Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  “Let me touch you, child!”

  Alice stopped for a moment and was surrounded by the curious. To have greeted the ex-senator without fear of contamination had touched off a certain reaction. I was afraid the incident could get blown out of proportion and wanted to mention it to Alice, but contained myself.

  The session was just getting underway. The prosecutor was still adjusting his robe and some court personnel were still arriving. Soares was at his seat, but Magalhães had disappeared. The defendants were sitting on their benches: Batista, Colonel Barros, Cordeiro, Wenceslau and Júlio Martinho, Paula, Aquino, Santos, and Carvalho.

  The courtroom was silent. Dona Zoé Azevedo Câmara, the oldest member of the jury, solemnly walked across an empty space to the judge’s bench, carrying in her hand an sealed envelope. The judge opened it and looked around. His fatigue was palpable.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the jury has unanimously returned a verdict of guilty. It has sentenced the defendants as follows: Batista and Colonel Barros, thirty years’ imprisonment for their complicity in and masterminding of the killing of João Pedro Teixeira; Chief of Police Juarez Cordeiro, twenty-five years; Wenceslau and Júlio Martinho, twenty years each; Luiz de Paula and Luso de Aquino, eighteen years; Segismundo Marcos dos Santos and Guilherme Moreira de Carvalho, twelve years.”

  As soon as the sentences had been announced I ran to the telephone. It was impossible to abandon my role as a reporter at such an important moment. I dialed once, then again, and was able to reach Gordo, who turned me over to Barbosa.

  “The trial was of the greatest importance, guy; something’s happened that you won’t believe. It’s a great moment in the juridical history of this country. The sentences were severe. The ones who got off the lightest still got twelve years in prison. I’m guessing the court will order them to serve their time in João Pessoa.”

  “Jorge old friend, I’ve been meaning to call you. The newspaper’s line has changed. I’m sorry. I’m a professional just like you. I do what they tell me. Imagine if we could be running these stories. I’d be living in seventh heaven. I’ll take down the information, and I’ll talk with Veiga de Castro once again.”

  “See what you can do.”

  “There’s something else,” Barbosa said with a sad voice. “The order is for you to get back down here, tomorrow.”

  “I can’t. There are problems that need working out.”

  “Listen, Jorge. Our life is this newspaper. Forget what happened and get back down here, okay?”

  “I appreciate your thinking of me, but I’m going to hang around. I may stay around here awhile.”

  “Are you crazy or what?”

  “No; I think I’m just discovering myself. Ciao!”

  I went back to the courtroom without a trace of enthusiasm. More police were standing by, led by Lieutenant Sampaio.

  “The Nation isn’t even going to run the result of the trial. What a jerk that editor-in-chief is!”

  “Forget it. Put it behind you.”

  “That’s what I did. They told me to return and I told them I was staying. Maybe for good.”

  Alice put her arm around my shoulders and hugged me affectionately.

  “And the judge—what else did he have to say?”

  “He ordered the defendants to be handcuffed.”

  “That’s a photo I’ve got to take.”

  I grabbed my little camera and maneuvered to a spot next to the prosecutor. A police officer was bringing over a metal box containing a long chain adorned with pairs of handcuffs. Lieutenant Sampaio ratcheted them around the prisoners’ wrists.

  The only man to try to resist the judge’s order was a visibly dejected Guilherme Moreira de Carvalho. A police officer dragged him forcibly and he ended up linked to the others. Wenceslau Martinho was sobbing, while Colonel Barros was purple with anger.

  “I ask the audience to rise so that we may make a solemn proposal to the defendants,” said the judge. “The penalties here handed down may be commuted in the following manner. Those condemned to thirty years can perform community service with the Sapé Rural Workers’ Union. Those who received twenty to twenty-five years may work for charitable organizations whose goal is to reduce begging, principally among children. They must spend their time working with such people in poorhouses, and must also devote some time to helping the incarcerated. Those condemned to twelve to eighteen years will be required to work with Father Juliano and Sister Genoveva in the social work of the church. Being wealthy, and their wealth having derived from many other crimes, as Senator Martinho explained voluntarily, they shall also be required to open schools in poor neighborhoods and to make those school succeed. Guilherme Moreira de Carvalho, a man of culture, may be the director-general of ecclesiastical high schools for poor minors and illiterate adults.

  “I would like to hear the opinion of the defendants. I do not believe that languishing in prison brings about rehabilitation; I believe that each must have the will to correct his ways and live in peace with the community and his conscience. The defendants have five minutes to make up their minds.”

  When people had again taken their seats the room was enveloped in turmoil. Some spoke quietly but others raised their voices, so that the judge had to rap his gavel loudly on the bench. Soares rose and paced back and forth as if to deliver a lengthy argument.

  “Your Honor! Today in this courtroom I have learned more than in all my years as a law professor. Come what may, the Penal Code should be set aside in this case. I am not sure if I’m perceiving reality or if this is just a nightmare. Nevertheless, I appreciate the court’s proposal to set aside the sentences and urge the defendants to accept your humane offer.”

  “Learned counsel for the defense, I appreciate your gracious words,” said Judge Fernandes. “But I would prefer for the defendants to declare their preference of their own free will. I do not want them to declare tomorrow that they were forced to decide one way or another, when I am permitting them to express themselves—a right that could be forfeited at this phase of the proceedings.”

  The police continued to form a circle around the defendants. One of them, Carvalho, stepped forward. He looked at the judge bitterly.

  “In the name of my associates and for myself, we agree to serve our sentences as free men, working according to the orders of his honor the judge.”

  “Let the handcuffs be removed,” ordered Judge Fernandes. “Your duties will begin tomorrow and every day at such time as the workers themselves begin the working day. The local police authorities will make periodic reports on the conduct of the defendants. Any who should decide to flee the city or the country will have their names handed over to the Federal Police. But I doubt that such measures will be necessary—I am certain that they will work for the community’s benefit. Court is adjourned.”

  Few people came up to the defendants, who continued to be guarded by Lieutenant Sampaio’s soldiers. Dr. Jansen and various friends surrounded the judge as Soares tried to leave unobserved. Romão and Colares shook hands. Alice plunged into the crowd to speak with Alves and Father Juliano. I embraced Almeida and joked with him about having growers as union workers. Sister Genoveva seemed to be overcome with emotion.

  I took countless pictures. I had no place to publish them now, but I would keep them for my book. In truth it was there that I should concentrate my efforts. It was crazy to waste time with The Nation.

  The police began to leave, as did the defendants, a sad, silent group. I followed. At the door luxury cars waited, chauffeurs standing, peasants applauding and setting off fireworks.

  “Long live the judge!”

  Judge Fernandes left by a back door that he used only when necessary. He got into a car driven by Antônio Jansen. I lingered a bit to chat with Romão and Colares.

  “What about Azulão?”

  “He’ll get a light sentence that can be commuted. That’s the plan the defense should follow,” said Colares.

  “I’m sure the court will go
along,” said Romão.

  I introduced Alice.

  “Your uncle is a courageous man,” commented Romão. “What do you think about all this?”

  “I’m moved. I never thought Judge Fernandes would be so sensible. If he’d sent those men to prison he’d have been following a safe path. And they would never have gotten to João Pessoa. Imagine those land barons serving their time in the House of Detention!”

  “I liked it, young lady. He was statesmanlike. The judge put aside the Penal Code, as Mr. Soares noted, and brought about his revolution through the medium of the jury trial. Almost everything was unorthodox, beginning with the admission of testimony and the summoning of witnesses. Nobody else would have the nerve to do what he did.”

  “I’d like to talk with him and ask him what he thinks about it all.”

  “Let’s go! Today’s victory should make Judge Fernandes recover quicker.”

  We followed streets whose lit lamps opened pathways into the night. Never had I felt so good. Freed in time and space, relieved of any obligations to The Nation, and enthused about the labor market Judge Fernandes had just created.

  “I liked it when he ordered the men sentenced from twelve to eighteen years to open schools in poor neighborhoods.”

  “Do you think it’ll work? Magalhães is right now preparing to file notices of appeal from the judgments. The appellate courts will be in a panic. How can a judge in the interior of Paraíba decide to ignore the Penal Code and turn the rules of criminal procedure completely upside-down? On the other hand, considering the position of Senator Martinho, who was wallowing in self-flagellation, it’s possible the growers will keep mum and not even ask Magalhães to make new waves. That must be it—although I’m still dazed by seeing the sentencing, the chain and handcuffs, the arms of the powerful seized and the cops dragging them around like a bunch of lowlifes. It was too much! I feel half aluado.”

  “Aluado?”

  “It comes from ‘moon.’ Where I come from it means daffy, crazy or a bit off. A guy who stares at the moon as though he wants to get married to it.”

  We laughed, and Alice clung to me as we walked down the streets without haste. At Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, Sapé’s most imposing church and now candlelit, bells were ringing mournfully as if it were the Day of the Dead.

  “Why are the bells ringing?”

  “Who cares! I don’t want to think about anything unhappy!”

  END

  * * *

  [1] Brazilian novelist, journalist and playwright, born 1829, died 1877, “whose novel O Guarani (1857; ‘The Guarani Indian’) initiated the vogue of the Brazilian Indianista novel (romantic tales of indigenous life incorporating vocabulary of Amerindian origin referring to flora, fauna, and tribal customs). O Guarani . . . depicts the platonic love affair of Perí, a noble savage, and Ceci, the white daughter of a wealthy landowner.” (1 Micropædia, Encyclopædia Britannica (15th ed. 1986) pp. 236-237.)