‘So it was your idea to turn María into a media darling.’
‘Not at all. My idea was just that María should tell her story and Zarco’s to the journalists; nobody could have predicted what happened afterwards: I at least have nothing to do with that.’
‘Of course you do. You encouraged María by believing that you could use her and keep her under control; but that woman bolted and turned against you. Some people might say it serves you right: you can’t start something without knowing how it’s going to turn out.’
‘Nonsense. No one would ever start anything, if that were the case, because no one knows how anything’s ever going to turn out, no matter how it starts. Anyway, if you’re interested we can talk about this next time. I have to get going now.’
‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You haven’t upset me.’
‘OK; I won’t keep you any longer. But before we finish for the day, let me ask you one last question.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘If I’ve understood you correctly, in that first moment everyone around you was optimistic about Zarco’s future. Is that right?’
‘Yes . . . Well, no. One person was not.’
‘Who?’
‘Eduardo Requena, the superintendent of the prison. A strange guy. He knew Zarco well at that time, because he saw him every day, and he had a peculiar vision of his character. I didn’t see much of him, but we ended up forging some sort of friendship. I sometimes have the impression that he understood things that no one else understood, or that I took too long to understand. You should talk to him.’
Chapter 4
‘I remember the first time Cañas and I met in my office, at my request, a few weeks after Gamallo was transferred to the prison. I’d only spoken to Gamallo a couple of times then and only in passing (I never talked much with him, I didn’t tend to talk with any of the inmates), but the group of specialists who worked under me at the prison had already examined him and made a diagnosis, so I had quite an accurate idea of his real condition.
‘That was the first thing I said to Cañas that afternoon, after shaking his hand and offering him a seat on the settee in my office. The second thing I told him was that I’d asked him to come because I wanted to share the information I had at my disposal, to simplify our work and act by mutual agreement. Cañas listened to me very attentively, his eyes looked intrigued behind the lenses of his glasses, leaning back against the sofa cushions, knees far apart and his fingers laced together in his lap; as usual he was impeccably dressed: white shirt, blue three-piece suit and shiny shoes. When I finished speaking, he raised his eyebrows and unlaced and relaced his fingers, inviting me to go on. I went on. I explained that Gamallo was a heroin addict and HIV-positive, which he must have already known as he didn’t seem surprised to hear it; I explained that he had an added problem, which was that he was not aware of how much harm heroin was doing him, as he believed he was in control when actually heroin controlled him, that he was unable to admit his drug addiction as a disease or was only able to pretend to admit it in order to take advantage of it, and without truly admitting it he could not combat it. I added that, in spite of all this, at the Quatre Camins prison they had managed to get him onto a methadone treatment programme. Then I said that Gamallo was perhaps the most institutionalized inmate I’d ever come across.’
‘Zarco! Institutionalized?’
‘Look. All prisons are different, but they’re all similar; Gamallo had spent more than half his life locked up in prison, he knew all or almost all of Spain’s prisons, knew better than anybody the tricks of prison life and knew how to manipulate them in his favour better than anybody, so he was the king of subterfuge behind bars, the champion schemer. That’s what it means to be institutionalized. Naturally, Gamallo considered that for him it was a strength, and he was right; what he didn’t know was that it was also his weakness. In any case, the specialists’ diagnosis was very clear; I summed it up for the lawyer: the report spoke of Gamallo’s manipulative character, his work-resistant temperament and his persecution complex (I remember that one of the psychologists wrote, more or less: I’m not saying that some prison guards haven’t persecuted him at times; but that’s the problem: the worst thing that can happen to someone who believes himself persecuted is to actually be persecuted); the report also alluded to his tendency to see himself as being victimized and the parallel tendency to always hold others responsible for his own misfortunes, and most of all it alluded to his inability to come to terms with the legend of his juvenile delinquency, to digest it and live with it.
‘This was the basic thrust of the report. The rest consisted of an unsurprising repertoire of news about Gamallo’s family, childhood and youth, a résumé of his criminal history and prison record and an inventory of his rehabilitation attempts. I handed Cañas the report and let him take a look through it; while he did so I explained: Look, Counsellor, I’ve been working with prison inmates for thirty-five years, I know the most complicated prisons in Spain and have been running this one for almost thirty. Forgive me for saying so but mine is quite an unusual case, mainly because the job of prison superintendent is so tough that few last for three decades and because it’s also a political appointment and that means I’ve survived the change of a dictatorship for a democracy, of one party for another and of the central government for that of the autonomous Catalan government. I’m not telling you all this to boast; I’m just trying to tell you I know what I’m talking about. I paused and then said: And what is it that I’ve learned from all this time spent among prison inmates?, you’ll be wondering. The most important is something very simple: there are inmates who can live in liberty and those who cannot, there are inmates who can be rehabilitated and those who cannot; and that those who can be are a tiny minority. Well then, I can assure you of one thing, I concluded. Gamallo is not one of them.
‘I waited for Cañas’ reaction, but there was no reaction. I took it as a good sign: Cañas was an intelligent and experienced lawyer (although he was still young), so I thought that, if anything might surprise him about that encounter, it wouldn’t be what I was saying, but that I’d summoned him to say something as obvious as what I was saying. The thing is that for a second he remained silent, looking at me with the specialists’ report in his hands, as if he guessed that I hadn’t finished. I sighed and confirmed his intuition. But the authorities want him to be rehabilitated, I said. Then I went on. I said that Gamallo’s rehabilitation had become a political matter. I said that the Catalan government had decided that Gamallo gave them a chance to show up the government in Madrid, by doing well what they had done badly or hadn’t known how to do. I said that, as well as a political matter, rehabilitating Gamallo was a personal matter, or at least it was for the new Director-General of Correctional Institutions, Señor Pere Prada . . . Señor Pere Prada. I had just met him, and at first he’d seemed like a good person; unfortunately, that’s not all he was: he was also a daily Mass Catholic, full of good intentions and a believer in the innate goodness of human nature. In short, a dangerous character. I told Cañas that Prada had taken an interest in Gamallo and that, after talking to him a couple of times in Quatre Camins, he’d decided to take charge, commit himself personally to his rehabilitation and commit the entire Justice Ministry, beginning with the minister himself. I said that because of that, among other reasons, Gamallo had been transferred to Gerona: because the director-general thought that in a small prison like Gerona Gamallo could receive more individualized and better attention. Finally I went on to describe to Cañas the regime that would be guiding Gamallo’s life from that moment on, a regime in which all his steps would be regulated and where, at Prada’s express suggestion, he would enjoy all comforts.’
‘In other words you were working towards Gamallo’s rehabilitation without believing that Gamallo could be rehabilitated.’
‘Exactly. But I didn’t try to deceive anybody. I told Prada from the beginning and the people at Correction
al Institutions. And I repeated it to Cañas that afternoon, in my office: I did not believe Gamallo could be rehabilitated. And much less did I believe he could be rehabilitated in that way. To begin with, transferring him to Gerona had been a mistake: at that time Zarco was still a persona in Catalonia, not to mention in a city like Gerona, where he still had family and friends, although almost none of them had anything to do with him any more; whereas, in some distant prison in Castilla or Galicia or Extremedura, in the middle of nowhere, Zarco was no longer known, his myth was practically non-existent or it had faded and that was good for Gamallo, because until Zarco was nobody Gamallo couldn’t be anybody, or rather, because Gamallo could only survive if Zarco died. I’m not sure if I’ve explained myself.’
‘Perfectly.’
‘On the other hand, in the prison itself we did nothing but nourish that myth by not treating Gamallo like just another inmate and by granting him privileges. Those privileges were counterproductive, because Gerona Prison, like all prisons, was ruled by two laws: one was imposed by the superintendent and the other was imposed by the inmates; and I could tolerate the privileges, though they seemed wrong to me, but the inmates could not. I’ll say more: privileges are bad for prison life, because they provoke the ill-will of those who do not enjoy them, but they’re even worse for getting out, because they led people to believe that Gamallo was a special inmate and not a regular inmate like all the rest, and thus continued to fuel the legend of Zarco. Anyway: that’s more or less what I said to Cañas.’
‘And what did Cañas say to you?’
‘That’s when I was surprised. You know? I think to be a good lawyer you have to be a bit cynical, because a lawyer has the obligation to defend thieves and murderers, and on top of that, naturally, he’ll be pleased when thieves and murderers are not convicted. Justice is based on this injustice: even the worst of men has the right to have someone defend him; if not, there is no justice. This might seem disagreeable to you, and it is, but the truth is almost never agreeable. Anyway, I had Cañas down as a good lawyer, as I said, so I was sure that, in public, he would be airing the legend of Gamallo as a victim of society, the tear-jerking myth of the good, repentant thief and all that: after all, it was the best way to defend him in court; but I was also sure – that’s why I’d summoned him to my office – that deep down Cañas knew that Gamallo was not a victim of society nor a rebel from a movie but a complete bully, an unredeemable savage, and that, in private, speaking one on one to someone like me (who knew that he knew), he’d admit the truth or at least act as if he recognized it, and we could come to an understanding and spare ourselves some problems.
‘I was mistaken. The first thing Cañas said when he stopped listening to my explanations was: I’d like to know why you’ve told me all this. He’d left the stapled pages beside him, was sitting on the edge of the sofa and had his elbows resting on his knees, but he still had his fingers laced together. I told you, I answered. I think it’s my duty. I also think that, if we’re going to work together on this, it’s best if I lay my cards on the table and we come to an agreement. The lawyer murmured: I understand. But he didn’t ask me what I wanted us to come to an agreement on, and what he said after a pause made me think he didn’t understand. Tell me, Superintendent, he began. How many times have you and I been in this office, talking about one of my clients? Although I saw where the question was aimed, I didn’t dodge it. None, as far as I recall, I said; but then I added: It didn’t seem necessary. However, now it does seem necessary to me, just as it has before with some of your colleagues. This last bit was true, but Cañas nodded with a smile of magnanimous scepticism. It’s a first for me, he said. And I’ve been coming to this prison every week for almost fifteen years. Which could mean something, don’t you think? He answered his own question: What it means is that, no matter what you say, Gamallo is not a normal inmate. He paused, unlaced his fingers, raised his elbows off his knees and straightened up to look me in the face. Look, he went on, in a different tone, I’m grateful you had me come here, and I’m especially grateful for your frankness; let me be frank with you too. Whether you like it or not, Gamallo is a special inmate, and it’s logical that he’s treated as a special inmate. But his being a special inmate doesn’t mean that he can’t be rehabilitated; quite the contrary: he’s a special inmate precisely because he belongs to the tiny minority you spoke of, because he already is rehabilitated and for some time now he should no longer have been an inmate in any prison. That’s the reality. Of course, it looks as if it will be difficult for you and I to come to an agreement on this. No matter. What matters is that your bosses think as I do and you’ll have to do what they tell you to. I’m glad: I repeat that I believe Gamallo has paid his debt to society and is ready to be a free man. For my part I can only say that I’m going to use my best efforts to help him get out of here as soon as possible.
‘That was basically what Cañas had to say. And it surprised me. They didn’t seem to be the words of the reasonable or reasonably cynical lawyer I thought he was, but those of a deluded dreamer: a completely deluded dreamer, who had been led down the garden path by the Zarco myth and believed what he was saying because he’d lived his whole life under the shadow of that myth, or a dreamer but also an unscrupulous individual, or rather a shameless swindler, who needed me to believe what he was saying (although he himself did not believe it) because he didn’t only want to benefit from Zarco’s fame by defending him in court, but also wanted to achieve a great media triumph by getting him out of prison even knowing that he should not, or that it was premature or dangerous to do so.’
‘I imagine that back then you had no idea of the real relationship between Gamallo and Cañas.’
‘Of course not, I told you: nobody had any idea of that. I knew that when he was young Gamallo had lived in Gerona and that he had family here, but I didn’t know anything else; that Cañas had been part of his gang I learned much later. In any case, that afternoon I realized that Cañas was right on at least one score: given that my bosses supported him, I was bound hand and foot and I couldn’t do anything or I could only carry on doing what I’d already begun to do, which was work towards Gamallo’s rehabilitation without believing that Gamallo could be rehabilitated, as you said. And I also realized I’d stuck my foot in it with Cañas and that for the moment I would not come to any agreement with him and it would have been best to leave things as they were. So I wrapped up the conversation as fast as I could that day by saying that perhaps I was the one who was mistaken, and in any case I had no choice but to follow Correctional Institutions’ guidelines, as he had said, and that meant that we’d both be pulling in the same direction after all; finally I told him he could count on me for whatever he might need, he thanked me with his victorious air intact (a gentlemanly winner, who didn’t need to draw blood or flaunt his victory) and that was that.’
‘Tell me just one more thing: were you really so convinced then that Cañas was wrong?’
‘Yes.’
Chapter 5
‘The trial over the accusations from the Brians prison guards was in March or April of 2000, when Zarco had been incarcerated in Gerona Prison for several months. The hearing was held in a Barcelona court. There I discovered something important: at least in Catalonia, at least in Barcelona, Zarco’s myth had not disintegrated, and Zarco was still Zarco. It’s true that his public appearance didn’t arouse the kind of expectation it would have done ten years earlier, when he was a celebrity, but it attracted enough journalists and spectators so that, in order to avoid interruptions or disturbances, the judge ordered the courtroom cleared and wouldn’t allow anyone in who didn’t have something to do with the trial. The fact that Zarco still enjoyed considerable pulling power with the media was, for me, a first success; the second was the outcome of the trial: Zarco was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment, much less than we’d anticipated, so we were all satisfied and didn’t even have to appeal the judgment. Tere and I toasted the triumph with French ch
ampagne, one night at my place, and Zarco and María thanked me and congratulated me though not effusively; none of the three asked how much they owed me, but that victory made me decide to set out for them the plan I’d been secretly thinking through – secretly from everybody, including Tere – since I’d taken over Zarco’s defence and in that first interview he had asked me to look after not just this initial trial, but all those he had pending.
‘My plan’s objective was to get Zarco out of jail in two years. To achieve this I had to begin presenting, in the Barcelona court that had ruled on the Brians matter, an appeal for commutation or accumulation of sentences, so that the many convictions and the hundred and fifty years of prison time he had pending would be reduced to a single thirty-year sentence, the maximum time an inmate can spend in a Spanish prison. This was as far as the judicial phase of the operation went. Success was guaranteed this far; or almost: it was very improbable that the court would not grant what we were requesting, but if it did not, it was always possible to present an appeal for annulment before the Supreme Court. Be that as it may, once the sentence accumulation had been successful Zarco could apply for and obtain leave and, eventually day release, which would authorize him to spend the workday outside the prison and return at night to sleep there.
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