I'm sitting in a small restaurant, far from the hustle and bustle of the big city, trying to find a moment of peace amidst the chaos that has taken over my life. The police say I'm on the run, but I like to think I'm looking for a way to prove my innocence. A television in the corner of the room hums in the background, and I can barely hear the buzz of the voices around me over the sound of my own heart hammering in my chest.
My name is João Neto, as the whole of Brazil knows, and until a few days ago, I was the editor-in-chief of Jornal Verdade Maranhense. But now, as I hear the words of Antonio Braga, the newspaper's owner, echoing on the screen, my reality seems to crumble before my eyes. And it gets worse, because in front of him I see Sandra, my wife. She probably made a point of being there so I could see her and hear about her anger.