A Barcelona Heiress Read online

  El Chimo’s trial was held in the Provincial Court of Barcelona, located in the Palace of Justice, where I was a frequent visitor. The imposing building, the work of architects Enrique Sagnier and José Doménech, had been constructed in order to house numerous courts of varying levels which had hitherto been scattered around the entire city. It had been functioning for a dozen years, and I liked to hear the clacking of my shiny shoes as I crossed the Salón de los Pasos Perdidos, with its allegorical paintings in green, golden, and ochre tones, dressed in my lawyer’s garb on my way to one of my appearances in court.

  Presiding over the trial was magistrate Felipe Gallo, a most dour character. It was a jury trial, and the kind that attracted public attention. On the first day the prosecutor, who began by evoking the motto of the somatenes, the volunteer police corps: “pau, pau i sempre pau,” (peace, peace, and always peace), presented as evidence the statements of twenty witnesses, four doctors and two experts. It took two sessions just to hear all of them.

  The defendants gave their statements under shafts of light pouring in from the large picture windows. Their testimony lay at the crux of the whole trial, especially that which related to the confession El Chimo had given the police immediately after being arrested, as the other defendant, Rosa Mestres, never admitted to having anything to do with the placement of the bomb, and the other statements shed no light on who had built it or who could have had a motive for placing it.

  El Chimo was arrested because he had boasted about having been behind the bombing to a friend, who turned out to be a police informant. After ratting out the boy, his so-called friend, and fellow rapscallion, Marcelino, received from a policeman—a certain Officer Quintela—a dinner, some clothes, and twenty-five pesetas for his work. Once in custody, El Chimo started talking, recognizing that he had transported the bomb and that Rosa Mestres had put him up to it.

  The case against him was, in my view, very flimsy, overseen by a military judge—as Barcelona was at that time under martial law—and had a great many holes in it. During the trial, following my advice, El Chimo recanted his original statements, saying that he could not recall exactly what he had done the day of the incident, though in the morning he had been with a kid named Moreno, with whom he “went robbing” (sic), and swore that he had given his initial testimony “in order to appear in the newspapers.” In response to my questions he reported that his informer, Marcelino, had come up with the bomb idea, and realized when the explosive went off that he hadn’t been in Rosa Mestres’s house in two months.

  Everything was rather convoluted, with diametrically opposed testimony given.

  I gave my closing statement in the trial’s fourth session. After acknowledging the magistrates, the jury, and the prosecution, I began by describing the trial underway as a process arising out of vanity, for it was vanity—his desire to see himself portrayed and appearing in the papers—which spurred El Chimo to declare himself guilty of a crime that he did not commit.

  I railed against the “special” treatment my client had received from the police, at which point the chief magistrate called for order in the court. I explained that I had taken the case in response to the entreaties of an aunt of the accused, and because I was convinced of El Chimo’s innocence (as Caballé had nothing to do with trade unionism), and that he had had nothing to do with the attack. I added that, after taking charge of the defense I had received many anonymous letters (which was true) to which I had paid no heed.

  I then reviewed the facts attributed to Caballé in detail, paying attention to all the records on the case. Although one of the witnesses said that he recognized El Chimo as the one who had left the cart next to the palace, other reports and statements contradicted this, stating that the person who took the cart with the bomb in it to Las Cortes Street was a tall, slender man with a dark mustache wearing a blue suit and espadrilles.

  “Is this any description of the defendant?” I asked rhetorically. “No.” Only one of the witnesses said that he looked like the one with the cart, from the back.

  With regard to the statement that landed my client in jail, I argued that Marcelino Ferrer, the informant, had been compensated for his testimony with money and clothing, which called entirely into question the veracity of his words.

  I described El Chimo as a victim of social marginalization, and urged the jury not to hand down a punishment on someone against whom there was no evidence at all. “The prosecutor began his statement with a triple request for peace, evoking the motto of the Catalonian somatenes. I, then, ask for justice, justice, and always justice.”

  I continued by exclaiming, “I cannot believe that Barcelona as a society wishes, in response to the attack it has suffered, to take revenge against a child, a braggart, a puppet, and a swindler like El Chimo. I cannot believe,” I insisted, “that tomorrow the criminal hands which placed the bomb will be making paper airplanes with the newspapers reporting the defendant’s conviction!” The whispers that spread throughout the chamber led me to believe that my argument had struck a nerve.

  But it was my colleague assigned to defending Rosa Mestres (a volatile redhead who did not seem in the least fazed by the charges brought against her) who was most able to exploit the incoherencies of the prosecution’s case. In reality there was no real evidence incriminating her except for El Chimo’s testimony, and her counsel was able to demonstrate that, before accusing Miss Mestres, my client had denounced others who were clearly innocent. The boy’s statements were rife with contradictions and, her attorney argued in a somewhat ironic tone, under no circumstances would his client have given an individual such as El Chimo a bomb, as he was bound to squeal on her.

  The chief magistrate issued his summary of all that had been said during the trial; he read an article of Criminal Proceedings Law that applied to cases in which the defendant on trial recants formerly provided depositions, and told the other magistrates, “It lies with you to decide what you ought to say with regard to the defendant’s contradictions. If his deposition contains omissions, it is no fault of the court’s.” Gallo finished by reminding the court of its evident obligation, often not met, to issue a conscientious verdict.

  The jury retired to deliberate and, upon its return, issued its decision, responding to five questions from the court regarding the content of the process, finding Joaquín Caballé guilty and Rosa Mestres innocent. A short while later the sentence for my client was read before a crowded courtroom: fourteen years, eight months, and one day of incarceration—three years less than the prosecution had asked for, which reflected the mitigating circumstance I had petitioned of his being a minor. The two defendants cried, though for different reasons. El Chimo’s aunt, who had entrusted me with the boy’s defense, began to shout that she would not accept the sentence. The wife of one of those wounded by the bomb, who had attended the trial, fainted and had to be taken to a nearby pharmacy.

  After the trial a large crowd lingered in the Salón de San Juan, animatedly discussing the sentence handed down. Although the trial had been followed closely, it had been far from illuminating. I never believed that my client, El Chimo, was guilty and, even if he were, all the testimonies indicated that all he had done was transport the device. He did not make it nor, of course, was he the person who decided to use it. Then who was behind the incident? The sentence included nothing about this. The only result of all the months of investigations and a trial that had the whole city talking was that a kid was going to go to jail for an attack he clearly had not orchestrated. How could a jury issue this verdict and a judge sanction this sentence, just like that, only compounding the confusion surrounding the event with even more confusion regarding those behind it?

  Apparently I was not the only person harboring such thoughts, for as I stood conversing with one of the clusters of people outside the courts, I felt someone slip something into my jacket pocket. I spun around, but, amid all the commotion, it was impossible to tell who it had been. I took out the paper and read, in large, po
orly scrawled letters:

  “Do you really think justice has been done?”

  How odd, I thought.

  At two in the afternoon Joaquín “El Chimo” Caballé and Rosa Mestres were once again transported to the prison, the latter being released soon after.

  * * *

  I spent a good part of my youth in Barcelona’s Plaza de Medinaceli, which was at that time a Versailles-like corner of the city complete with a garden, an iron gate surrounding a pool graced by swans and in the center of which stood a monument to Admiral Marquet, romantic benches under idyllic palm trees, and, rounding out the unforgettable setting, opposite the sea.

  When my parents died, just weeks apart in the deadly flu epidemic of 1917, I decided to keep the spacious apartment they had rented in this square. I refurbished half of it to use for my law practice and the other half for my residence. Basilio, a trustworthy clerk just slightly younger than myself, assisted me in my practice. In my home I retained the services of my mother’s maid, Señora Lucinda, a reserved and energetic Galician who had watched me grow up and would have laid down her life for me. She would hurry about the house dressed in a black satin maid’s dress, which my mother had ordered for her, complete with a high collar and golden filigree buttons, cooking and overseeing the daily cleaning with an iron fist. She had a young assistant who she treated in a motherly way. Señora Lucinda slept on the far side of the apartment, which had its own entrance from the stairs so that I did not bother her when I returned late, whether from burning the midnight oil at the office or the occasional party.

  After the trial against El Chimo, I met Basilio at a modest restaurant near the courthouse. We ate together and, after taking my leave of him, I made my way down on foot (for I most enjoy walking) to those quarters which I sometimes call my offices and sometimes my home. I did not go directly, but rather seized the opportunity to take a stroll, descending from the Salón de San Juan, leaving behind the monument to Mayor Rius y Taulet and the Palace of Fine Arts, with its garden and fountain dedicated to Hercules. I entered the extensive Ciudadela, the city’s ample park, and continued walking toward its southern end, where a large terrace offers views of the sea. For a good while I watched the waves break as I savored a Cuban cigar and meditated contentedly on the human and divine. It took me a while to shake off my drowsiness, recover my energy, and set off again, down Paseo de Isabel II toward home, passing by the coffee roastery filling the Plaza de Medinaceli with its unmistakable aroma unknown to those today who believe that a little dark powder mixed with water is anything close to real coffee.

  When I entered the office, a visibly shaken Basilio was waiting for me.

  “Here, read this. They just brought it,” he said, reaching out to hand me a note.

  It was from Rosa Mestres’s attorney, my colleague Mariano Sorogoyen.

  “Dear Pablo,” read the note. “My client was killed on her way home. Alongside the body was a note taking responsibility for the crime, which was signed ‘Danton.’ I need to see you at once.”

  5

  The unrest plaguing Barcelona made it necessary for the authorities to resort to calling up the military over and over, led by men such as the captain general of Catalonia, Joaquín Milans del Bosch, and the region’s military governor, who wielded considerable power. This duo had been joined by a third general, Don Eugenio López Ballesteros, at the helm of the Civil Government. As for the security force that was attached to this institution, all the heads and officers had to proceed from either the Army reserves, or from the Guardia Civil, as was the case of Miguel Beastegui, the police chief, who took direct orders from Don Eugenio. What a paradox it was to have such a number of generals in charge of civilian affairs. It was fortunate that at least the city’s mayor had no military affiliation, though during that time when the exceptions were becoming the rules, anything at all could happen.

  Following the infantes’ appearance at The Ritz, General López Ballesteros summoned me to his office in the austere, square building constructed under Carlos IV to serve as the Barcelona Customs House, which was later converted into fine lodgings for illustrious visitors and, finally, the Civil Government headquarters.

  There I stood before that imposing and sturdy man, with his jug ears and cleft chin, and the vigor characteristic of many of his profession, in part due to his innate physical constitution and in part because he had spent half his life outside and exercising. López Ballesteros emanated a profound sense of self-confidence and a remarkable energy.

  Hailing from Galicia and trained at the Academia de Infantería de Toledo, he had swiftly risen through the ranks to captain, at which point he volunteered to fight in the Philippines. His performance in a series of particularly brutal assaults earned him a promotion and multiple decorations. As a lieutenant colonel he served in the war in Morocco, where he fought in the Battle of Hidum Hills, the occupation of Nador, and the conflict at the Zoco del Jermís de Beni-bu-Ifrur, scoring a series of victories, always heading up Catalonia’s Rifle Batallion. He returned a full colonel, and so much was made of his feats that the king of Spain named him his assistant. In this capacity he was notable for not mincing any words and letting the monarch know just what he thought, which perhaps contributed to the abbreviated duration of his service in the position. He was later the director of the Academia de la Infantería, and soon rose to brigade general until His Majesty’s government named him Civil Governor of Barcelona, endowing him with what were, rumor had it, broad and sweeping powers.

  On his desk lay a huge stack of papers, telegrams, books, phone messages, dismantled bombs, and pencils in a range of colors that must have included the red, censor’s pencil, which at that time was wielded liberally against the city’s newspapers, whose columns were often gutted by the authorities’ interference.

  “You asked for me, General.”

  “Look, Vilar, we’re going to make some history here. In 1917 the General Union was established, comprising all the disaffected classes of workers, and ever since then the incidents in Barcelona have only multiplied. First it was strikebreakers being pelted with stones, and then personal assaults. The General Union, in addition, targets for violent attacks those workers not belonging to the organization and refusing to support its efforts. They are blacklisted from ever getting work and condemned to going hungry. You will recall how in 1917 and 1919 the city and all of Catalonia suffered general strikes, which made daily life insufferable and could have had the most catastrophic consequences. The General Union even issued a call to its members, encouraging them to create a red army and organize for an uprising.

  “I remember that story. They sought to create a kind of Catalonian soviet. And they may still be at it.”

  “If I have taken over the Civil Government and assumed authorities which I normally would not possess, it is because Barcelona’s employers and its respectable classes, not to mention its ordinary citizens, had repeatedly pressured the captain general, the government ministry, and even the president of the Council of Ministers on multiple occasions, complaining that the situation had grown unbearable. If I accepted this responsibility at the president’s behest, and even that of the monarch himself, even though I am versed in neither civil affairs nor politics, it is because Barcelona’s business community contended that terror and crime reigned in the city, and that the authorities sat idly by, contemplating the situation with an inconceivable indifference.”

  “And so it proved. We have been through terrible times. Even the most upright and decent had to carry guns on the street. And it is not at all clear that this is over.”

  “Indeed. Therefore, upon taking over the reins of the Civil Government, what could I do, declare martial law? I could not, for Barcelona had endured that for several months, and it constitutes an emergency situation which complicates things and entrusts the army with a series of responsibilities that normally fall outside its purview. As a lawyer I suppose that you yourself had to participate in numerous trials held under the military a
uthority in power at that time. Not only do we not have enough people, but neither is it our responsibility to assume those functions. But the alternative is not good either: the courts ceded to pressure, and juries dared not issue guilty verdicts for fear of retribution by union gunmen. Often out of intimidation, and other times out of sympathy, they released people whose guilt had been clearly established. And that cannot be tolerated under any circumstances.”

  “Excuse me, but how do you plan to prevent it? The judicial system cannot be modified without a sweeping process affecting all of Spain and undertaken by the appropriate authorities.”

  “I’ll tell you what I am doing: first, strengthening civil bodies. For years Catalonia has had the benefit of a kind of civil army, its somatenes, made up of, as you know, law-abiding defenders of order who take it upon themselves to conduct patrols and prevent delinquency, men who have done much to keep order in the most remote towns and villages. I have spoken with the leaders of the somatenes and have been successful in persuading the government to furnish them with more resources, weapons, and training.”

  I was very familiar with the institution of the somatén, a long-standing tradition in the Catalonian countryside in which towns lying far from the authorities and Guardia Civil headquarters organized citizen militias in order to provide for local security, and especially to combat banditry. In all of these places it was local leaders and the upper class (the mayor, the main landowners, and merchants) who headed them up. The members of each somatén took turns conducting night watches, rifles slung over their shoulders, patrolling the outskirts of each city as well as particularly troublesome areas. Fruit of the historically egregious impotence exhibited by the State and its provincial representatives to guarantee the populace’s safety, since the early twentieth century the institution had evolved into a bulwark against union-based violence in the cities too. By 1920 Catalonia boasted more than forty thousand somatenes.