They arrived in a caravan, four vehicles in all.
Muniz led the way in his black Mercedes. His capangas were right behind it. Ferraz's black-and-white police sedan brought up the rear.
Muniz leapt to the ground and advanced on Pillar even before his car had come to a complete stop. A long-barreled. 44 magnum revolver dangled from a holster on his right hip. He was carrying a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun.
The men he had with him grabbed their weapons, piled out of both vans, and formed a semi-circle behind him.
Hector reached under his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the grip of his Glock.
Muniz was so furious, and so intent on getting to Pillar, that he didn't even notice.
But one of his gunmen did, and tensed.
Silva addressed his nephew, speaking softly so that no one else could hear. "Don't draw that pistol. We're outgunned. Put your hands where that capanga can see them."
"He wouldn't dare-"
"He would. And then his friends will kill those reporters, Pillar, and me. Muniz will claim the league started it, and Ferraz will back him up. Do it."
Hector took his hand out from under his coat, but the capanga didn't take his eyes off him.
Muniz came to a stop, three meters from the group surrounding Pillar.
The journalists scurried back out of the way. A few of the league members did too, but only a few.
Pillar raised his hands to shoulder height.
Muniz pumped a round into the chamber of his shotgun.
"I'm sorry about your son," Pillar said, his voice even. "It's a heavy burden for any father."
"Don't give me that, you hypocritical, lying bastard. You made the biggest mistake of your life when you decided to tangle with me."
There was a screech of brakes. Vicenza and her crew piled out of their van, leaving the doors open and the engine running. The red light on the front of the camera was already blinking.
"No pictures," Ferraz said, extending his arms as if he was directing traffic.
Vicenza lifted her microphone, caught her breath and said, "You're looking at Colonel Ferraz of the Sao Paulo State Police, a man who evidently thinks he's still living in a dictatorship. Over his shoulder, and holding a shotgun, is Orlando Muniz."
The cameraman pushed a button, and the barrel of the zoom lens started to rotate, tightening the angle on Muniz.
"A few moments ago," Vicenza continued, "Senhor Muniz told us he's convinced that the Landless Workers' League is responsible for the death of his son. It appears he's decided to take the law into his own hands."
Pillar saw his chance. He raised his voice and started to talk, almost as if they'd rehearsed it. "The Landless Worker's League categorically denies any complicity in the death of Orlando Muniz Junior. None of us are armed. None of us want trouble."
"Well, you've got it anyway." It was Ferraz, his face crimson. "You're trespassing on private property. The owner of this fazenda, Senhor Muniz here, has the right to evict you. I authorize him to use force."
"Sorry, Colonel, you can't do that-"
"The hell I can't."
"-because we've got a restraining order," Pillar finished calmly. "We've petitioned the court. They've agreed to consider our case."
"Petitioned the-"
Muniz cut Ferraz off. "What court?" he said.
"A federal court and a federal judge," Father Angelo Monteiro said, stepping out of the crowd around Pillar. He held a smoking cigarette in his right hand and a document in the left.
Muniz lowered the shotgun, snatched the paper from the old priest, and stared at it. "Son of a bitch," he said, his eyes bulging as he absorbed the significance of what he was reading.
"No," Father Angelo said, "he isn't. That particular judge happens to be an honest man, unlike a certain local magistrate you have on your payroll."
Muniz ignored the priest and turned to Ferraz. "Can they do this?"
Ferraz opened his mouth, thought better of whatever he had planned to say and shut it again.
"May I see that?" Vicenza Pelosi took the paper from Muniz's unresisting hand and held it toward the camera. The cameraman adjusted his focus.
Muniz realized what was happening, snatched the paper back, and tore it to shreds.
"I got it," the cameraman said to Vicenza. "Sharp, but short. We'll have to freeze it."
Muniz started advancing toward him.
The cameraman stepped backward, zoomed out, refocused.
"Keep rolling, Beto," Vicenza said.
"Rolling," the cameraman confirmed, stopping when Muniz did.
Muniz, trembling with rage, spun around. He raised his shotgun and aimed it at the ground in front of Pillar. He shouted an epithet, but no one heard it. The blast of the weapon overpowered his voice. The hail of buckshot threw up a cloud of dust. Before it had settled, and while the report was still ringing in everyone's ears, he turned on his heel and walked back to his car.