THE COCKROACHES WILL INHERIT THE EARTH

The cockroaches will inherit the Earth. (Apologue).

Two cockroaches, male and female, a lovely couple, talk - in their idiom - on the sewage, while they nibble rotten remains of food. His name is Glutof and hers is Kiti.

“Why such enthusiasm?” – asks the husband, suspiciously. He is septic, solemn, hard shelled, cult, repulsive, with eyes of a focused owl. A nourished glutton, he resembles a dark and obese date, gifted with slim but brawny and hairy – or whatever is the right name for its bristles – legs. Fortunately, Glutof does not gain any weight on his small thighs, what allows him to go off at an incredible speed in moments of danger; namely when hunted by the darned triad of men, rats and cats. The last of them, carousers, that only kill for sport because they don’t chew their victims. They feel too disgusted.

Glutof is proud of the brunette, almost black, shine of his wings, which he can frill with tremendous success, provoking a raving between the opposite sex. Although fat, he is a womanizer, or “cockroachizer”, a word he intends to include in the first dictionary of the language of cockroaches, in concoction and with him as a coordinator. He likes very much to philosophize and takes pleasure with the nonsense of his colleagues of species, all of them very dumb when compared to him. A genetic mutation has occurred, one which provokes greater longevity and a bigger size of the brain. But not all the cockroaches have been equally endowed with the increase of intelligence. By the way, also a human problem, though way older.

“You, critical and cocky, as usual!”, Kiti protests. “What a terrible fad you have of diminishing me, of spoiling all my fun! It isn’t enthusiasm, goddamn! I was simply amazed, or rather, horrified – is that good for you? – with the loathsome cleanness of the new restaurant around the corner, that enormous one. I only got in there once, under the door, in the inauguration eve, and I peeped. Last night, after the inauguration, I tried to go back, to pinch a few things, sneaking through the corners, but I was really scared. Too busy. The only crack that could help me get in has already been closed. The prevention against us, from the selfish mean-spirited ones, is just perfect. Entrance, only through the front door, but with the risk of being squashed by the doorman’s sole.”

“I still think you look rather euphoric, almost happy, unconsciously approving the abominable cleanliness”, insisted the husband, an academic very respected for his zeal in the protection of the values of sludge. He interrupted the little sucks he was giving in a moldy bread to sip, as he snapped his lips, a little cup of mucus, dripped from a nursing home of pauper elders.”

“It’s just that I, although not approving, of course, any kind of neatness – what do you think I am, huh? – like to see things well done. You know how perfectionist I am…”

“Well, relatively”, interrupted the husband. “at home, you relax. There are still many things clean here and there… the tidiness is becoming unbearable. You are not such a good housewife, pardon me for my candor…”

“But you do not cooperate, either!”, she raised her thin and squeaky voice, wrathful, flapping her antennas. “You just stand there, in that old lawyer’s cabinet, nibbling old greasy books, bought from second hand shops. You, my dear, I’m sorry to inform, is a salt and old human tallow addict.”

“It’s you who can’t see a palm distance ahead your nose. It is not just gluttony, my dear. I study. My idleness is only apparent. Well, indeed, it’s true that I enjoy eating. However, I study as much as I eat. Most of all, I relish, slowly, tasting not only the grease from the fingers of Adam’s decadent offspring, but also the abstract part, the printed ideas themselves. The reason for that is not to walk around speaking rubbish, as do many of our husky and slender legged companions. One day we will inherit the Earth…Remember the prophecy? I have read that, in case a nuclear conflict takes place, only we will remain alive. We will be well guarded here, underground, while the biped scoundrels toast at the surface, deservedly. Can you imagine our carousal afterwards? It will be all ours….From litter to all of the computers…”

“Well, that is if we have time to hide down here. If you are at the library when the “Big Boom” comes – where you probably will be, you greasy book addict – then you won’t inherit anything at all! You will be just one more toasted date. Besides, to which nuclear war do you refer? The only two giants that could make it to us have already made peace! It is all demoralized now! The Russian chief, that blond cardiac bear (she meant Boris Yeltsin) with Mongolian eyes – his mother must have had a Japanese neighbor way more attractive than her own husband – has turned into a capitalist! Instead of using his plump fingers to push the missiles’ launching button, he has fun just pinching his secretary! It is discouraging…”

“Don’t lose your hope, Kiti” – She is gracious, “eyelashy”, a brain full of mad and right intuitions, all mixed. A hottie, she is basically just pheromones and reproducer organs. She has a fame of being frivolous, but up to now no one has ever had the courage to bear witness against her, because she is influential and revengeful. It is the owl face academic’s fifth marriage, who proceeds, doctoral:

“Parodying what an American businessman has already said, no one, up to this day, has ever lost money when betting on the stupidity of the ruffian state leaders. Or rather, in the stupidity of the human species, with no exception, who claims to be so rational. We, who know them well, and who eat everything they throw away, we know what they really are deep inside, what is behind them. Especially what is on “behind”…”

He made a pause to nibble a piece of putrid banana and continued, erudite, pleased to hear that voice that he knew so well to modulate with such authority:

“Fortunately, the so called emerging powers are there, concerned with mastering atoms and, with that, scaring their neighbors. Therefore, do not dispirit yourself. One day, they will be making atomic bombs on their backyard. Our day will come, Kiti. I have always believed that our ideals of justice and supremacy will end up prevailing. The power of the empires goes up and down, just like a seesaw. It is written on the history books that I lick – I mean – I read. The Power switches his address. I feel it in the air, especially in the polluted air – this pleasant and perfumed aerial garbage can – the signs that our turn is coming! The current system of domination is summarily unfair! Any human being, be him smart or dumb, barely sees us eating a miserly crumb in the kitchen floor – even when we are at the verge of inanition – he instantly opens his eyes wide like a mad assassin and runs up, with his paws up. Why such prejudice? In the end, we are cleaning their kitchens, without even charging for it! They would save up a lot with house maids! We could all get along, in harmony! At night, the humans would lay their dirty clothes on the floor, they would go to sleep naked, and we would break in, eating all the digestible dirtiness left on cups, bodies, plates and silverware. The clothes would be instantly dry cleaned. We would rinse everyone in the house, sparing them from the morning shower. A grand economy! They would wake up totally laundered! However, all the beasts do is squeeze us!”

“What if we set up an underwear buffet? We could make some money out of it…”, Kiti proposes, her eyes gleaming, always mindful to get some profit out of any idea. She considers herself a great entrepreneur.

“Well, you would be the one to take care of it. I do not enjoy involving myself with money affairs…I feel as if I would lose my dignity.”

“It is all fine with these theories of yours. You know I don’t make a fuss about these readings. I personally only enjoy express readings; nevertheless I’m interested in knowing what we would eat, in case of a nuclear war. Wouldn’t the supplies be contaminated by the radiation?”

“Oh, well…” – he sounded surprised. He had never thought of that. He labeled his wife’s lightings of good sense as “sparks from the beast’s horseshoe”, as once said a famous Brazilian critic. But he did not admit he was wrong. “Indeed, of course, hum, in fact, I had already thought about that… For some time, which our technicians would determine, we would not eat what is in the surface. We have, in the sewer, a gigantic and delicious natural supermarket stock, all of it ready and seasoned for our consumption. Therefore, we would only have to wait a while in the drain, until the radioactivity decreased.” He made a pause again to lick, snapping his lips, a type of chocolate mousse extracted from a white piece of paper – square and of soft texture - and concluded:

“That would be the Glory!, as if we were at Cambodia right now…”

“Why Cambodia?”

“Because there has been a juicy civil war in Cambodia that lasted 25 years. During this period, between 6 and 10 millions of earth mines were planted. The result is that now, every month, between two and three hundred people “go to Space” in Cambodia. And not on airliners. It is the country that – though tiny – has the highest level of amputations in the world. Let’s say, it is an earthly paradise, ‘isn’t it? If there was tourism between our species… wow, can you imagine that? Yummy….just the thought of it makes my mouth water! What about the flamethrower? We would be able to even choose between raw meat, well done, saignant, rare, medium…”

“There you go with your polyglot exhibitionisms…”

“And the specialists say it will be necessary about three hundred years to detect and dismantle all the mines.”

“Why did they grow so many bombs? Wasn’t it possible a more traditional type of agriculture?”

“Kiti…You need to read more carefully. No one plants bombs, my darling, they stuck explosives on the ground! Each group, when withdrawing, would spread the mines to fuc… – I mean, to mess (he did not approve of dirty language on the mouth of great leaders) - with its rival. And since there were many comings and goings in the ongoing skirmishes, losing and regaining territories, the result is that Cambodia turned into a vast slaughterhouse, supplying legs, heads and arms in separate pieces. To us, a paradise, because we are really tiny and we can walk around without raising the mines’ alarm. Our Cambodian cousins, those lucky bastards, have blood and fresh meat at hand, at all times. It is even making a damage to their liver now, they say, due to the iron excess on their alimentation. It’s just like wine breakers, it gives you that big headache on the next day. The “tremendous intelligent” humans, ha! ha!” – he laughed, raising his eyebrows, frilling his wings in disdain – “never thought that, one day,  the firing would end? They forgot that old definition that they are “human bipeds”? Since they can’t fly, they tread…and then they fly.”

“I’ve heard that a terrible little English princess – I think it was Lady Di her name – had been preaching the prohibition of earth mines. Do you think this misfortune will come upon us as well?”

“Unfortunately she is dead now.”

“Unfortunately?”, Kiti opened her wings, surprised. “What is wrong with you? It is a good thing that she died, because this disgusting campaign stopped.”

“You have no vision whatsoever, Kiti…I say unfortunately because with her death the press started venerating her; and as a consequence, strengthening what she defended. I’d rather have her alive, only pestering…She would be – alive – less threatening to our cause. They persecuted the infamous for years and years, surveying her, taking pictures of her from a distance, criticizing and gossiping all the time. They even wanted, because of her, the fall of monarchy. Now, all it takes is for the malefic reformer to die and there you go! She becomes a goddess! And within this lies all the danger to us! Henceforth, in a consciousness crisis – such a sickening thing among humans – and specially to sell more magazines, the media will want to put into practice her preaching. It works this way between human beings. Only after the person is dead – no longer arousing envy on others – she can be cherished. All I hope for is that the little English princess, uglier than hygiene – and I’ve heard humans saying, seriously, the contrary – does not have posthumous success in her absurd campaign to the abolishment of earth mines. But, even if there isn’t a nuclear war, they will die anyway, only slower, cooked in the slow fire of the greenhouse effect or poisoned by the carbonic gas. They are too dumb and ambitious to stop in time.”

“Do you think that one day we will be like that too, I mean, with these character flaws that the humans have?”

“Probably…” Glutof sighed. “I’m sorry to inform…But it is the price of civilization.” – He felt proud of his coldness of statesman. “Unless we create a new Ethics, on which I have been working for years, with the deepness everyone can see. To start with, we need to invent a reinforcement of coaction, a cockroach-god at our image and similarity: husky, with large antennas, powerful and revengeful. You know, not everybody will obey directors, presidents or chiefs. But a cockroach-god, with a true power of life and death, the planetary cockroaches will fear…and follow. I will talk in private with “it” – my own self, of course – once a week on the rooftop of a tall building” – he smiled, ironically, closing his owl eyes – “and then I will transmit to our people the message that only I was allowed hear. What do you think about it?”

“And you really think that our people will believe this, in this divine private conference? Our people are more suspicious than the humans, because they have suffered way more than them…”

“They will believe, because it’s good for the soul to believe. One always believes in what one wants believes.”

“But do you believe it yourself?”

“Of course not. However, no one will ever be able to prove that I don’t believe it. Unless you open your little pretty mouth, of course; but in that case you know what awaits you. I only sell a truly necessary product. I’d even say essential, as long as there is fear in the heart of the cockroaches. It’s only business. And speaking of fear, the human race is sinking exactly by lack of fear. Their vogue right now is the deep comprehension of the motivations of human actions. The dotards want to “understand”, mind you… The result: they have learned that, for example, it is no use filling up jailhouses, because prison does not recover anyone. Of course it doesn’t! But does impunity recover it, by any chance? They walk around, like dizzy cockroaches – oops! I meant, dizzy humans - not knowing what to do. And astutely they find a way of reconciling the old desire of drawing back from circulation the detestable thief at the same time that they can praise themselves, saying that they are making a tremendous good deed, they are “reeducating him”. Me, once I’m giving the orders, I already know how I will solve such a problem: immediate death penalty to all the cockroaches who commit a serious crime. This will be a great example to all. We won’t spend money and time with processes, paper, jailhouses and specially food. To small infractions we torture the guy, by keeping him in a morbidly clean place for a few days. To him it will be like death! He will never wish to do wrong ever again. In case he does, then, back to the neatness.”

“Wow! How much finesse!  When you want it, you can be real mean… Maybe it would be better to just kill them all at once…But how would we kill the most perverted criminals anyway, since we don’t have any weapons, teeth or even hands?”

“We would master the rats. They are clever, but dumb. There is a great difference between cleverness and intelligence. All they think about is gnawing and fornicating. Unless they also suffer a mutation like ours. Then we will be damned because they have a bigger brain…and teeth…By the way, I have already oriented our staff to inform me about any radioactive material found on the sewer. We will immediately isolate the area because, with the radiation, anything could happen. If the rats become like us, well, goodbye to our future millennium of glories! It would be them the true substitutes of men in the dominance of Earth.”

“But back to the new restaurant around the corner, you should see the neatness of the kitchen! All sparkling! Not even a little dirt spot capable of…”

“Stop it! Stop it!” – he interrupted her, shouting, tapping, shaking, rudely, kneading and throwing away the toilet paper chocolate-stained. “I can’t take this dirty talk of yours no more, especially now, right at meal time! Do you want to make me throw up?”

“Geez…Did you need to yell like this? You’re disgusted by the cleanliness? Hummm, what a delicate sensibility…You sound just like a little girl…”

“Hey, you watch your tongue” – his antennae vibrated with indignation. He had never beaten his wife, but he was about to.

“You’re getting the poets’ nervous fits, from reading too many human books, turning into an ivory tower sensitive. Watch out, huh…I know one that has turned over his hand…”

“What books would you like me to read, you stupid ass? Have cockroaches got editors and graphical industries? Now we are smart, of course – so much that the humans don’t even suspect, because we know how to disguise it. But we have to, for the time being, draw the available culture, until we can elaborate our own, which will be, of course, way superior than the human one.”

“I only said that to upset you…Because you were rude to me.” With her two specially gracious big antennae she stroke Glutof’s antennae, smoothing it, at the same time she emitted pheromones that turned him on. But he soon controlled his impulse because he found it dangerous to have sex right after large meals.

“Sweetie…”, she asked, with tenderness, “why do you read so much? Don’t you think your exaggerate? It can damage your sight… And we still haven’t got oculists among us. Speaking of it, I think you would look super cool wearing turtle glasses. A more intellectual look would just be impossible. Aw, you’re my molded bread, my putrid apple pie. There are many husky scampies around that envy me; you think I don’t notice it?”

“I read because in case of a global cataclysm I want to be prepared to organize our species toward the new millennium. We, cockroaches, will not repeat the same mistakes that the humans made.”

“What mistakes, my darling? Excuse me, but with or without mistakes, they are on top…They are millenniums ahead of us. Our genetic mutation - thanks to the praised radioactive dirt that they throw around – is too recent. The humans still squash us anyway. Or they poison us with those mortal squirts. I almost died the other day, didn’t I tell you? You are close to almost being taking to a ghost right now. I think I even have sequels. I haven’t been the same you know; I have a weird sensation in my womb…The housewife, despicable and promiscuous – probably recently coming back from a party -  because she had huge shadows around the eyes – had just turned on the light and then she saw me there, dizzy because of the brightness; she run and got a tube of insecticide. The cruel woman didn’t want to dirty her rich shoe sole. At this moment I fired in circles, until I remembered that it would be better to scape under the door that opens to the backyard. Meanwhile, the assassin beast, panting, whirling, afraid that I would climb on her, tapped a warrior dance, trying to squirt the insecticide towards me. Fortunately, it barely hit me, but still, just with the fog, I instantly felt a terrible colic. I think I had an abortion…It came out all mixed up. They don’t make mistakes, my dearest one. The world is theirs, no matter what we do…I still regret not climbing up her legs, up to their end. I would give a little bite with care right there. I assure you that the vagabond would pass out from dread.”

“When I talk about mistaking, Kiti, I’m referring to the human behavior towards their own species. They will eliminate their own race, be it through bombing, pollution, or urban criminality. We do not need to interfere. All we need to do is waiting. In Algeria, some fanatic guys – who won an election but did not assume the post - are beheading hundreds of people in remote villages. These victims - including children - just have nothing to do with the political illegality. They also raped young women because no one is made of iron. And they kill with axes. Our Algerian cousins are the ones who regale with these devil humans.”

“Regarding us”, Glutof continued, because he felt specially inspired, “and also the rats, for example – these resistant rabbles, clever but short sighted, that also attack us when esurient -  they, the humans, are really efficient…Well, partly efficient, because I have heard that in the Pentagon building there once was a plague of thousands of American cockroaches, right there, at their nose, the ones that are absolute computer warriors. Yes, humans know how to kill, but, fortunately for us, they hate each other. They love each other during small intervals in life; but, once vexed, they turn this love into hate. One disagrees and is instantly screwed. A father hates his son and vice-versa. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me, but I don’t find quite same…”, Kiti felt a subtle pleasure every time she found a flaw in Glutof’s arguments, “Some human beings are not aggressive, even with us. Last week, me and about fifty friends were down at the sewer’s roof, talking, gossiping, when a worker, from the public system, went down there through a little ladder. Seeing us, away from his head just a few centimeters, he shouted over to his colleagues, who were just above, at the surface: “It’s clear, guys! No danger!” And then he started working on the tubing, without causing us any damage whatsoever. A saint, an exception. I was shaken… I almost flew to his lips to give him a kiss… Really, human beings can be astonishing… They are not always evil.”

Glutof smiled, with a superior air, amazed by his partner’s innocence. “So the pretty girl thought that the man spared you because he liked you? None of that, my darling. He let you live because the fact that there are cockroaches down in the wastepipe means that there are no toxic gases around. It is when there are none that there lies the danger. If there are cockroaches, they can work with no further habdabs. They only spare us when we’re useful, get it?”

“Dear God! They do not point unknotted.” Disconcerted, Kiti scratched her right armpit, as she always did, when she felt ridiculed. “How you know it all, sweetie… Why don’t you, with all this knowledge, organize a mass attack against humans? They are frightful. They eat a lot and have a tame life. I have seen a big man jump like a monkey, panicky, just because there were two cockroaches in his shirt, which he dressed in the dark. Or just because an innocent little colleague of ours flied and casually entered into an old man’s mouth. He was practicing respiratory exercises, making a profound movement of inspiration. It was indeed the death kiss. The poor little one was spilled as if she was a disgusting thing and…crumbled! The scariest of all is that the old man then went off to prey!”

“I know that humans are craven, but they have death’s technology. In a war, we would be defeated. We would only win a few initial skirmishes, by giving them a few shocks. Flying, for example, in their eyes, or into their mouths, or hiding ourselves in the underwear of a few big shots, vibrating our wings near their testicles. But that would be all…Scares, little things. At most a few heart attacks, because these big shots, full of power, pizza, lasagna and filet mignon won’t go too far anyway, they have tubes – what is the name of it, again? Oh yes, arteries! – full of fat, just as much. Nature has been a stepmother. We do not even have stingers. If a mutation towards this was possible….But they occur with no control whatsoever. Now we have intelligence, but you have noticed that not all of us possess that. We are really far from being able to manipulate genetic engineering. Without hands, little beings that we are, what could we do for now? Just thinking and organizing ourselves. And waiting for them to kill each other, which is almost certain that will come. For those who love action, we have IRA, ETA, the Middle East. They will never, I hope so, come to an agreement of living together because the greed for lands and power does not allow it. Peace does not interest them, actually. All those terrorists warlords will never conform in returning to their quiet life, with no shine, tedious, earning little, in factories, offices or departments. What, exchanging an exciting life, full of ideological charm, easy money, for crafts such as postman, cooker, shopkeeper, marketer, etc? No way! That would be a demoralization!”

“But, my darling, some of them even explode with their bombs…They sound real idealistic.”

“Right, right…but only the gaby ones…The big ones, the intellectuals, the bosses, they never do that. Terror warrior explodes; big boss does not explode. Never! After all, “the cause” needs its powerful brains. Correct? On the other side, what did the opposite flank, which has been spread throughout the world, imagine? That they would retake their old land, hundreds of years later, expelling the locals in turbans, occupying, without any kind of reaction? I don’t know, they are the humans, so I let the agreement to them, I have nothing to do with it. Maybe they will never come to an agreement, actually! I, at least, wish for that. Besides that, we must never forget the sacrosanct AIDS, the nectar of the Gods! It is a plague that, I hope, will make a large mop-up because we are immune against it. And the drugs, then, our revengeful allied, that once caught is impossible to get rid of! Being weak as they are - and they know they are - the human clowns still try them, only to check out and in the end verify that it was just like how they said. Maybe they do it to roguishly be in the position of victims, poor ones, addicts; actually a good idea, because then everyone cockers them. An addict doesn’t need to go to work, nor study, nor do anything at all. He only needs to remain an addict. A stroke of genius! Speaking of it, I have had an involuntary binge because, when the police arrives, the first thing which a drug dealer remembers is to flush all the white powder down the toilet. Without the minimum concern with our health, for we live down on the sewer. I saw that light powder floating and I soon thought it was sugar. I sucked all of it. When I realized it I was jumping all over the walls and challenging big rats to arm wrestling.”

“Let us not forget” – Glutof continued – “the wonderful hospital infection, one of the few segments in which we can personally collaborate to the success of our cause. We are organizing courses of orientation on how to suck the infected tissue and then nibble the internees’ food. Especially the children’s, because it is much better to kill the enemy at its root. While the maids keep on pretending they mop the hospital floors and their bosses pretend that they supervise it – because in fact they are afraid of the cleaners, or afraid of sounding “authoritarian” – things will go wonderfully. But, back to what I was saying before, we, cockroaches, need, above all, to varnish our recent intelligence. Have I told you about what happened to Horace?”

“I don’t think so…You talk so much, darling, that I get giddy sometimes…”

“Well, that is normal on you anyway, actually…Horace is a cockroach as well, he was a friend of mine. He has been one of the first mutants. But, instead of dissembling it and pretending to be stupid, he yielded to the temptation of exhibition. And it ended up really bad, of course. One night, he embarked on a journey through long wastepipe he didn’t know – ah! The illusory appeal of the unknown – a real long, long one and he ended up in the drain of a solitary cell. When the prisoner saw him, he had an idea: “I’m going to gait this cockroach. Otherwise, I will go insane. I still have three years in.”

Glutof continued: “This prisoner had murdered his wife, imagining that she had betrayed him – and he was right – but then he thought that he had committed a mistake – which he hadn’t – but then it was too late anyway. The sorrow he felt at the jail was in doubled, for he was regretful. So, he patiently – he had once been a dog trainer – taught Horace to write famous quotes from great retards, that is, human thinkers. Horace would dampen his little leg on the ink-pot and then he would write a deep thought. Sometimes he would mix the source, but who would check it? The fact that a cockroach could write was a phenomenon for itself.”

“How could this Horace demote himself so much? Human philosophers! It gives me nausea!”

“For interest, naturally. Horace soon learned to write the trite phrases, but he would dissemble his speed at learning because each time he would write a certain philosophical thought he would get a candy. Being gluttonous as he was, he stretched his process as long as he could, pretending to be assimilating it all very slowly. He could not show his geniality at being a mutant cockroach. If he would write it all down at once, he would only eat one single time. And so six months passed. Then, since there was yet a long time for the “reeducating” to be released – another of the human stupidities, for in prisons no one alters for better, only for worse – he taught Horace to dance upright, on his back feet, imitating Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain…”

“Wow, that is certainly extraordinary…”

“And that is not all! He also taught Horace something else really astonishing: dancing can-can, just like those French dancers, with vigorous leg kicks, kicks that many times brought Horace down to the floor. After all, our short little legs were not made for Folies Bergère. If nature has given us six legs, how to cope with just two? And yet, Horace, extremely vain and inebriated with prima-donna, would turn his back to the invisible audience and tremble his little wings and cram his backside, just like those ballerinas that pulled up their dresses and showed their butt. I think the prisoner even thought that Horace was a female. And, finished the exhibition, Horace would take bows, sending kisses to the audience and screaming with a feminine voice, almost inaudible: “Je vous aime! Je vous aime!” I think that, with a few more rehearsals, Horace would be able to have his sex changed.”

“Darling, I’m sorry to interrupt you. I was concerned with the time…Don’t you think we should be going home right now? Soon the rats will awaken…Tell me right away how your friend’s story ends, please.”

“Well, when the penalty ended, the prisoner left the jailhouse, taking Horace on the pocket of his suit, inside a little box…He wanted to look out for a manager. He was hoping to become very wealthy because never, in the history of business show, there had been a similar spectacle. He would win rivers of money, he thought to himself…But, unfortunately, the thing just didn’t quite work…”

“I know it, I know it!”, Kiti anticipated herself, euphoric, clapping her hands. “The manager fooled Horace!”

“No! Damn it! How lousy your mind is! What a nasty type of joy! No, but it was in fact something much worse that happened…There had been a long time since the ex-prisoner last drank a good beer, an ice cold and good one. In the prison all he could get was a “Crazy Mary”, worthy of its name because in its composing there was even varnish. So, he headed to a bar with the goal of regaling with a “blondie”. But he ended up drinking four or five glasses. And he simply could not refrain from showing off a little bit. He took the little box from his pocket, told Horace to come out and put him on the counter. He was about to tell him to dance and sizzle some excerpts from the song La Vie en Rose. He then called the barman and proud, half drunk, pointed to Horace with a finger, while saying “See that?” But the barman, annoyed, as soon as he saw that husky cockroach on the counter, crushed it with a rackety slap. And so, stupidly, died a great artist…When us, from the Committee, heard about the case, we transmitted an instruction forbidding, until second order, intelligence demonstrations of any type in the presence of humans.”

“What a sad, sad story…a martyr! How did the ex-prisoner react?” Kiti wanted to know.

“He jumped  over the counter at the same time and strangled the barman, crying and guffawing at the same time, like a madman. It was the fastest case of criminal relapse in the history of Criminology. Criminologists, not having knowledge of our mutation, spent liters of ink dissertating about this case, getting to the point of suggesting possible passional and Freudian attachments between man and cockroach, this one symbolizing the man’s mother. All of this mental disequilibrium a consequence of the brutal isolation of the prison regime. These criminologists even made analogies with a guy named Kafka, a nut who wrote drivels about a man that went to bed as a human and woke up as a cockroach. As if such an abrupt amelioration was possible. No one believed the defendant story that the cockroach danced can-can and sang in French.”

“If we come to dominate the Earth, you should, as a way of paying tribute to this great hero, institute a “Horace Prize”, equivalent to the human Oscars. Even I would love to compete on it…I love the stage, any type of stage…”

“It is not your case, but actors – all of them – can’t help but having a real bad character. How could it be possible to spend one’s whole life pretending to feel something that is not actually felt, without having a screw missing, at least in the character.

“Well, I am starting to get real dizzy. You are so profound that after about ten minutes listening to you, a great somnolence engulfs me…I’m going to sleep just a bit and afterwards watch the television news to update myself.”

“Watch out, don’t believe too much on the news! The press is also our big ally; unconsciously, of course. Once they constantly need to increase their selling to humiliate the rivals, they either investigate or manufacture scandals. Whatever provides them headlines. The congressmen and senators, for being numerous, are the most aimed by the press. With that, people come to wish for a “strong man” who, as soon as he takes ownership, can provide a nuclear or bacteriological power reinforcement - something that increases our chances of one day dominating the Earth. Viva ! then to the power of the press! Have you ever noticed that…” and he stopped, for he heard Kiti snoring, gently.

He felt sorry for her. She seemed so foolish and helpless…He gently waked her. The time for going home had passed already.

Entwined, they slowly walked towards the hole down the sink of the house in which they lived. They did not notice that two big rats, esurient and with evil eyes, were coming right behind them, at their tiptoes, already with water in their mouths for the “dates” that they could almost taste in their stomach.

Kiti, lighter and less gluttonous, miraculously escaped the attack, but lost two of her legs, an antennae and a wing. She cried copiously the next day, in mourning, at her husband’s funeral. Or else, at the two little hairy thighs and one wing’s funeral – all that was left from “Glutof, the Rescuer”, the great leader that had already joined history.

But she was pregnant, and soon – very soon, indeed – all those projects of hero, still numb in their eggs, would be born, replacing their father on the heroic creation of a new civilization.

THE END

 

An extraction of human jaw, by bullet

 

(A tale. Author: Francisco Cesar Pinheiro Rodrigues)                        

 

A little before seven o’clock in the morning Benvinda is arriving at the house where she has been working for eight years. Her footfall demonstrates an unusual vivacity. She is a house maid, thirty-eight years on her back, quite tawny, almost dark – or maybe just that, depending on the observer’s level of prejudice – she is smart and wise, despite her little education. Benvinda has an eighteen-year old daughter, as wise as her and who works in a bank and studies at night. 

Upon walking, Benvinda experiments an excitement that she had not felt in years. She is in love….And surprised. Why did such a manful and handsome guy, with a Spanish accent, was interested on her, a simple house maid, way older than him? 

“Mysteries of love?”, she asks herself. “Why not?” Once, Benvinda heard her current mistress, while handling a magazine, say to her husband, a court judge, that a certain Sheik of Arabia, upon his voyage to Brazil, fell in love with the hotel’s maid and took her to the Middle East, where they got married. 

It is true, Benvinda remembers, that the Arabian potentate already has a few wives in his homeland. But that is another question, a matter of nationality, of legal differences that should be respected. As far as she understood, on his country, the big man could undertake as many wives as his “pocket” could hold. The interesting thing to Benvinda is how such maid, suddenly - in a snap – “Oh! The illustrious follies of Love!” - had become the rich third, fourth or fifth – she couldn’t quite remember – Madame of an important man. With the right of luxury, housemaids, limousine, chauffeur, etc. And the picture of this lucky maid, in Benvinda’s opinion, did not show any unique beauty. It was a common face, sort of like hers, just younger. Now, when comparing the two male, Benvinda smiled, with a superior air. The Sheik, in the picture, was fat, kind of old, ugly, whilst hers was an appetizing one, capable of seducing, with one foot on the back, any rich lady. And he probably wasn’t poor either, in view of the expensive and showy shirts he wore. 

Speaking of rich ladies, Benvinda nourishes an intense disdain for the girls who, in mini-skirts, ventilate way too much their “pudendal parts”… By the way, this expression pleases her quite a lot; she finds it quite sophisticated and uses it frequently…She finds it elegant and generic, disobliging her from the mentioning of specific dirty words. And she was shocked even more with the first bikini thongs that came out; they, certainly, were uncomfortable and tickled “down there”, in the “pudendal parts”. She would never wear these “indecencies”. Her daughter, by a strike of miracle – because the second generation almost always reacts against the first – agreed with her. 

A certain time, at the tank, while washing one of these swimsuits – or strap? – belonging to her mistress’s niece, she was impressed with the petite size of the piece. On that occasion, she could not prevent herself from making bitter speculations, of odoriferous nature, related to that rope that allowed to show one’s bu..I mean, the “pudendal parts”, so shamelessly. But what baffled her the most was the fact that the user of that swimming-thong was a righteous and sensate girl. If she was a good girl, thought Benvinda, why wouldn’t she wear a whole bikini? How could fashion have such power over people? And why didn’t the Government do something about it? 

Julio – that’s the name of the hottie – has been flirting with Benvinda for more than a week now, but, up to this point, he has not made any passionate advancement, like one of those making outs that make one wet, so common in all decades. And this worried her a little. His “thing”, it seemed, was just talking and caring for her, a fondness proper of someone older, precluded of something more savage. Holding her hand would be the further he would go, and still he would not hold it for very long. She thought: respect is a good thing, of course, but when in excess, preoccupies. 

Benvinda, if not a dirty woman, is a needy one. She sorrows with the longstanding abstinence. She would never giver herself for a man at the first or second date. But, after the third or fourth, shall we say, there is no reason for keeping such formalities, that exaggerated respect which is not any longer obeyed by mankind. Then it’s just too much! After all, she is no queen of England! 

She got to the point of thinking, for a moment, that there was something very wrong with such diffidence: “Blimey! Would he happen to be a queer? I hadn’t thought about that!... No, not possible! With that manly way, that hairy forearm, that chest with hair coming out at the end of the shirt, that stubble and that manly voice…No... Queer? Definitely not!” 

Benvinda had known, in the biblical way, few men, ten at most. She was terribly disappointed when, very young and pregnant of her daughter, she found out that her boyfriend was married and lived with his wife. The shock was far too great. She was expecting marriage, or at least a decent friendly support, but, instead of it, all that was left to her was loneliness and a growing belly. She even considered killing herself. Or aborting. But she was helped by her mistress at the time, a kind woman, an enlightened catholic, firm of her convictions, who discouraged Benvinda of committing a sin. She said Benvinda was to kill an innocent being that could come to hearten her senescence. And, indeed, her daughter had only brought joy to Benvinda, wise as she only.  

What was left of this unsuccessful relationship of hers was a rather bitter opinion regarding the character of men in general: “liars and selfish”. After the birth of her child she would only “come out of her seriousness” once in a while, when her libido began to whistle as high as a pressure cooker on the verge of exploding. When things got to this point she would go to a some popular dancing houses where she could always find a provisory company, equally in need of damned libido discharge. Despite being rather ugly than pretty, she has a body quite molded by the domestic gym – forced – of sweeping, washing and mopping – the gym of the poor, who earn to “work out”. But she has always left these after-party rendezvous with a strong feeling of guilt, however, remediable with a long period of prayers and meat abstinence – the one from the meal and the other one too. She has changed her religion three times, in her seek for a peace she can never attain. This is how she had been living her life until, unexpectedly, that attractive and respectful man appeared. She met him casually, when she was leaving the residence in which she works, at the end of a certain afternoon. He was standing on the other side of the street, looking for an address that seemed impossible to be located, because such number did not exist. When he saw Benvinda leaving the house, he asked her help. And then a chaste and unexpected romance started. 

What made Benvinda a bit suspicious was his fad of making questions. Someone more curious would be impossible: “What is your overlord’s name? Are you happy? Are you sure?” - this part she found quite stupid. “Do you earn enough? Couldn’t you employer pay you better? I’ve heard he is a court judge and has received, as an inheritance, a few days ago, several gold bars and thousands of dollars…He needs to be careful and keep them all safe, or else you know what could happen….Hasn’t he thought about keeping all this in a bank?” 

These questions worried her. She asked him how he knew about this inheritance received by his overlord. The man explained that he learned these facts by coincidence, once he had a friend who is a court official, working exactly on the registry in which the inventory of goods  was taken, goods left by a rich industrial to his only son, a court judge. So when he told his friend, the court official, that he now had a girlfriend who worked on a judge’s house, Julio was asked the name of the judge. The official was well informed and told Julio about the heritage, in gold and dollars. The official commented this with Julio because, usually, heirs do not mention, in the stocktaking, heritages in gold and dollars. 

The explanation was plausible, yet she was left fidgety. On the other hand, if Julio was really a robber, he would not need to make so many detours. All he would need to do was draw a gun and grapple the boss on the right time, upon his arrival at nighttime, or depart, in the morning. 

Benvinda finished these thoughts as soon as she arrived at her employer’s house, in a high middle class district. 

She had just put the keys in the door lock when she felt a hand pressing firmly her left arm; at the same time a gun barrel squeezed her ribs. 

Right behind her stood two burglars, both with silk socks over their heads. Benvinda was pushed forward and in less than five seconds the three of them were inside the house. 

A diffuse weakness followed the shock. Benvinda’s legs were floppy. She almost urinated, a common reaction she has in moments of great fear. Despite her usual cleverness, her head got stuck, hollow, dominated. Her mouth was shut steadily by the same man that had grabbed her before, by the back; he was now holding her front. 

“Not a cheep!” was the hard, yet murmured, warning from the bandit that was holding her. “If I press this trigger your brains will go to Outer Space!” And Benvinda, very imaginative, “saw”, clearly, her bloody brains, in pieces, flying in slow motion by the living room. 

“Where does your boss keep the gold and the dollars?” the same bandit asked, close to her ear. Meanwhile, his partner was doing a quick inspection on the level floor of the fine house.

“What gold?”, she whispered, in a sudden and surprising recovery of her cleverness. 

The thief could not keep from finding this funny. He didn’t appear to be nervous. Calmly and without desire, he luffed her with his left hand, rubbing her breast, whilst smiling under his disguise. 

“Congratulations! I never thought you’d recover so quickly, mama! But playtime is over now. I know your boss has the gold with him. You wanna play Joana D’Arc? You better be careful, we can rape you and torture everybody in here!”, saying this he pressed very steadily the gun barrel against Benvinda’s left nostril, hurting her. Her eyes immediately were filled with tears, but she didn’t dare to scream. 

“You don’t even need to answer. It’s gotta be in his room…Let’s climb the stairs, slowly; you go first and I keep my gun aimed at your head. When we get to his door, you ask him if he wants his breakfast. Pretend you are carrying a tray…You got it? Or do you need a few punches to get it? If you do as I say, I let you live. I let all of them live, by the way! All I want is the dollar and the little pretty gold bars. So don’t play the heroin in here, get it? 

She nodded her head, overcome, and was pushed, without a sound or stumble while she climbed the stairs that led to the upper floor. 

All the three stopped at the door of the couple, Benvinda in the front. She received a nudge on her neck, with the beak of the gun, and a sign that it was time for her to play the role of waitress: 

“Mister Nelson…don’t you want to have your breakfast, sir? I brought it on a tray for you, sir.” 

Benvinda, although smart – or maybe exactly because of it – was not a good actress at all. The question came out in a screechy and strange voice. 

Her boss, on his forties, a judge from the Criminal Court, used to dealing with all sorts of crime, noticed something strange on the tense voice of the maid. He also noticed something strange on this offer of breakfast in bed, for this never happened in their house. Why this novelty, now? Yet, he did not think right away on a raid. He answered: “Why, thank you, Benvinda, it’ very kind of you, but I’ll have my breakfast downstairs, as usual.” 

Upon hearing this, the “main” robber – the other one had not yet opened his mouth – hesitated a bit. He wasn’t waiting for this kind of answer. But he soon reacted, whispering in Benvinda’s ear: “Again…Offer it again!” 

And so did Benvinda: “Sir, you need to taaaaake it!”, she cried, almost moaning, desperate. 

It was then that the judge’s suspicion rang like an old alarm clock, a very noisy one. “There is something there”, he thought, immediately alert, with his heart beating fast. 

He jumped from his bed and, without putting on his slippers, on tiptoes, avoiding any din, he approached the door. As crouched as possible, he peeped through the horizontal crack. He found, only by the shadows, that since Benvinda was not a quadruped, there were other people on the corridor. This conjugation of leg abundance and bawling imposition for taking his breakfast in bed could only mean one more chapter of the dangerous “real crime stories “ that he read every day of his profession. 

“Just a moment, I’ll open the door in a second!”, he shouted, trying to issue a normal tone. He then instantly approached his wife that, standing up, was staring at him with her eyes popping out, aware of the situation. Close to her ears, he murmured: “Lock yourself in the bathroom. Quick! Without any noise!”. 

Next, he gave a few steps towards his wardrobe, where he kept a shotgun of double barrel, always loaded despite the implicit risk of this habit. He did so because, as a judge, he had heard several reports of victims that hadn’t had the time to load their guns when the burglars were already inside the house. 

The judge took the shotgun and went back to bed, where he laid and adjusted the butt position. He was foreseeing the breaking of the door. So he set his gun and waited, directing the barrels to the middle of the door. His wife, at this point, was already locked inside the bathroom. 

The excessive delay and the suspicious silence of the master of the house convinced the main thug that he was up to something. It was now or never, then. He pulled back the housemaid and stroke three strong kicks on the door, which wasn’t very strong anyway, The kicks thundered all over the silent house.  On the fourth kick the door opened violently.  

In this exact moment the judge pressed one of the triggers. Then, apparently, for what was found later in the investigation, the front thief, for some reason, turned his face. That was found because his jawbone was plucked, almost entirely, by the conjunct pressure of the small bullets – of lead or steel – fired by the mighty shotgun, in a short distance. 

The gunshot also had the effect of a violent heavyweight jab in a battered lightweight, because the bandit that entered the room first was thrown backwards, tugging along his partner and even Benvinda, that didn’t have the time to get down the stairs, for she was still quite vaulted. 

All the three rolled down the staircase, in tumble, while the jaw remover got up from the bed and prepared himself for an occasional second shooting. 

From the top of the stairway the owner of the house observed that, down there, none of the robbers was holding, at that moment, any gun. They were dizzy. A revolver was lying on his doorway and another one was lying on the highest step, both out of reach for the dotty bandits. 

Despite not having his jaw, the bandit that seemed to be the leader of the incursion, was able to stand up, staggering, confuse, with a glazed look, one hand holding the lowest part of the banisters. With the other hand he was feeling the injury, the lacerated emptiness where there once was a jaw. From the hole, an immense quantity of blood flowed. His partner, also hurt, but not too much, jointly and severally tried to drag his venture colleague, holding him by his waist. They dragged their selves towards the kitchen, certainly looking to escape by the backyard, where there was a not too tall wall. All they thought about, now, was escaping. 

With utmost caution, Benvinda’s overlord followed them, not too close, but attentive to what was happening, wary for the possibility of existing a third burglar giving support to the other two. But he was soon convinced they were by their selves. 

The bandits arrived at the backyard’s wall; on the other side of this wall there is a wasteland – an easy escape for the daring two. The bandit less hurt quickly climbed the wall and, sitting on its top, with one leg at each side, tried to lift his partner. But his endeavor was in vain. The jawless man had no strength at all. He could barely stand up. The loss of blood, plus the violent trauma had weaken him in such a way that he couldn’t do more than lift his arms and emit a few grunts – an expression of pain, or maybe an explanation of his lack of strength. Posteriorly, when this man was in autopsy, the owner of the house learned that the load of lead had lacerated his tongue. 

The robber standing on the top of the wall explained to his colleague, screaming – that is what the judge understood from it – that he, less hurt, needed to escape, but that the other, severely bruised, should be restful, for he would very soon return, reinforced, to take him away. 

The jawless one, however, did not seem to accept this solution. He wanted the other one to take him at once. Although weak, he protested, snoring and coughing. And then his friend, exasperated, stared at the judge, who was many meters away. He raised his fist, and shouted with hatred: “I’m going now, but I will be back to kill you!” 

This thug had barely raised his left leg, preparing to leave the wall and escape, when the owner of the house performed the second shot, hitting him perfectly. Since the distance was greater now, the lead load could spread itself better and ended up also hitting his already damaged partner who, stumbling, gave a few steps away from the wall and fell, capsized, on a small children pool. The other one fell down dead on the other side, on the neighboring grounds. 

When the police arrived, half an hour later, Benvinda was already being medicated – nothing serious with her – and was telling her boss about the nimble and chaste “courtship” that she had with that guy so full of questions, and who was dead on the other side of the house’s wall. When the disguise was removed from his face, she soon identified him. At the beginning of the raid he had not uttered one single word.  At the inquiry it was verified that the two thugs were bothers, born in Paraguay, with criminal background both in their home country and in Brazil. 

As for the judge, the traumatic event stroke him as particularly bitter. Up to that moment, concerning mammals, he had only killed a capybara, in the state of Mato Grosso. And he had felt a certain discomfort when he observed the torn state of that animal. 

Against his principles – he was a straight man – because of comprehensible defense instinct, he was forced to slightly modify the facts, when relating them to the Chief of Police that attended the location. He affirmed that the thief, when sitting on the wall, mentioned he was going to draw a weapon to shoot him and moved his hand, in search of a gun. 

That second shooting he performed – he knew, it was written in every Criminal Law treaty – did not suit as self-defense, once the danger had already ceased. He had shot because of a threat, a simple future hypothesis. But, as a citizen, he asked himself, trying to relieve and reassure his consciousness: “What if the thief really came back to fulfill his promise? Wasn’t it my duty to protect, at once, my home, wife and kids?” 

A few days after the tragedy he asked to be removed to a Civil Court. He felt traumatized, without psychological balance to judge any criminal. He would sentence them all. 

He kept teaching Criminal Law, but his students complained that, despite being an exigent and nitpicky professor, he would always become evasive and brief when explaining the formal requirements of self-defense. Especially at the article of “actual or eminent aggression”. He did not seem comfortable explaining this item. And he would soon jump to another topic. 

A month after the episode they moved into an apartment, where they haven’t been robbed until now. 

As for Benvinda, she was shaken and sad for the next few months, disappointed with herself. Every time she looked into a mirror, she imagined that a donkey stared at her. 

(Tradução de Marianna Perna) 

THE END

.

 

 

The burden of proof is also a defense burden

The burden of criminal proof is also a defence burden. A Brazilian case.

 

The tremendous trial in Brazil by the Supreme Court, the Brazilian Criminal Case 470 — known as the “ mensalão” or "big monthly payment" regards the purchase of legislative support by member of the executive power — and it has had the merit of raising greater attention to the burden of proof in criminal court. It got the attention of not only legal practitioners, but also journalists and hundreds of thousands of intelligent citizens who are — passionately and seriously — watching the case on television. 

The pedagogic side of the judgement cannot be denied, it can also reveal — and here the teaching continues — the existence of small human failures of the professionals dealing with this difficult and slippery activities, be it when accusing, defending or judging others. It needs to be noted that in the entire process, past events are examined; events that are already hidden and destroyed by time and which were not witnessed by the professionals acting during the judgement: prosecutor, lawyer and judge. In the trial, an attempt is made to reconstruct facts that were neither seen nor heard by those who sternly debate about a possible criminal act, based of proofs, which can be trustworthy or false. Or both a mixture of truth and untruth, given that witnesses are not always incorruptible when announcing their 'truth'. And not only the witness: the victim — if alive, of course — can lie too. So can criminal experts too, even if rarely. 

Everything can be distorted in the hands of men. Hence the old saying "the judge is the expert of the experts." Only he is in a better position to evaluate all the evidence, unify all the pieces of the puzzle. Those who have already been a judge when expropriating residences know that the property specialist indicated by the one to be expelled from his patrimony will almost always conclude that the residence is worth more than the value given by the side expelling or even more than the value given by the expert appointed by the judge. The expelling side, on the other hand, is often sure that the property does not value that much. 

Despite many dangerous "philosophical" issues concerning the perfect reproduction of past facts under oath, the truth must, at all costs, be searched, investigated, analysed and finally framed in legal descriptions, which, paradoxically, are today sometimes as drastic as extensive and abstract. 

One of the most important theoretical debates in the "big monthly payment" — not only between the Attorney General and lawyers, but also among the judges themselves — is whether the defendant has or has not a duty to prove his innocence. One of the Ministers insisted that the defendant does not have to prove anything, not even his/her innocence, only the accusation, he says, has an obligation to produce evidences. 

This extreme position, also embraced by American jurists — too easy for the defence — cannot prevail morally and is extremely damaging to the defendant himself when the evidence of the prosecution convicts him. Ask yourself: if the defendant is innocent — despite the proof of charges showing the contrary — would it be up to the prosecutor to search of new evidences that proves the accused’s innocence eliminating any doubt? Would it be up to the prosecutor to produce evidence first against, then in favour of the defendant while the defendant and his patron just watch polishing their nails? 

As I said, prosecutor and judge deal with information not seen nor heard personally, but gathered in testimonies, documents, surveys and words spoken by the defendant in court — when he/she does not refuse to talk. At that point — in order to know the facts more closely — the lawyer has a huge advantage over prosecutor and judge because the lawyer has the privilege to hear directly "from the source", the client, what actually happened; when the client, of course, tells the truth. Not always, it is worth mentioning, because sometimes the client lies to its own defender, thinking that appearing innocent in the eyes of the lawyer would make the lawyer fight for his innocence with more vigour and sincerity, impressing the judge or court. The conviction of innocence persuades, it transpires in the voice and body language of the defender. 

It takes a lot of theatrical talent to pretend outrage. The pretense, like a boiling bubble of consciousness, always emerges, driven by an innate ethic. Nelson Rodrigues, a Brazilian author, says that, when he was a rookie crime reporter, he attended a place where a man had just been violently killed. The widow desperately wanted to die. She screamed and tore her hair. She refused the traditional offer of water with sugar offered by her friends. Finally, somewhat dehydrated by many tears, she accepted a glass of water, but before drinking she asked: "Is this filtered?"  

As I said, it would involuntarily stimulate a general impunity, if the judiciary, by its representatives, had to sustain that, in absolute terms, the defendant "does not have to prove his innocence", thereby taking advantage of the fact that prosecutor and judge were not present when the crime occurred. Which is legally impossible anyways, because if they were witnesses, it would mean they could not act as prosecutor or judge. 

It's too comfortable, as I said, and harmful to the interests of society, in any country, that the accused, confronted by the police or in court, can remain silent, indifferent, when some facts incriminate him, and this silence cannot be taken as any inference contrary to his innocence. In the investigation phase, the silence is still tolerable, because at that stage the guarantees of the suspect are not yet present. In court, however, there is no justification for the voluntary muteness. I repeat: the defendant cannot be forced to speak, but silence results in some loss of belief in the accused. At least he/she should lie, because by lying, the version will be investigated and, being untruthful, it will inform the jury of the defendant's character, a factor that always contributes to the understanding of truth. 

The criminal procedure, contrary to what many say, was not only designed to protect the defendant (David) against the abuse of state (Goliath). Nowadays, the state in countries with lax laws and jurisprudence is perhaps more "David" than "Goliath"; such is the strength of organized crime, or even disorganized crime, when the laws are too soft. In Brazil, increasingly, "children" of seventeen years are recruited by criminals to steal and kill, taking advantage of the Brazilian legislation and income inequality, fed by fast-growing consumerism. 

The process was also invented to protect society, which has an interest in moving away from neighbourhood people killing, stealing, raping, or slandering, etc. Therefore, it is of interest for the common well-being — including the defendant, remotely, as a mere citizen — that the accused answers anything when asked by the judge, even saying that he knows nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing, practised nothing. Staying silent, he lies by default. He is not bound to incriminate himself. He only needs to speak, his speech functioning as a breathalyser. Who refuses the breathalyser test when in traffic, is implicitly confessing that he drank. In fact, deep down, being silent about the facts should be — with or without law, case law or doctrine — self-accusation by the defendant, leading the judge to think — "Besides criminal, he is arrogant ... ". Thus thinks the judge, while he will or not write as such in the sentence. In short: being silent indicates evil. It's a "push" towards condemnation. 

Defendants can be convicted on circumstantial evidence and legal circumstances. Otherwise there would be a guarantee of impunity for the most serious crimes. Planned crimes — the most harmful to society — are always committed in places and times chosen by the criminal. Without witnesses. I will provide an abstract example, which shows that evidence and circumstances permit, legally and morally, condemnation, unless the defence makes an effort to prove the contrary. 

Let's think about a hypothetical citizen — henceforth "Romeo" — who has no resources of his own, and has a relationship with a rich and mature woman. His companion supports him. Having been in love with another woman for months — young, beautiful but ... poor — he is unhappy with the impossibility (without tremendous economic loss) to get rid of the relationship he has with the boring companion and live with his beautiful girlfriend. She, however, very practical, has made ​​it clear that she does not want to be just a "twig". The business philosophy of existential beauty, transmitted through the old and painful ultimatum: "Either she or me!" 

After considering and planning the best solution for his dilemma, the anguished Romeo, without a criminal past, invents a plan that guarantees success: He invites his mature companion for a long romantic walk through a mountainous region that she always wanted to visit. She happily accepts the idea — she had been already suspicious of the coldness of her boyfriend — and two days later they leave by car for their second honeymoon. 

Arriving at the edge of a cliff, away from anyone's view, Romeo stops the vehicle and asks his companion out of the car to look at the beauty of the river and rocks a hundred meters below. Even though afraid of heights, the woman approaches the edge of the cliff and in that moment she is pushed to her death. No witness. Then, unkempt, almost "in shock", Romeo seeks the nearest police station and reports, desperate, the sad tragedy that resulted from a mere slip of the innocent lady. He complains, with wild stare, saying that deep down he feels guilty because, distracted by the beauty of the landscape, he did not see the woman approaching the brink. The apparent desperation convinces the sheriff, the clerk and even a street vendor who was, by chance, at the police station. 

It happens that the unfortunate victim has a suspicious sister. She finds Romeo’s version strange because her sister had a notorious fear of heights and therefore would have never accepted to even live in an apartment above the second floor. Why would she then dangerously approach the edge of a cliff? Besides, her dead sister had already told her that, at the suggestion of Romeo, she had made a substantial life insurance, instituting her partner as a beneficiary because he earned little, was poor, had no assets and no special skill or training. Finally, this sister mentioned to the sheriff that the deceased had told her privately that she was afraid that her companion was having "an affair". The police, alerted — "cherchez la femme!" — decided to research the background of the situation and found that three months before the "slip", Romeo had actually arranged a bulky life insurance for his companion figuring him as beneficiary. 

After tapping his phone conversations, with judicial authorization, the police did not actually hear any express admission of murder, but caught snippets of conversations of Romeo with a certain girl; conversations whose content was not compatible with the moral pain he pretended to feel at the police station when mentioning the sad accident. Continuing the investigations, including listening to the lover of Romeo — who apparently did not take part in the sinister plan — they learned that the accused had visited the lover the day after the alleged accident, not appearing to be shaken, quite the contrary. The police concluded the investigation by saying that all led to believe that the woman had been thrown to her death by the man who wanted four benefits with a single push: freedom, money, love pleasure and impunity. 

Called to testify, both in the investigation and in court, Romeo invoked his constitutional right to remain silent: — "Not just because I prefer" explained lying, "but because I was guided by my lawyer to do so." The evidence against him was therefore only indexing, dependent only upon the ability to deduct by the judge. 

Would the reader, in this hypothetical case, as a judge or jury, absolve the defendant only because there were no witnesses or direct evidence of the crime? The defence argues in their closing arguments that a slip can always occur anywhere, even on the brink of precipices. The argument concerning fear of heights would not be relevant because some people strive to overcome their irrational fears. They do so by approaching that fear. Certainly — says the defender —  that's why the victim dared even to please the accused by doing something she normally would not do: spy bravely into the abyss. As for the life insurance — would continue the final piece of the defence — it was merely a loving concern from a thoughtful companion, always worried about the future of her beloved if she was no longer there, as it came to happen. Finally, the fact he has a love affair, kept secret, had nothing to do with the accident. If the beautiful new girlfriend waited for a decision from Romeo, a decision of permanent connection, it existed only in her head, not in his, he had only a passing enthusiasm. For these reasons, the defence plead for discharge, claiming at least a "reasonable doubt." 

In theory, of course, there's a very remote chance that the accused, could be telling the truth. He was just a tremendously unlucky victim of coincidences. However, judges would probably condemn him. If the case was tried by a court of law it is foreseeable that the judges do not deny the strong circumstantial evidence against the defendant or easily accept the explanations of his attorney in closing arguments. They would say, among them: "This lawyer is smart, but everything he said is nothing but smoke. Where is the proof of his conjectures? " 

The "blame" for the conviction of the defendant in this case would, however, be on the defendant himself, remaining silent and not trying, for convenience, to prove his innocence.  

Imagine — continuing the example — that the lawyer was diligent and could confirm, with testimonials from locals, that the slip point was much sought by tourists because of its special beauty. These residents say, for example — without lying — that two other people had fallen into the abyss, right there in the last two years without arousing suspicion, and because of that the local municipality had already determined — before the fall of the defendant's companion — that a short wall should be built there, preventing further accidents. The work had not yet been done due to lack of funds. If experts on the defender side would also prove the existence of a real danger of a slip at that point, it would quite help the accused. As for the fear of heights, the lawyer, talking to people who knew the victim, would know that she had already told her friends that, after watching a movie on television, on overcoming irrational fears — snakes and spiders, for example — she said her intended use of similar techniques to approach fear. As for the life insurance, perhaps the broker, could testify, without lying, saying that the victim, when she called to make the insurance, would have explained that she did this for free initiative, without any pressure or suggestion of her companion. What about the suspicion of her sister; her word was suspicious because, in the contract, in the event of death of the unfortunate lady, the compensation would be paid to Romeo but if not, to the sister. If the defendant was convicted of murder, he could not receive the money from the insurance. The compensation would be then paid to the second beneficiary. Finally, as for his girlfriend, she was spiteful to testify because Romeo had told her before her testimony that he had lost his enthusiasm for a future relationship "asking for a break." 

With this revolutionary new evidential situation, the chances would be that Romeo escapes conviction. One question remains: Would the prosecutor ask more questions to prove the innocence or the guilt of the defendant? 

Summarizing and repeating: the accused must not prove his innocence, except when the evidence of the prosecution incriminates him. When incriminating, it is his obligation to produce evidence of his possible innocence. And silence contributes to cast doubt on his innocence. 

Actually, neither the prosecution nor the defence are physically "forced" to produce evidence. They will just suffer the consequences — logical and fair — of their own laziness: the accuser allowing impunity to a criminal and the defender seeing his client — even possibly innocent — being sentenced. 

Abraham Lincoln once said, talking about the toughest presidential decisions, that ethics is summarized as follows: after examining the alternatives he decided according to what would reassure his consciousness. If he "felt well" with the decision, this would probably be the best one. At this point, the moral intuition has great help. With good judges it is certainly the same. 

I beg your pardon in the above example because of the transformation of a legal issue in small detective story. Incidentally poorly constructed, because, as I said in the beginning, there was a crime, but it could have been a mere slip. In this detail I slipped. Fortunately, not in the edge of a cliff. 

For good didactic reasons, I shall be forgiven for mixing literature genres.

 

(01-9-2012)