told me—he’s also an enforcer—that out at Capim Navalha there were some communists being punished, living like slaves. Only those in the pay of ‘the order’ were allowed in to see. Anybody else who dared do it would get plugged. The cops and the army would torture political prisoners out there.”
“Did you go to Capim Navalha Plantation?” asked Romão.
“I tried but wasn’t able to. So I decided to find Jesuíno and offer my services to him. As an enforcer, I was out there various times. My brother wasn’t there. I saw other prisoners who were tied up next to a bunch of vats. They got sprayed with hot and cold water day and night until they ended up deformed by rheumatism.”
“A lie, Your Honor!” brayed Magalhães. “This man is an impostor. There’s no mysterious sugarmill at Capim Navalha Plantation, no concentration camp; and neither the army nor the police are conducting torture sessions.”
“One moment please, counsel. Let the witness continue,” said Judge Fernandes firmly.
“What’s the most important service they had you carry out when you were working at Alvorada Plantation?” asked Colares.
“I guess I should say it: as an enforcer, I’m known as Azulão. Soon after I took the job, I was told to get rid of Father Juliano. I didn’t have the guts to shoot. I was warned about it. I needed to gain time, so I kept promising next week, then the next. Following Father Juliano around so much I came to admire him, but I didn’t say anything to Jesuíno, who’d always been reasonable with me.”
“Beside the order to kill Father Juliano, did you receive any other assignment?” asked Romão.
“The other one was more recent. I’d told Jesuíno I was getting going, I wanted to forget about the money. He said a newsman from Rio de Janeiro had shown up and I had to take care of him. It had to look like a fight or a mugging. I hung around Sapé for two days, waiting.”
“Were you going to kill him?” asked Alice.
“I’m almost sure I was. Then I was told about another sugarmill where I could find Elindo. I’d have good access as one of Colonel Barros’s men.”
“What then, uncle?”
“The newsman never showed up. I went to the Juca Inn after the taxi-driver Alcides turned him in, but he’d taken off.”
While Azulão spoke, slowly and with extraordinary impass
ivity, I could feel my blood run cold.
“What he means is: not only is he a potential assassin, he’s also a liar!” Soares guffawed.
“I hope that the distinguished defense counsel’s comment will not be given any weight, Your Honor,” suggested Romão. “The witness is testifying sincerely; it’s very helpful in clarifying many of the doubts we’ve been having.”
“The witness may proceed,” said the judge.
“One day I learned that Galho Dentro was in the house of my friend Janete Aguiar. He crippled the poor thing because she’d gotten together with that reporter. I couldn’t take that provocation. Janete had nothing to do with this stuff. I decided to forget the reporter.”
“Then what happened?” asked Carlos Magalhães.
“I hanged the jerk the way you string up an ox in a meat market. He didn’t deserve any better. I want to add that the gangsters from Alvorada and Capim Navalha got to practice with guns. Our teacher is over there: it’s Lieutenant Colonel Santíni, and there were two lieutenants, friends of Colonel Barros and Mr. Martinho, I’m guessing those guys over there I’m seeing for the first time. And also it’s the first time I seen Colonel Barros up close. At the ranch the guys dealt with his secretary, Mr. Agripino, but only if Jesuíno couldn’t set something straight.”
“Ridiculous,” yelled Soares. “Lieutenant Colonel Santíni is here as a witness. He can’t be disrespected by a vagabond, a man who’s just declared himself an assassin.”
“He’s confessed his guilt,” added Carlos Magalhães.
“Learned counsel for the defense,” said Judge Fernandes, “this trial is seeking the truth surrounding crimes that have not been properly solved. For this reason, I am allowing the witness great latitude on direct examination. I am certain that Lieutenant Colonel Santíni will have evidence to bring in his defense. The witness may continue.”
I didn’t know how Azulão intended to conclude his testimony. Alice, by his side, seemed surprised. He had begun with such timidity but after the first seconds his tongue had loosened up. He wasn’t the gangster I knew, the one I’d met in the union hall and afterwards at home. He even seemed healthier, as if his declarations were lifting a weight from his shoulders. There was a moment when he showed a trace of a smile. He was saying difficult things but looking people squarely in the eye and not worrying about the defense lawyers’ interjections. He was showing not the least respect for Lieutenant Colonel Santíni, much less for Colonel Barros. What a daring man!
“I would like to ask Mr. Dilermando if he knows of any relative of the former military policemen who could testify in court,” asked Sister Genoveva.
“I know a sister of Chico Pedro da Silva. She lives in Pitombeiras. I don’t want to say her name and get her killed.”
“The court will guarantee her safety!” declared Romão.
Azulão smiled bitterly and shook his shoulders.
“I prefer not to say. Chico Pedro’s sister is old; she has a hard time raising her grandchildren. They’re good folks.”
The growers glanced at each other. Soares appeared to be nervous.
“Your Honor! Either the witness is telling the truth,” argued Magalhães, “or we’re wasting time listening to the fantasies of a lunatic. Dilermando Cruz de Albuquerque, more commonly known as Azulão, says he’s Colonel Barros’s hired hand; he gets money from Jesuíno the foreman. We’d like him to show us a receipt of his earnings; we want proof he killed Galho Dentro. For the time being, those are my questions.”
“The witness may proceed,” said the judge.
“And since I’m here to tell the truth, I want you ladies and gentlemen to know that the guns used on Alvorada and Capim Navalha plantations are modern and powerful. The suppliers are officials in the military police and army officers. Me they gave a Smith & Wesson .357 that can also be used with .38-caliber ammo. I’ve got it at home.”
“Then how’d you finish off Galho Dentro?” demanded Soares.
Azulão raised his arms and held out his palms. He lingered for a second in that position, somewhat ridiculous but also threatening. Sister Genoveva crossed herself.
“The witness may proceed,” repeated Judge Fernandes.
“The day the new guns showed up at Alvorada Plantation, Lieutenant Colonel Santíni was with some lieutenant named Walter. The car was a Caravan from the João Pessoa police.”
“A lie,” yelled an indignant Lieutenant Colonel Santíni. “I won’t have this citizen telling any more lies!”
“Please calm yourself. You will have an opportunity, sir, to state your views. The witness may proceed.”
“The guns Santíni brought are in the hands of the other hired men. Whenever they go out to do ‘special services,’ they carry the weapons in a van.”
“What ‘special services’ are you talking about?” asked Colares.
“One time a family farmer out around Itatuba decided not to sell the land he’d inherited. Mr. Agripino let us know about it. He told us the land belonged to Colonel Barros and the guy was squatting out there; he was two years behind in the ground lease and didn’t want to get out. Seeing as the guy had three or four men working for him, we followed in a van driven by Jesuíno. That was a ‘special service.’ ”
“What happened, uncle?”
“We arrived real early; the roosters were crowing. Jesuíno, Vinte e Cinco, Galho Dentro and Bezouro surrounded the main house; I, Pamonha, Peúba, Zezão and Tinguá went out to the bunkhouse where the hired men were sleeping. The shooting began when Vinte e Cinco opened up with his INA submachine gun. We all started firing. That was the one time I used an M-16. I killed one farmworker and wounded another, besides starting a fire in the bunkhouse when I shot out the electricity meter. We buried the victims in a mass grave that Bezouro and I dug.”
“If we order the grave dug up, will you accompany us?” asked Romão.
“Sure. I’m telling what I did to get it off my chest. I came to Sapé to find my brother Elindo and I turned into a bandit, even though I’ve never lost sight of my duty. Whoever takes money from Colonel Barros winds up cursed. That’s what the wanderer Asbal says. He’s also marked for death.”
“Why?” asked Colares.
“The Martinhos learned that a brother of theirs has ties to Asbal. It so happens the brother’s been sent off to die of leprosy in isolation out at the Graúna Mansion, a little above the Ingá Marsh. Besides that crime—visiting the leper—Asbal likes to visit the church of Santa Terezinha that Father Juliano built. So he’s a suspect and anyone who is suspect must die. The man who’ll get rid of him is supposed to be Bezouro.”
Dilermando’s words were softly but firmly spoken. As he continued to speak people grew alarmed. His revelations were surprising. Alice tried not to cry but failed. Sister Genoveva’s eyes were cast downward.
I didn’t know what to think of that man. By what he had just said, he had written his own death warrant. Of all the witnesses who had appeared in court, none had had the audacity to go so far in denouncing the plantation owners. I had taken photos and voluminous notes. I forgot for a moment that I had no place to have them developed but felt helpless once I remembered. I was covering an important case, witnessing a rare jury trial, and yet everything was more or less censored and wouldn’t appear in print. If in previous days, when the testimony had been less significant, The Nation had published hardly anything, why would it give space to Azulão’s daring declarations, which were cascading out as though in a fit of vomiting?
“Dilermando de Albuquerque, I would like you to say something about the deaths of Fazendeiro and Fuba. The crime occurred in ’64. What have you heard about it in your quest for your brother?” asked Romão, pacing back and forth before the jury box.
Azulão rubbed his hands, unruffled, his voice unchanged.
“All I know is what my brother told me. One day I went out toward Mari, and met an old guy named Ariosvaldo Nunes, blind in one eye; he uses a cane to get around. He was seized along with Fazendeiro, Fu
ba and others like Nizi Marinheiro, Laurindo Marques, Durval de Assis, Bento da Gama, Pedro Dantas and Antônio Bolinha, the deposed mayor of Rio Tinto. They were held at the army’s Fifteenth Infantry Regiment. Their crime, according to old Ariosvaldo, was the same as Teixeira’s: they got mixed up with the work of the Peasant League, because the official union, in ’64, had pretty much disbanded or was run by guys fronting for the bosses. Ariosvaldo said Fazendeiro and Fuba were confined in a dark cell, whereas the other prisoners got better treatment. They didn’t have a toilet in that cell, so they had to urinate in cell number one where the other prisoners I named were being held. Mayor Bolinha and Ariosvaldo himself were the friendliest with them. For two days Fazendeiro didn’t show up to urinate and Fuba was in a bad state because of being worked over. Things calmed down for a while after that. The beatings stopped and even the food got better. Old Ariosvaldo recalled he found that rather strange and even mentioned it to the others in cell number one. In a few days the two had recuperated. On September 7 a sergeant opened the peephole and told them to get their things ready because they were going to be set free. What’s more, Ariosvaldo remembered, they got the okay to go to cell number one and say goodbye to their friends. Mayor Bolinha was so pleased with the news that he got the others to pool their money and came up with twenty cruzeiros so they wouldn’t have to go home on foot. As they were walking down Holy Cross Avenue after their release by the Fifteenth Infantry Regiment, a Chevy pickup drove up with oilcloth covering the bed. Both of them were captured. In a remote location, maybe somewhere around Holy Cross, they forced Fazendeiro to make Fuba drink burnt diesel oil. Pedro tried to refuse but they menaced the poor man at knifepoint, so to protect his pal Fuba drank the abacatada, which is what they call that burnt-oil cocktail. Then Fuba was forced to pass along the oilcan to Fazendeiro anyway. The police ordered them to run, but they didn’t. The guys in the van picked up pieces of wood and began to soundly beat them on the back. One blow but was it a whopper! Fuba tried to run and they threw a rock at him. Before Fazendeiro died, they tore off his clothes and castrated him like you would a calf, beating his testicles with a stick. After dying the two were thrown by the side of a township road near Campina Grande. Both had their faces disfigured. That’s how they died.”
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