In its final episode, Who Loves Doesn’t Kill, the series Angela Diniz: Assassinada e Condenada reaches its conclusion by reconstructing the outrageous trial of Doca Street, where the so-called “defense of honor” made history for all the wrong, shameful reasons. Before commenting on the broader impact, let’s revisit what the finale shows.

The episode opens with a haunting image of Angela floating in the sea, just hours before her murder. From there, the narrative cuts to the present: Doca giving a TV interview in which he repeats — almost verbatim — the excuses he offered before the crime. He claims he gave up everything for her, that she wanted him to live a different life, that she talked about getting custody of her daughter but wouldn’t stop drinking, and that she refused to have another child with him. As for accusations of controlling her, he says he only did that because she had a “compulsion to provoke men.” He insists he loved her deeply. “I’ll never love another woman the way I loved Angela,” he says, adding that he misses her.

It quickly becomes clear that the entire interview had been orchestrated by his lawyer, Evandro Lins e Silva. When the cameras stop, Doca discreetly asks, “Did I forget anything?” No — he had been “perfect.” The press praises his supposed sincerity, and three years after the murder, the case finally goes to trial in the small town of Cabo Frio. Angela’s family watches in outrage. Her mother, Dona Maria, insists on being there.

Angela’s friends gather as well, shaken. They worry about one disturbing detail: the prosecutor, Evaristo de Moraes Filho, although one of Brazil’s finest lawyers, was once Evandro’s student and godson. Would this be a duel between master and disciple — or a choreographed performance for the cameras?

Outside the courthouse, the crowd alternates between support for Doca and cries of “murderer.” Inside, the tone is set by the selection of the jury: all middle-aged men and just two women, also middle-aged. Even the witnesses skew heavily in his favor — only one female friend of Angela’s is called to speak on her behalf.

The crime scene description makes it unmistakable: this was an execution. Angela had no chance to defend herself. Yet on the stand, Doca delivers a melodramatic version of events. He says Angela began drinking early that day, met the “little German girl” on the beach, and confessed she wanted to take her home. He portrays himself as anguished and helpless. According to him, Angela kept drinking despite his pleas. Back at the house, she allegedly said she was going out again, which sparked the fight. He insists he implored her to stay, says he was hit by her, and claims he left in tears, driving aimlessly with a “shattered heart.”

He then says he returned merely to “make peace,” but that Angela imposed a cruel condition: that he would have to share her with other men and women, that she’d go to the beach and bring home whoever interested her. He describes himself screaming “like a wounded animal,” being slapped, and finally reaching for the gun. “I don’t know how many times I shot. I only know I killed the woman I loved.” As the courtroom reacts, Doca exchanges a look with Evandro, who nods approvingly. Every gesture, every line, had been meticulously rehearsed.

The prosecution attempts to counter the performance, emphasizing that Doca was possessive, violent, and financially dependent on Angela. They argue that she was in love but vulnerable. None of this breaks through the patriarchal narrative dominating the trial. Evandro doubles down on her “past” — affairs with married men, supposed manipulations, the abandonment of her children. He paints Angela as “promiscuous,” “reckless,” and “predatory,” while portraying Doca as a “good man” who killed to defend his honor.

The duel between mentor and disciple heats up, but Evaristo highlights the truth buried beneath the theatrics: the wounds prove Doca acted with chilling deliberation. He had time to stop. He didn’t kill out of love — he killed out of hatred and cowardice. And he poses the question that still echoes half a century later: Does someone who loves kill? And even more: why was Angela murdered again in that courtroom, her memory shredded to justify a man?

During a break, Doca panics that the argument of a “crime of passion” may have collapsed, but Evandro reassures him: he did his part; now it was the lawyer’s turn. What follows is a theatrical, almost grotesque speech — but tragically faithful to the real trial. “This woman wanted to die,” Evandro proclaims. Knowing these words were indeed spoken in court makes the scene even harder to watch.

The verdict: a ridiculous two-year suspended sentence, meaning immediate release. Only in 1981 — after pressure from the feminist movement — was he retried and sentenced to 15 years, serving more than half of it in freedom. The second trial recognized qualified homicide with intent to kill, but did nothing to reverse the earlier character assassination.

The series falters when depicting the feminist movement Quem Ama Não Mata, reducing historic mobilization to a hollow montage, though it does underline a crucial fact: only in 2023 did Brazil’s Supreme Court finally declare the “defense of honor” unconstitutional.

“The law came late, but Angela left a legacy,” the narration says.

Revisiting Angela Diniz’s story is essential. I was a child when it happened, and the country was visibly traumatized. The freedom Angela sought — sexual, social, personal — has never received a narrative that fully respects its complexity. The series attempts it but stumbles in execution. Even so, it achieves something important: for the first time, it presents a Doca Street stripped of myth — insecure, opportunistic, violent, and utterly devoid of self-awareness. That alone matters.