Free A Barcelona Heiress by Sergio Vila-Sanjuán

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, poorly scrawled letters:
    “D o 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