“Who told you all this?”
“My uncle. He talks from time to time with Father Juliano. One of these days I’d like you to meet him.”
“What type of salary is Father Juliano paying?”
“You’re awfully used to this salary business, having to get paid on a specific date!”
“Isn’t that the way it is? What’s the alternative?”
“Dunno. For me there’s always been something. Next week I’ll be starting work with the women at Santa Terezinha Church. We’re going to make a day nursery. Father Juliano will be our guide.”
“How much will you earn?”
“Nothing. Maybe a plate of food.”
Was I talking to a nut case? What did Alice mean by this ridiculous conversation?
“We should get back to the trial.”
“Know how many children will initially enroll in the nursery? Eighty!”
We walked along. I decided to take a risk. Alice was keeping silent. She didn’t seem exactly bored, but she had an air of indifference, as if disillusioned. I felt embarrassed. I had never experienced the feeling of being the reason for someone’s disappointment. Only our footsteps broke the silence on the cobblestoned street. Although the houses’ windows were open, they seemed uninhabited. Along the wide sidewalks, the trees lined up green and static.
“If The Nation isn’t interested in my reporting, I may write a book. It may even be better.”
Alice looked at me—her face lit up with happiness. Her eyes resumed their tranquil but penetrating appearance.
“Really?”
“Sure. Beside the accusations in the trial itself, I’m going to gather whatever information I can on peasants, unions, and plantation owners. It should make for a curious history.”
“Well, you can count on me. I’ll be your research assistant, if you won’t mind.”
“It’s you I’m counting on.”
Alice stopped. I took her hands: cold and nervous. I smiled and kissed her. For an instant she put her face in my hands. I looked into her eyes. I was mad for Alice and couldn’t disguise it.
“I love you.”
“Me too.”
We walked hand in hand. I felt comforted to be with her, my doubts and fears lessened. Now I knew what I wanted. Barbosa must undertake to make the publication of my stories possible. One more two-column story and I’d consider my mission complete. I thought of Barbosa, Vinhaes, and Gordo. I knew well how displeased they were by the shift in the newspaper’s line. But what to do? I had regained my ability to comprehend things. No more fits of temper. Alice was right. There were two choices: return to Rio so as not to lose my minor job at the newspaper, or stay in Sapé carrying out the work of a real reporter, bold and passionate.
The hubbub surrounding the courthouse had become intense. Never had a jury trial dragged out so long, much less there in Sapé. I saw Judge Fernandes, Dr. Jansen, Romão, Colares and some friends in a relaxation room. The judge sat in his armchair. He held up his head and had stretched out his long legs and removed his shoes.
“Think I’ll make it, Jansen?”
“You’re in great shape. The harder you work the quicker you recover. It’s a phenomenon I don’t understand.”
Judge Fernandes smiled, keeping his eyes closed.
“How are you?” asked Dr. Jansen. “And The Nation?”
“They’re going back on their word!”
“Don’t worry, Jorge Elias,” said Judge Fernandes. “I know some people in the editorial management. At least two of them are from Paraíba and own land all over here.”
“Then why were they giving so much display to the stories initially?”
“It was a question of opportunity. They latched onto a good reporter like yourself and sent him up here.”
“Yesterday’s edition has an advertisement from the Sugarcane Planters’ Association.”
“It’s not surprising. I was surprised when I saw that two-page story with everything just as I’d said it. Right afterward they got complaints from members of the association and naturally things changed. What won’t change is the rhythm of this trial. Colonel Barros strikes me as scared. Soares too…. José is making them nervous.”
“Who, me?” said Romão. “They began to get nervous when you let the wives of the fifty-two victims present themselves with their documents, proving objectively that someone committed the crimes and that Cordeiro knew nothing about it.”
“That’s been the high point of the trial until now,” commented Dr. Jansen.
“Did you see how Colonel Barros glared at Alves?” said Romão.
“He was furious and disappointed,” agreed Judge Fernandes. “As soon as the detachment arrived, he knew something had changed in our favor. For that reason, we’re going to move the trial along quickly and without interruption. While they try to regroup, we’ll move onward.”
Alice took notes. Sitting in the gallery were Father Juliano, Almeida, Marinho, and Alves, the piano teacher Judite Nepomuceno, the physician Vivaldo Amaral, the Protestant pastor Benedito Marques, members of the Rotary Club, the barber Heitor Silva, the public-market administrator Sinval de Lucena, and Dona Odete Viana, director of a girls’ orphanage, one of the city’s best-known denizens. Some of the spectators had relatives on the jury. Others were there out of pure curiosity. The Rotary Club representatives were friends of Colonel Barros, Cordeiro, and Soares.
Outside, loudspeakers transmitted the resumed session. Street vendors’ sales of pastries and soft drinks had risen. A fifteen-year-old black girl interjected herself among knots of people engaged in conversation, offering candy, her tray covered with a clean, ironed linen cloth, with embroidery the same color as the cloth itself. I would later discover she was Heleninha, trying to motivate prospective buyers.
“Help me out by buying something, man!”
Beneath a tree, listening to what the other men were saying, could be seen Azulão, Zé Anta, Bezouro, Jesuíno and Pamonha. Several police officers, from both the local police and the special detachment, lounged nearby. A truck loaded with sugarcane broke its differential on Getúlio Vargas Avenue, near the courthouse. The driver and two helpers worked on it. Some peasants had tied up their horses to tree trunks. Women joined the throng, lugging small children who clung to their necks. The elderly wore hats, while the young sat on the curb. Judge Fernandes’s voice sounded throughout the area, measured and firm.
“I would remind the distinguished members of the jury that last session closed with fifty-two mothers and wives of dead peasants, who produced documents showing their degree of relation to the deceased. Those documents are under my control and can be consulted by the jurors.”
The judge paused, looking at the gallery, the jurors, the police standing guard, and the four corners of the room. In the third row, Alves appeared to be the most confident person in the world. Her glance was that of one who expected justice to enter that closed, gloomy fastness. Judge Fernandes was trying to transform weakness into strength.
“This tribunal sits in judgment of Colonel Barros, Chief Cordeiro, and Batista, accused of belonging to the criminal organization entitled the Lowland Group, sustainer of the Syndicate of Death in the Jungle Zone, which includes the township of Sapé. Let the defendants be brought in.”
The audience rustled; some people stood up. It was the first time that the accused, all at once, were appearing in public. I rose excitedly and clicked off photos with my Olympus-Pen camera. Colonel Barros walked in front, followed by Batista and Cordeiro. The three looked serious. Four military police accompanied them. The jurors did not look surprised. Dona Zoé Albuquerque craned her neck, but another juror gave her a withering look and she shrank back.
“Your Honor, I object to this unnecessary parading of my clients. They are being treated as though they were criminals,” said Soares in his practiced manner.
“Learned counsel for the defense, I am doing nothing more than having the defendants present themselves in a normal manner. It i
s for you, sir, to defend them as the law allows you. But keep in mind that the court will not tolerate insinuations.”
“Your Honor, I intended no insolence,” continued the defense lawyer. “But given that the defendants came in all at once, I cannot help but suggest that today Sapé lives its saddest day—a day in which institutions capitulate before the disorder of exotic ideologies. It is the communists who wish to drag this city and this nation into chaos. The men who are here belong to the highest echelon of Paraíban society; they create wealth and generate great exports. Thanks to them there is no unemployment in Paraíba, and any poor person who wishes to work can always find something to do. To accuse them of crimes is ludicrous, and I am embarrassed to be a part of it. I ask the members of the jury to reflect upon this and upon their responsibility. It is these men we accuse today who are responsible for the livelihood of thousands of people. But instead of praising them, we have decided to mock them, as if work were a serious crime.”
Judge Fernandes rapped his gavel forcefully. At the same time he asked for silence, he eyed Soares. The climate was tense.
“Learned counsel for the defense: once again I must remind you, sir, that we are here, presiding over this trial, not because we wish to set the scene for the demoralization of anyone here. Our role is to see that the law is obeyed, that crime does not take on the character of a legal act. If counsel has nothing further, the prosecutor may proceed.”
Romão rose as Soares whispered into Colonel Barros’s ear. Events were happening so quickly, and so many people had squeezed into the courtroom’s doorway, that I decided to continue taking notes and pictures. Alice helped to take down interesting anecdotes involving the people who filled the gallery. It was her idea, too, to compose a profile of the jurors. I felt tired, even somewhat chastened, but not defeated. I would send another story to test Veiga de Castro’s reaction. If the material was cut again, the position of The Nation would be clear.
After Romão’s talk, which lasted more than twenty minutes, the session was interrupted. This time the cause came from outside. Agitated union members ran into the courtroom and began to yell:
“They’ve killed another peasant!”
The soldiers who made up the police reinforcement moved toward them. The unionists retreated, me behind them, followed by Alice. In the street there was great consternation. Almeida had climbed onto a truck flatbed covered with workers. He was speaking and gesticulating angrily. Men nearby applauded, while many others brandished machetes and scythes. Atop boxes of fruit on the flatbed, covered with a rough cloth, lay the body of a man, his feet protruding. I lifted the cloth and was horrified to see that it was Luís.
Almeida was replaced by a young, agitated black man. As he spoke he waved a carnaúba hat.
“The assassin of our friend Luís is the hoodlum known as Jonas, from Pitombas Plantation, which belongs to Júlio Martinho. Judge Fernandes himself has to order his arrest. We don’t trust Cordeiro’s police.”
I took photos of Almeida and of the next speaker. The girl who had been selling candies stood near Luís’s body. Alice called her by name:
“Heleninha, go home!”
“Why, auntie?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t want you mixed up with trouble.”
Heleninha drifted off, offering candies as she went.
“Who is she?”
“My adopted sister.”
“She’s an expert, that Heleninha.”
“She helps with expenses. Does more than I do.”
“Don’t worry about it. You can remain as my assistant.”
“Card-carrying?”
“Maybe even more than that.”
The street vendor gave us cups of passion-fruit ice cream.
“What do you think will happen?”
“I’m afraid of a riot or a shootout or something like that. The union people are hopping mad. If the judge puts more pressure on the defendants, things could really get out of hand.”
“Good stuff for your newspaper.”
“We’ll see if they publish it this time. If not, I’ll write that book.”
Alice flashed a pretty smile, sweetly, her eyes enigmatic.
“That might be the wisest course. For my part, I’m going to stay in Sapé.”
“Why?”
“Dunno really. It was here they did away with my father or, in the best scenario, he’s stashed away on someone’s land as a cabrocó.”
I didn’t know what to say to Alice, so I praised the passion-fruit ice cream.
“If the paper doesn’t play up my reporting, I’ll devote myself to my new life. When I’m not working on the book, I’ll help the church and union people here.”
Alice embraced me, running her hands through my hair and brushing my face lightly with her lips. I felt a strange emotion. I wanted to grab ahold of her right there and squeeze her. But our attention was diverted by another orator. It was Father Juliano, who displayed Luís’s bullet-riddled shirt. The crowd was at least eight hundred strong, filling Gentil Lins Street and a good part of Presidente Vargas Avenue. Father Juliano’s voice was strident:
“Once again a plantation assassin’s hand has armed itself and brutally killed a peasant—a young man with a family and much hope for the future. Sapé is the poorer for seeing one of its sons killed. And why, O God? Why?”
Father Juliano’s words resounded like blows in the late afternoon, red streaks in the sky. Some women wept. Heleninha, who had not gone home as ordered, stopped selling candy.
“We know the assassin’s name and we demand he be arrested immediately. Judge Fernandes must take the proper steps, for we have no confidence in the Sapé police.”
The applause was prolonged. More men and women were arriving, some on horseback. Alice, who had gone back to the courtroom, returned looking frightened.
“It’s completely out of control in there.”
“Out of control?”
“The judge is going to recess the trial, but the defendants will stay in custody, which Soares doesn’t like.”
I ran with Alice back to the courthouse. The police were brandishing their weapons ostentatiously. Judge Fernandes was banging his gavel over and over. Soares, beside himself, was making an inflammatory speech.
“To order the detention of the accused is beyond the pale and the court well knows this. We are not faced with criminals or people who have committed any public offense; we see before us, yes indeed, landowners, men who until today have worked solely for the development of Sapé, of the state, and of Brazil….”
“Distinguished defense counsel, stop your speech or I will be obliged to order your substitution.”
“Noé Batista, Colonel Barros and Chief of Police Cordeiro, Your Honor, are people of the greatest dignity, exemplary citizens and heads of family.”
“Court is recessed and the defendants will remain in custody. The commander of the detachment, Lieutenant Abílio Sampaio, will carry out the order of the court.”
The judge withdrew, looking unwell. Dr. Jansen tried to follow him as the spectators stood on their feet and the jurors tried to make themselves scarce. Colonel Barros’s lawyers tried to spark a reaction, but the police formed two lines with the accused in the middle. One man began to yell: “Communists! Communists!” Two military police seized his arms and began to remove him from the courtroom. It was Alcides the taxi-driver.
Because the courthouse was small, the holding cell was located in an adjacent annex. Soldiers and defendants went out the back and crossed a patio to the annex, which was lined with heavy bars. The only one to complain was Cordeiro.
“Judge Fernandes is off his rocker. When I get out of here I’m going to the Secretary of Security. Sapé can’t remain at the mercy of a judge who’s a mental retard.”
Two military police from the state capital detachment were posted outside the grates. The ambience was fairly calm, although the noise of the crowd in the streets could be heard.
“I don’t think
the judge is crazy, chief,” said Colonel Barros. “I think, more and more, that we’ve got to strengthen ourselves. He’s caught us in a moment of weakness. Don’t you think so, Batista?”
“No doubt, colonel. We’re paying to learn. When the leftists began to plot what today is a union, we consented. Then came Father Juliano and things began to take shape from their point of view. They know what they’re doing. We sat looking, reacting to events.”
“Me, if I could, I’d throw them all out of Sapé,” said Juarez Cordeiro. “Including that crazy judge. It wasn’t for nothing that Dona Lourdes took off. She was real smart. How can you put up with a mental defective?”
“If they’re thinking of revenge, they’ll live to regret it,” warned Colonel Barros. “I’ll have that courthouse razed and everything else around here. If they want war, they can have one.”
“I’d rather wait, Barros,” said Batista. “It’s better to take one day at a time. Let’s see what shape the judge’s actions take—whether he sticks with it. That way we’ll really teach him a lesson.”
Cordeiro found this idea funny. On the other side of the bars, the soldiers continued to stand guard. Intense noise drifted over from the street.
A court employee appeared, bringing a note for Colonel Barros. He handed it first to a guard, who opened and read it, then handed it to its intended recipient. Colonel Barros looked at him with indignation, then read the note, which was from Soares:
“I’m getting in touch with Presiding Judge Arruda Pinheiro to try to get the detention order vacated.”
Chapter 19
That night, with trial in recess, Alice and I went to Santa Terezinha Church in the Nova Brasília neighborhood. Heleninha also wanted to go, but Alice reminded her she had school the next day.
“Do you think you can just wander around here as if you owned Sapé?”
“The idea is to take a chance on it. While the trial’s going on, they’ll likely lie low a bit.”
“What about Luís? You’ll see—he was killed in retaliation for the trial.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I think he went to settle an old score and ran into trouble.”
Land of Black Clay Page 23
