The first time the prosecutor Jorge Cubides came to the house, I thought he was another of Libardo’s friends. He was wearing a sweatshirt and seemed too young, too muscular to be a prosecutor. When I opened the door, he asked for Fernanda, smiling broadly, very sure of himself.
When she appeared, he said, “Sorry for showing up like this—I’m all sweaty. I was leaving the gym, and since it’s close to here, I figured I’d come by.” She invited him in and offered him juice and fruit salad. From their conversation, I was able to gather that he was interested in our case because it could help him obtain the promotion he was angling for. Jorge Cubides had set his sights high: he wanted to be deputy attorney general for all of Colombia.
“That Eloy guy is calling you from payphones around the city,” he added. “But we haven’t been able to confirm that he’s a member of Los Pepes.”
“There’s nobody else who’d be holding him,” Fernanda said.
“But we have to confirm it to be able to take the next step. You told me you’d talked to another guy before,” Cubides said.
“Yes, Rómulo,” Fernanda replied, and he wrote down the name in a notebook.
“Two things,” he said. “First, you have to find out from them what happened to Rómulo. Ideally, you’d start talking to him again. Second, you have to insist they send you proof of life for Libardo.”
“I ask for it every time they call,” she said.
“As for the money they’re demanding,” the prosecutor said, “are you able to get your hands on that much?”
“We’re working on it,” Fernanda said.
She was working on it. She was setting up meetings with Libardo’s business partners, visiting those who were in prison, meeting late at night with those who were on the run, talking with wives or front men. She was always elegantly dressed, though she’d been biting her nails a lot.
The next time Eloy called, Fernanda told him, I’ve got the money, I’ve got it right here, but I can’t give you anything without proof of life. Eloy was quiet for a bit, she asked if he was still there, and he responded that he was going to run it by the others. Fernanda gave us a victory sign. Before hanging up, she said, Eloy, Eloy, don’t hang up, I need to ask you something. What is it, Doña Fernanda? What happened to Rómulo?, she asked. Rómulo?, Eloy repeated, and again fell silent. Eloy?, Fernanda asked. Ma’am, he said, Rómulo was killed.
Fernanda met with Cubides, and they celebrated the fact that, for the first time, the supposed captor had agreed to consider providing proof of life. In the prosecutor’s view, they couldn’t assume that the information about the man known as Rómulo was true. Maybe Eloy’s lying and doesn’t even know him, he said.
It was life that was lying, conspiring with liars or with circumstances that made it more likely that deception would bear fruit. At dawn the next day, the telephone rang. Fernanda answered sleepily, and on the other end of the line she heard a whisper saying, Fernanda, darling, it’s me. She sat up, her heart about to explode. Libardo?, she asked. She heard the whisper ask, how are the boys? She told him, speak up, I can’t hear you. I can’t, the whisper said. Where are you? Fernanda asked. With the people who are holding me, I can’t say any more, tell me how the boys are. Speak louder, Fernanda insisted. I have to hang up, the whisper said, give them what they’re asking for, I’m desperate. Talk louder, I can barely hear you, Fernanda pleaded, angry, but then Eloy came on the line and said, there’s your proof, ma’am, we held up our end, I’ll call you later to set up the handoff. He hung up, and Fernanda was left screaming into the handset, don’t hang up, Eloy, I need to speak to him, just for a second, Eloy, please! Hearing her shouts, Julio and I rushed into the room and found her clutching the telephone and piteously weeping.
We sat on the bed as day broke, speculating and making her go back over every word of the conversation.
“But was it him or wasn’t it?” I kept asking.
“How do I know,” Fernanda said. “Sometimes yes and sometimes not. When you hear the recording, you’ll know.”
“But how could you not recognize Dad?”
“I haven’t heard his voice for a long time, and I already told you I could barely hear him.”
“Maybe they talked like that so you wouldn’t recognize him,” Julio said.
“Maybe,” she said, “but he’s also been a prisoner for months, you know, not talking to anybody; who knows what kind of condition he’s in. A person could even forget how to talk.”
Again and again we asked her the same questions, and she gave us the same answers. All we could do was wait a little before contacting Cubides and reviewing the recording of the call.
Whether it was Libardo or not, I was scared stiff to hear that voice.