“Your Honor, seeing how well-informed the witness is with regard to events that occurred so many years ago, I’d like him to tell us how old Ariosvaldo learned details that not even the media knew of, nor any of us, with he being in prison and only getting out in 1967,” said Soares.
“Ariosvaldo was dragged out to be tortured on the night of September 12, a few days after Fazendeiro and Fuba died. He was put in the same room where a gangster named Stanislau was located, a broken man. The reason: during a drinking bout he’d told that he’d driven the van that took the two peasants to their death. In addition, he’d named some police officers—I don’t remember their names anymore. But the nickname of one of those cops was Tesoura and he also lives around Pitombeiras. Two of the others who helped with the massacre everyone in Sapé knows. One is Vinte e Cinco, Colonel Barros’s trusted man, and the other was Galho Dentro, who ended his miserable life in my hands. I’m not sure if I’m mentioning that event with regret or pride.”
“I have no more questions of this witness, Your Honor,” said Romão. “I also thank and dismiss Sister Genoveva and Alice de Albuquerque.”
“Does the defense have any questions of Dilermando Cruz de Albuquerque?”
“At this time, no, Your Honor,” said Soares. “But I am certain that Azulão has yet more to say. At an opportune moment I will require his presence. At least to learn what other crimes he has committed besides those he has admitted to voluntarily.”
Alice, Sister Genoveva and Azulão left, two police officers following. I felt suffocated and anguished. Alice put her head on my chest and cried quietly.
“Why did I go do that?”
“Relax. Azulão said what he had to say.”
“They’re going to kill him.”
“I have an idea,” I said, trying to reanimate her.
“What is it?”
“We can go to Pitombeiras right now, look for Silva’s sister and see if I can get an old photo of him in his military police uniform. If we achieve that, Santíni’s finished.”
“How can we find her?”
“Go down to the holding cell and ask Silva.”
Alice smiled determinedly and prettily.
“I’ve never seen someone so courageous.”
“At the beginning I was shaking.”
“It turned out okay. You acted like a real journalist.”
I had coffee in Dona Inês’s office as Alice went down the corridor.
“Say you’re his niece!”
She turned around and waved.
“What an evil-seeming man that Azulão is, Jorge Elias!”
“He’ll end up doing us a great service, Dona Inês. What worries me about all this is that the trial keeps being drawn out and I’m worried about the judge’s health.”
“According to what Dr. Jansen just told me, he’s better than could have been expected. He cures himself through his drive to work.”
“And the defendants, Dona Inês? Have you ever seen such a well-behaved little gang?”
“That’s what’s scary.”
“‘To everything there is a season.’ By my reckoning, the time to act is drifting away. If they don’t burn down the courthouse today they’ll find it difficult to do it tomorrow. Unless they have some other trick up their sleeve.”
“Like what?”
“You never know. But just think of what Azulão said: the van that got Fazendeiro and Fuba was driven by gangsters and one of them—the young Vinte e Cinco—has been in action since that time as an auxiliary arm of the police, killing and flaying. Why not do it yet again?”
“What about the army, Jorge Elias?”
“There’s only one authority, Dona Inês, and it’s united against the peasants, against workers in general. All power comes from the people. Just kidding, Dona Inês! That’s why this trial is so important.”
“And that man who looks more like a diplomat: what the heck is his name anyway?”
“That’s Guilherme Moreira de Carvalho. He owns almost all the land in Alagoa Grande and Guarabira and some more up in Rio Grande do Norte. He’s the leader of the Lowland Group. Let’s hope Judge Fernandes remembers to treat the case of the Syndicate of Death as a separate issue. Maybe Soares is right: Azulão could still have a lot to say.”
Alice returned, nervous and out of breath.
“How’d it go?”
“When he testified he never really said where Chico Pedro’s sister is. But in fact Dona Amália da Silva—that’s her name—lives right near here, on Napoleão Laureano Street, where she has a fruit stand; it’s called the São José.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Chapter 26
Alice and I walked hand in hand down to the myrtle tree, whose shadow projected onto the sidewalk.
“I’ve complicated my uncle’s life; I’m a disaster,” she said woefully.
“You did what you had to do.”
“And it all started for the sake of my cause.”
“Don’t martyr yourself.”
I took a tissue out of my pocket and lightly dabbed at Alice’s eyes.
“Let’s go find Dona Amália and everything’ll be taken care of.”
Alice forced herself to smile. I resisted turning to kiss her. An old lady who was passing by, open parasol in hand, looked at us with annoyance.
“And what are we going to have to do afterwards?”
“If we can get ahold of a photo of Silva, we’ll discredit Santíni and the whole system of defense that Soares and Carlos Magalhães are constructing. I can’t imagine they’ll stand there quietly, though, while their ship goes down.”
We crossed sun-drenched intersections. A truck from the São José sugarmill had shifted its load and ten tons of cane were lying in the street.
On a block featuring palm trees and a fragment of a wall we spotted the São José fruit stand, its name outlined in red on a small pine board. On the counter there were pineapples, mangoes, oranges and lots of myrtle fruit, filling small baskets made of cane straw. Other baskets hung from nails inside the hut. Alice appeared to be attracted by the variety of produce. No one was inside to attend to customers, so I rapped my pen on a jar that was full of rock candy. An overweight mixed-race woman at least fifty years old emerged, bubbly and eager to please.
“How much is one of these mini-baskets here?” Alice asked.
“Dirt cheap, my friend!” said the vendor. “And if you buy two, you’ll get a discount.”
“I’d like them. Can you gift wrap?”
“Could I use the bathroom?” I interjected.
“Of course. It’s right back there.”
I left my papers and pen on the counter and went inside. Alice continued to make small talk, asking about this and that. I looked at the pictures on the wall of the room. The largest of all showed a black couple: a woman with a pretty comb in her hair and a man in a blue suit that, in the hand-tinted photograph, looked even bluer. Beside this portrait, which was set in an oval frame, there were only pictures of famous performing artists and soccer players, cut from magazines.
Frustrated, I snuck into the bedroom. Lace doilies decorated the furniture. The bed was covered with a patchwork quilt. On the dresser lay a dusty old photo album, which I opened. The first page revealed children standing in the doorway of a church on their first communion day. Others contained photos of all sorts and sizes, including three- by four-inch portraits. I scanned them all as fast as I could, finding two photos of Amália with her brothers Juca and Francisco Pedro. They were not useful, however, so I closed the album and went out to the modest porch where the bathroom was. What a surprise: on the main wall, next to a picture of Christ in Heaven, in an aluminized frame, was an eight-by-twelve-inch blowup of Amália embracing her brother, outfitted in a soldier’s uniform. It included an autograph. I couldn’t even take in what it said: knowing that that was exactly the photograph I’d been looking for left me somewhat breathless. I took the frame off the wall and went into the bathroom, tried to detac
h the photo as best I could, and stuck it under my jacket. Never had I felt such intense simultaneous sensations of anguish and happiness. To have under my control the “material proof,” to use the legal words, that would discredit Santíni and his peers filled me with a satisfaction that only reporters can feel.
I returned to the hut, drying my hands on a towelette. There were two packages sitting on one side of the counter. Amália was carefully arranging the gift-wrapping on the third.
“How much do we owe you?”
As the woman began to total the amount, I winked at Alice so as to put her at ease.
“Ninety-eight thousand. But I’ll round it to ninety,” said Amália, still in a good mood.
I counted out the notes on the counter and we took our leave. I carried two packages, Alice the other.
“I don’t know what to do with so much fruit. Why’d you take so long?”
“Because I was way too methodical, like a copy-boy! On the walls of the living room and bedroom there was nothing of interest. I was beginning to think we wouldn’t make it. But then I went out on the back porch and here’s the result.”
I opened my jacket and pulled out the photo.
“And it’s autographed by the man himself!” yelled Alice. “It couldn’t be better.”
We laughed. I took her by the hand.
“Know what I’m thinking, when all this turmoil dies down? Let’s go to João Pessoa and spend two days in a nice hotel. With nobody to bother us.”
“Where will we get the money?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What if I refuse?”
“I’ll have to convince you.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Alice, squeezing my hand.
I felt carefree and even a little irresponsible. I wasn’t worrying about the stories in The Nation. But when the money ran out, how would I make a living in this city of land barons and their henchmen?
With Alice alongside, I felt almost overly confident—I was making plans; I could work in Natal; perhaps we could move to Recife. One way or another, I didn’t want the dream to end.
“When do you think the trial will be over?”
“Hard to say. Especially now that we’re about to stir up a hornets’ nest.”
“My uncle warned that the gangsters are about to surround the courthouse.”
“I’m aware of it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“There are so many things going on that it’s easy to forget stuff. Keep in mind that the gangsters are as well-armed as they always have been. What’s new is that their bosses are sitting there in the prisoners’ dock. So are they going to blow up the courthouse? I doubt it!”
Alice shook her head, worried.
“What is it?”
“My uncle wants to kill the defendants.”
“A stupid idea. The worst punishment is what Judge Fernandes has already been meting out. He’s exacting retribution like no court ever has. They’re dragging out the trial with the defendants exposed to public view. All of Sapé society is there. Don’t be fooled that their men are going to show up sooner or later. I myself plan to write a book that will feature them on every page. If they think that won’t do any harm, they’re wrong. It’ll be even worse. People read papers, then forget them the next day. A book has staying power.”
“I like to hear you talk with that attitude.”
I put my arm around Alice’s shoulder, and thus we walked toward the courthouse. At the entrance I explained our packages’ origin and started to open them. “They’re fruits and candies,” said Alice to a police officer.
In Dona Inês’s office I sat down on an armchair and turned to examine the photo carefully.
“Just look what we came up with!”
Dona Inês drew over to take a look.
“It’s Chico Pedro. With an autograph and everything,” exclaimed Alice.
“My God, what luck for Judge Fernandes!”
“What’s been happening here?”
“Mr. Soares keeps blathering on. He threatened to ask for federal intervention in Sapé if the trial continued to be carried on in a manner he considers irresponsible—with false testimony, he said.”
“Don’t worry about it, Dona Inês. In a short time his goose is going to be cooked. If Sister Genoveva left, ask her to return. This picture is going to leave Santíni’s jaw agape.”
I ate a piece of myrtle fruit and left the room with Alice. The trial was continuing with an inflammatory statement by Magalhães.
“It seems to me, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that we are transforming a jury trial into a symbol of revenge. But bear in mind that when President João Figueiredo gives the nod to political openness it doesn’t mean society is willing to tolerate the renewed agitation of Red rabble-rousers—union organizers and members of the Peasant Leagues—from where it left off in ‘64. The whole country was overwhelmed by labor unrest then, in the city as well as in the countryside. It’s worth noting that work in favor of subversion is hardly productive. The production of wealth, especially of crops, depends on men like those before you. Though they are now scorned, they do provide immense payrolls to keep poor families from total poverty; they contribute to the state’s economic competitiveness; they are captains of industry, the living hopes of the nation. It is incomprehensible that this court did not summon them one by one to give testimony in accordance with the rules of criminal procedure….”
“Mr. defense attorney, as I decided earlier, the criminal procedure rules governing the conduct of jury trials may be altered in moments of crisis, such as the one that now confronts us. For this reason some measures that may strike you as arbitrary have had to be taken. But be assured that we in no way intend to display the defendants like scarecrows in a wheatfield. We seek by all means the fulfillment of the law’s obligations. When one works with this objective, you may be sure that our methods are legitimate. Please proceed, and more objectively this time.”
“I have concluded my comments, Your Honor,” said Magalhães, somewhat chastened.
Romão rose. He paced as if mocking Soares. Dr. Jansen was on the other side of the room. I asked Alice to save my seat while I tried to have a word with him.
“When you take the judge his medication, please tell him I’ve got a bombshell.”
“What is it?”
“An eight-by-twelve photo of Silva outfitted in his military police uniform and everything. It has an autograph dated August 1961: the time that Santíni commanded the military police in João Pessoa.”
Dr. Jansen looked at me with delight. He smiled broadly.
“Odilon’s fatigue is going to fade away when he hears this.”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” said the prosecutor. “The norms that this court has adopted have been the object of complaints. Clearly, learned defense counsel have already said many times that this trial is authoritarian, and, reading between the lines, that we are committing fraud. Now, this is absurd; rather, we are being democrats. Were we authoritarian, in truth the jury would have retired long ago on the court’s instruction to deliberate the guilt of Batista for the death of Teixeira, his nephew; and whether he is guilty for the terrible pain that his daughter Elizabeth Teixeira has suffered. She was an object of hostility for loving her husband, a black man with his own political ideas. Let us not forget that there is a racist component to some of the testimony we have heard. We are not authoritarian, noble colleagues for the defense, nor are we acting precipitously. At no time have we shown disrespect for this or that defendant. We have limited ourselves to hearing the witnesses, including those summoned by the defense itself. We may recall the simple and frank testimony of the prophet Asbal, called to the stand by Dr. Soares. If the witness ended up being more useful to the prosecution, what blame does the court bear for that? Moreover, I must emphasize, ladies and gentlemen, that we have been accused of trying to discredit particular members of the highest echelon of society. We are not
concerned about these insidious tirades. As a minister of justice, I try to fulfill my duty as a member of the community to which I belong. I do not fear the results of any appeal to the Supreme Court, because any justice who reads the record will support our actions. I do not fear threats, nor do I retreat in the face of those who have accustomed themselves to permissiveness and corruption and now find themselves inconvenienced. That is what I had to say, Your Honor.”
When Romão had finished his speech, Dr. Jansen whispered into the judge’s ear. His countenance changed; he smiled and rapped his gavel for silence. The lights continued to burn, giving an elegant air to the courtroom, whose blue curtains and large pictures on the walls contrasted with the red carpet. The clerk wiped perspiration off his face with a handkerchief. Lieutenant Colonel Santíni, who had asked permission to leave, returned. He had been told he was free to go but decided that he preferred to remain. The police stayed at their posts; Wenceslau and Martinho spoke in low tones. The judge pulled up his microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this court deems it worthwhile to recall Lieutenant Colonel Santíni. There is a question about the contents of the military police registry book that he brought me. Will Lieutenant Colonel Santíni please tell me if this is exactly the registry of military police personnel from João Pessoa at the time he commanded this important agency? Will he also please specify the time during which he was in command?”
Land of Black Clay Page 33
