The Ways of Evil Men (9 page)

“I want him here,” Jade said, “or I wouldn’t have brought him.

Castori opened his mouth and turned to the delegado for support.

But he didn’t get it. “She’s the FUNAI agent,” Borges said. “Sorry, Father, but it’s her call. This is a political hot potato, and I intend to play it by the book.”

The delegado stood up, snagged a ring of keys from a hook on the wall, and led the way to a door in the far wall. Jade, Osvaldo and the priest trailed along behind them.

“We tried to pump some coffee into him,” Borges said over his shoulder. “But he made a face and spit it out.”

He opened the door and entered a corridor with two cells
on either side. Amati was in the last one on the left. His eyes lit up when he saw Jade and Osvaldo.

“Looks like hell, doesn’t he?” Borges said. “He must have the mother of all hangovers.”

Amati did, indeed, look like hell. His eyes were bloodshot, a discolored lump was on his left temple, and the clothing Jade had given him was covered with stains.

“Torres’s blood,” Borges said. “Let’s start by asking him what he had against Omar.”

Jade was about to object to the nature of the question, but the priest, in his haste to regain the role of translator, spoke first, eliciting an indignant reply from the Indian.

“He says he didn’t have anything against Omar Torres,” Osvaldo stepped in before the priest could render Amati’s words into Portuguese. “He doesn’t even know who Omar Torres is.”

“Liar!” the priest said.

Jade turned on him. “Your opinion, Father, isn’t germane to this interview.”

“And what’s
your
opinion, Senhorita Calmon? Do you think this murdering savage is innocent?”

“How about both of you cool down?” Borges said. “You,” he pointed at Osvaldo. “Ask him where he got the cachaça.”

Osvaldo put forward the question and translated the reply.

“He wants to know what cachaça is.”

“Oh,
please
,” the priest said.

“You disagree with that translation, Father?” Borges said.

“No,” Castori said, “but—”

“Then please let him do what he came here for. Go on, Osvaldo, tell him what cachaça is.”

When the answer came back, the priest opened his mouth to object.

Borges put a hand on his arm. “One more interruption, Father, and I’ll have to ask you to wait outside.”

“I told him it’s a drink that makes people crazy,” Osvaldo said. “He said we should ask Father Calmon because he knows all about the stuff. Then he said his head hurts. And he wants to know why you have him locked up.”

“Tell him.”

Osvaldo did. Amati’s eyebrows went up in surprise. He shook his head in denial.

“He says he didn’t kill anyone.”

The priest scoffed.

Borges shot him a cautionary look before posing his next question. “If he had nothing against Torres, and he didn’t kill him, what was he doing in that alley?”

Amati’s response was a long one. He ended it by touching the lump on his temple, a gesture that caused him to wince.

“He said he’s a light sleeper,” Osvaldo translated. “When someone came into his room, it woke him up. He turned his head toward the door, but he couldn’t see much because the corridor was dark. My corridors usually are, by the way, because the lights work on timers—saves me a bundle on electricity.”

“You don’t have to editorialize,” Borges said. “Just translate.”

“Okay. So a light went on, shining right into his eyes. It blinded him. Sounds to me, from what he said next, that it was a flashlight, one of those big ones. He thought I was the one who was holding it because Jade wouldn’t visit him in the middle of the night, and no one else knew he was there. He called out my name and asked what I wanted. He didn’t get an answer. The light came closer. He asked again. Still no answer, but the light kept moving. It came right up to his hammock and then something hit him hard, right there.” Osvaldo pointed to the lump. “And that’s it. That’s all he remembers. Next thing he knew, he was waking up here. And he wants to know if we can give him something to take away his headache.”

“And we’re supposed to believe that?” the priest asked.

Osvaldo turned on him. “You claim to know everything there is to know about the Awana, Father. But let me tell you something: if you think he’s lying, it proves you don’t know shit.”

“How
dare
you talk to me that way!”

“The Awana don’t lie! Truth is programmed into their genes.”

“And there’s Indian blood in yours, so of course you’d defend him even though it’s obvious—”

“What’s obvious, you damned fool, is that somebody knocked him out, forced alcohol down his throat, and set him up to take the fall for—”

“Shut up,” Borges said. “Both of you. Okay, Senhorita Calmon, now you’ve heard his side of the story. Kind of a tall one, if you ask me.”

“I don’t recall asking you, Delegado.”

“No need to get snippy. All I’m after here is justice. Any more questions?”

“Not at the moment, but there’s something else we have to discuss and before we do—” She looked at the priest. “I’d like him to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the priest said.

“Sorry, Father,” Borges said, “but she’s within her rights. So you’re going to have to.”

The priest sniffed at Borges, narrowed his eyes at Jade and left without uttering another word. Seconds later, they heard the front door slam.

Borges smiled. “A little advice for both of you: don’t attend communion in this town ever again. If you do, it’s likely you’ll find something nasty slipped into your wafer.”

“I never attend his church anyway,” she said.

“And I never will again,” Osvaldo said.

“Okay, Senhorita Calmon, out with it. What did you want to say?”

“You have no jurisdiction over the Awana. As a representative of the FUNAI, I’m making an official request that you release this man into my custody.”

Borges’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Are you kidding? Did you see that crowd outside?”

“How could we miss them?”

“You see how pissed off they are about this?”

“They were quite vocal about it.”

“One of the women,” Osvaldo said, “spit in her face. Another one kicked me in the shin.”

“Which is why,” Jade said, “we want to get Amati out of here and take him to a place of safety.”

“A place of safety? Around here? There’s no place safer than my jail.”

“I intend to bring him to the airport and fly him to Belem. He can be incarcerated there until we sort this out.”

“No way,” Borges said, shaking his head.

“You’re refusing?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“The murder took place here in Azevedo, which means I’m in charge. And until a court tells me otherwise, he’s
my
suspect, and he’s going to stay in
my
jail. You have every right to get a lawyer and try to get him moved. Meanwhile, I intend to do my duty.”

“You’re making a mistake, Delegado. Can’t you see that his life—”

“
Moreover
,” Borges said, stressing the word as he rode roughshod over her objection. “Even if I was willing to turn him loose, which I’m not, there is no way you’d ever get him out of here. They’re around in back as well.”

There was a door with a glass pane at the end of the corridor. Osvaldo frowned, went there, and looked through it. “He’s right. Not as many, but just as mad.”

Jade bit her lip. “All right,” she said. “But it’s your job to keep this man safe until I—”

“You don’t have to tell me my job, Senhorita Calmon, but if those people out there storm this jail, I’m not going to start shooting my fellow citizens in an attempt to stop them.”

“So you’re not prepared to lift a finger to help him?”

“A finger, yes. A firearm, no.”

“And if they break in and attempt to take him?”

“I won’t wound anyone, much less kill anyone. It’s a question of the greatest good for the greatest number. Those people out there are acting out of a sense of justice. They’re good people, most of them. They believe in an eye for an eye, and since there’s no death penalty in this country—”

“They want to kill him.”

“That’s my guess. And it’s also my guess that they wouldn’t be averse to killing
me
if I tried to stop them.”

“S
O WHAT NOW
?” O
SVALDO
asked, studying the angry crowd through the front window of the
delegacia
. It had become larger—and Father Castori had joined it.

“I want you to call Federal Police headquarters in Belem,” Jade said. “Try to get in touch with a Chief Inspector Silva.”

“Not that guy Barbosa?”

“No. Silva.”

“Okay. Who’s he? And what do you want me to tell him?”

“He’s a man they’re sending to investigate the genocide.”

“From Belem?”

“From Brasilia. I’ve only spoken to him by telephone, but he made a good impression. I left him a message earlier this morning, but that was before we talked to Amati and before this crowd gathered. I want you to update him on what’s happening, tell him to get here just as quickly as he can.”

“What if I don’t manage to talk to him?”

“Talk to Barbosa. Ask him to pass the message along.”

“All right. What are you going to be doing in the meantime?”

“Talking to Kassab and seeing if there isn’t some way we can pry Amati loose from Borges and get him out of town.”

They opened the door. The shouting got louder. A few people detached themselves from the group and followed Osvaldo toward his hotel. A much larger party, about a dozen in all, surrounded Jade, kept pace with her on her way to Kassab’s office, and heaped abuse upon her every step of the way.

“Indian lover!”

“
Cretina!
”

“Go home, bitch!”

Kassab’s receptionist, shocked by their arrival, locked the door as soon as Jade was inside. Then she called her boss.

The lawyer emerged, left both women in his waiting room, and went outside to talk to the demonstrators. Less than a minute later, the crowd was moving back the way they’d come, and the lawyer was ushering Jade into his inner-sanctum.

“What did you say to them?”

“I appealed to their reason. Now, what can I do for you?”

She suspected it was more than that, suspected he’d told them things he was unwilling to tell her, but there was no time to lose.

“I’d like to hire you on behalf of the FUNAI to represent the Indian, Amati. Delegado Borges is—”

Kassab held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Senorita Calmon, I can’t help you.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

He sighed. “Look. I’d be the first to agree that everyone, even a murdering savage, has a right to a fair trial. But no one in this town would ever forgive me if I were to speak in defense of that Indian.”

“Tell me this, Senhor Kassab: how much of what’s going on out there”—she pointed in the direction of the
delegacia—
“is about justice and how much is about getting rid of an impediment to having the reservation declassified?”

“In all honesty? It’s probably more about the latter, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Didn’t you just say he had a right to a fair trial?”

“I did. And I stand by that statement.”

“So what do you suggest I do?”

“Bring in a public defender from Belem. Ask him to—”

“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “What’s that?”

Kassab paused to listen. The tumult on the street grew louder. A shot was fired, then another.

“Unless I miss my guess,” he said, scratching his chin, “that’s an indication your Indian isn’t going to need a lawyer after all.”

T
HE AIRPORT AT
A
ZEVEDO
consisted of a parking lot, a red earth runway, and a one-room shack. The parking lot was empty, the runway was so short that their pilot had to stand on his brakes to stop the landing roll before they plowed into a stand of trees, and the shack was locked.

“Strange,” the pilot said, rattling the door. “I wonder what happened to the kid.”

“What kid?” Silva said.

“He holds down the office. His old man owns those Cessnas.” The pilot pointed out two 172s with identical paint jobs. “The kid has been flying them since he was twelve. They get him more ass than a toilet seat.”

“At least there’s somebody in this town who knows how to show a girl a good time,” Maura said. “What do the other boys do for amusement?”

“Probably stay friends with the kid,” Arnaldo said. “So what’s your best guess for what’s going on? Local festival, maybe?”

The pilot shook his head. “There’s only one, and it was last month. Must be something else.”

“How far are we from the Grand Hotel?”

“Too far to walk.” The pilot started fishing in the leather bag he was carrying. “But somewhere in here … ah, here it is.” He brandished a business card. “Azevedo’s only cab driver.” He took out his mobile phone. “Now if their goddamned phone tower isn’t down again …”

It wasn’t. The cab showed up five minutes later. Arnaldo,
the bulkiest of the four, took the seat in front. The others crowded into the back.

“Heard about the lynching?” were the first words the driver said after he’d greeted them.

“What lynching?” Silva asked.

“Where to?”

“The Grand Hotel. What lynching?”

“An Indian killed a white man. They stormed the jail, took him out, and strung him up.”

“No kidding?” the pilot said. He sounded interested.

“No kidding. It was one hell of a show.”

“Show?” Arnaldo grumbled. “Where do you get off, calling a lynching a show?”

The guy behind the wheel shot him a sour look. “You ever see one?”

“No.”

“Then the way I figure it, I’m the expert, not you. It was a show.”

“When?” Silva said.

The driver glanced in the rear view mirror. “Just a few hours ago,” he said. “You guys going to smoke, or should I turn on the air conditioning?”

“Turn on the air conditioning,” Silva said. “Where were the police?”

“The Delegado came out with a shotgun and waved it around a bit.”

“But?”