For a long time there was no reply. The old judge stared off into the distance, as if trying to retain a memory of the vast land before him should he see it no more. Then he turned to Wilson, studying the shorter man’s face, seeking out the eyes.
“There is no Death Squad in Paraíso,” he said quietly; and then added with bitterness. “I only wish there were.”
Wilson frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, I only wish there were. Then we could dig them out and get rid of them!” The old man suddenly took Wilson by the arm with a surprisingly strong grip and swung him to face the town. “Look down there. That’s my town. My town. I practically built it. I was born here and the only time I was away was to go to school. I came back as soon as I graduated in the law, still a young boy, because you could do it then, and that was more years ago than you might think. I appointed the police chief; he’s my afilhado — my godson. I know every man on the police force personally; I’ve known them since they were children. They’re my friends. They wouldn’t do this to me. They wouldn’t do it to themselves!”
“Wouldn’t do what to who?” Wilson asked. He had the strange feeling that he must have missed something in the old man’s impassioned speech; a line or two must have escaped him.
One thin hand swung in a circle, encompassing the land, sweeping the horizon, even while the other hand retained its fierce grip on Wilson’s arm, locked there.
“Look down there. All the land that does not have factories on it is mine. I’m a rich man. But look at me; I’m a very simple man. I do not need the money. With the money I build hospitals and schools. Our city taxes are negligible — we keep them low to induce companies to come here and give work to the people. We’ve been able to improve life in Paraíso a thousand per cent in the past fifteen years! You cannot imagine what it was like fifteen or twenty years ago, or how life has changed here. And among the people who have benefited are our police, of course. They also have families who get sick and need the hospitals; they also have children who go to the schools. They know what these killings are doing to the community; they know there’s a chance that the factories will move someplace else, that the American managers will be transferred; and they’re doing their best to solve these killings. And they will!” He shook his grizzled head fiercely. “Hang a sign around a dead man’s neck and it automatically has to be the police who killed him! Ridiculous!” He squeezed Wilson’s arm with his thin fingers and stared at the younger man intently. “Well, isn’t it?”
On the surface it would seem so, Wilson thought, but still—
“And another thing,” the judge went on, as if convinced his argument was too cogent for actual rebuttal, “every man on the police force is a friend of mine, a personal friend. This man Chaney — he was an American, like you — whoever killed him left his body in the driveway to my ranch! To my ranch! Would anyone do that to a friend? Well, would they?”
A man, of course, doesn’t always know who his friends are, or his enemies, Wilson thought. “I suppose not,” Wilson said, now sure of his direction and willing to exaggerate a bit in the interest of learning something. “You know, I knew George Chaney.”
There was a moment’s silence while the old man studied Wilson’s face. Then he loosened his grip on the smaller man’s arm; his hand fell to his side. His face lost all expression.
“You aren’t here to buy land, are you?”
“I—”
“You came up here to try and find out what happened to your friend, didn’t you?”
“He wasn’t my friend,” Wilson said abruptly. There were limits to how far he could allow the truth to be stretched, especially with this old man. He looked at the judge and decided to junk at least a part of Da Silva’s program. “Yes,” he said simply. “I’m not here to buy land. I’m an American security officer, working with the Brazilian police. We’re trying to get to the bottom of these killings. My name is Wilson.”
He reached into his pocket and brought out his wallet, opening it to expose his identity card. He handed it over. The judge studied it a moment before handing it back.
“I was fairly sure,” he said calmly. “You didn’t ask the right questions about the land. And you didn’t even argue price. Although,” he added, “the price was good. Very good.” He smiled faintly, but there was little humor in the smile. “Well, I’m glad.”
“Glad?” It seemed an odd thing for the old man to say. “Why?”
“Because if you decided to tell me who you really are, then I guess you don’t believe I’m personally involved in any of these killings. And if I’m not involved, then Paraíso and my police aren’t involved, either. It would be impossible to have a death squad up here that I didn’t know about.”
Wilson was far from sure of this. “Still,” he said, “four men were killed here, all of them with the same gun, and none of them were robbed. And they did have Death Squad signs on their necks—” As he spoke he could hear Da Silva giving the same arguments, arguments that had failed to convince him at the time. “And there’s no other reason for killing them that we can see.”
“And if our police up here wanted to hide the fact that they were all killed with the same gun, or even that they had these Death Squad signs on them when they were found,” the judge said shrewdly, “who would have been the wiser? That’s something Jorge Wanderlay can’t seem to get through his head, by God! I’ve known him since we were boys together, and now he thinks I’m either a damn fool or a damn liar!” He shook his head and then looked down at Wilson. “Well, sir, what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to work with your police, of course—”
“That’s easy enough.”
“And I’d like to try to find out what brought Chaney to Paraíso in the first place.”
“Oh?” Judge Magalhães looked surprised. “He came to see me. There wasn’t any secret about it.”
No secret about it, Wilson thought sourly, except nobody bothered to mention it before. “Could I ask what he came to see you about?”
“Of course. He wanted a writ that would give him a stay,” the judge said. “Certainly you must have known the United States Government was trying to get him extradited back there?”
“I knew, of course,” Wilson said, and frowned. “But — to come all the way up here for a judge’s writ? I would have thought it would be just as easy to get one in Rio, or São Paulo.”
“I doubt it,” the judge said dryly. “In fact I know it’s not true. I happen to have quite a reputation for being opposed — some say violently — to the entire concept of extradition. I always have been and I always will be. The claim is that asylum is granted, but for political offenses only; but with a change in government — and not just in Latin America — what is a political offense one day can easily be called a criminal offense the next if it suits someone’s purpose. Definitions change with the change in interests. The only way to safeguard asylum in all cases is to refuse extradition in all cases.”
“But isn’t extradition a matter of government policy?”
“It is, but it is exercised through the courts.” Judge Magalhães smiled faintly. “I have many friends in government. My decision would not have been challenged.”
“I see. You know, of course,” Wilson went on, “that George Chaney was a criminal?”