behavior, had stolen from a car parked down Montcada Street twelve two-hundred-candlepower Nitra lamps, valued at nine pesetas. The prosecution was seeking a sentence of two years, four months, and one day of correctional confinement. I sought an acquittal. He was found guilty.
There were misdemeanors for which the state prosecutor sought outrageously long sentences, cases of men attacking women in which juries were lenient because there was a question of honor at play, deplorable stories of corrupted minors, outbreaks of senseless violenceborn of poverty and despair … Above all, there were many cases in which nobody was completely innocent or guilty and, for all the honest and capable judges, there were others who were negligent, ignorant, or downright corrupt.
During these years as a criminal attorney I often asked myself what good my work did, who it benefited, and to what extent the functioning of the legal system served justice and was based on reason. Was it true that every suspect had a right to a competent defense? Was it fair that my arguments led to reduced sentences and even acquittals for individuals I knew to be guilty? I recalled how the great politician Antonio Maura, speaking to us about the profession, cited the Latin precept: “
Honeste vivere. Alterum non laedere. Suum cuique tribuere.
Live honorably. Do no harm to others. Render to each his own.”
When racked with doubts, which was quite often, I consoled myself with the words of my former professor of civil law, Don Joaquín Dualde: “Law is the only guarantee which civilization offers man in his fight for life. A people which loses its faith in the law due to the nature of those administering it is doomed, while a people with a vision of what is fair and, consequently, a strict sense of duty, is saved. No religion in the world has lost its precepts due to the misconduct of its leaders. They may lose followers, but this does not destroy the essence of their principles.”
In reality, despite what Rocabert had said, my practice had yet to prosper. The public defending work and the two-bit delinquents I defended brought me little in the way of fees—just barely enough to pay my rent, and the modest salaries of Basilio and Lucinda, and to allow me to live with a modicum of dignity. I had inherited little from my parents, and I was spending it, as my work as a journalist only slightly augmented my income. My dedication to criminal law and my articles in the press had already allowed me, even as a young man, to enjoy a certain level ofprestige in the city, but it had become high time that I represented more affluent clients if I were to advance in my career.
* * *
All these thoughts were running through my head when a very angry Lucinda announced a visitor: María Nilo. I asked her to show our guest into the office and, shaking off my ruminations, went to get dressed. A few minutes later I was behind my sturdy desk arranging a bouquet of flowers in the red clay vase I always kept full, and fussing over lining up my elegantly carved glass inkwell, blotter, pen, and art deco lamp, just so.
With brusque movements the cabaret artist peeled off her four-button, faded orange overcoat with its velvet collar (which was definitely excessive given the warm weather we were enjoying, and even a bit garish), and tossed it with indifference over an armchair. I could not help but notice the curvaceous contour of her breasts under her blouse.
I had not seen her in months, as the trial against her assailants had not yet been held. Barcelona’s courts were fraught with inexplicable mysteries: some trials were heard in a question of months, while others took years. Why were some processed faster than others? Who could say. Political pressures aside, Spanish justice at that time abounded in arbitrary decisions and miles of red tape.
“Are you aware that today is a holiday?” I asked.
“For those of us in show business, there are no holidays. Pablo, I must turn
There were misdemeanors for which the state prosecutor sought outrageously long sentences, cases of men attacking women in which juries were lenient because there was a question of honor at play, deplorable stories of corrupted minors, outbreaks of senseless violenceborn of poverty and despair … Above all, there were many cases in which nobody was completely innocent or guilty and, for all the honest and capable judges, there were others who were negligent, ignorant, or downright corrupt.
During these years as a criminal attorney I often asked myself what good my work did, who it benefited, and to what extent the functioning of the legal system served justice and was based on reason. Was it true that every suspect had a right to a competent defense? Was it fair that my arguments led to reduced sentences and even acquittals for individuals I knew to be guilty? I recalled how the great politician Antonio Maura, speaking to us about the profession, cited the Latin precept: “
Honeste vivere. Alterum non laedere. Suum cuique tribuere.
Live honorably. Do no harm to others. Render to each his own.”
When racked with doubts, which was quite often, I consoled myself with the words of my former professor of civil law, Don Joaquín Dualde: “Law is the only guarantee which civilization offers man in his fight for life. A people which loses its faith in the law due to the nature of those administering it is doomed, while a people with a vision of what is fair and, consequently, a strict sense of duty, is saved. No religion in the world has lost its precepts due to the misconduct of its leaders. They may lose followers, but this does not destroy the essence of their principles.”
In reality, despite what Rocabert had said, my practice had yet to prosper. The public defending work and the two-bit delinquents I defended brought me little in the way of fees—just barely enough to pay my rent, and the modest salaries of Basilio and Lucinda, and to allow me to live with a modicum of dignity. I had inherited little from my parents, and I was spending it, as my work as a journalist only slightly augmented my income. My dedication to criminal law and my articles in the press had already allowed me, even as a young man, to enjoy a certain level ofprestige in the city, but it had become high time that I represented more affluent clients if I were to advance in my career.
* * *
All these thoughts were running through my head when a very angry Lucinda announced a visitor: María Nilo. I asked her to show our guest into the office and, shaking off my ruminations, went to get dressed. A few minutes later I was behind my sturdy desk arranging a bouquet of flowers in the red clay vase I always kept full, and fussing over lining up my elegantly carved glass inkwell, blotter, pen, and art deco lamp, just so.
With brusque movements the cabaret artist peeled off her four-button, faded orange overcoat with its velvet collar (which was definitely excessive given the warm weather we were enjoying, and even a bit garish), and tossed it with indifference over an armchair. I could not help but notice the curvaceous contour of her breasts under her blouse.
I had not seen her in months, as the trial against her assailants had not yet been held. Barcelona’s courts were fraught with inexplicable mysteries: some trials were heard in a question of months, while others took years. Why were some processed faster than others? Who could say. Political pressures aside, Spanish justice at that time abounded in arbitrary decisions and miles of red tape.
“Are you aware that today is a holiday?” I asked.
“For those of us in show business, there are no holidays. Pablo, I must turn
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