The Devils of Cardona Read Free

could never have imagined that he himself would one day be sending men and women to the Campo Grande for execution. And today another man would die on his orders in the same execution ground: a student who had killed his best friend out of jealousy over a woman. There was no doubt about his guilt. The murder had taken place in a crowded tavern, and Mendoza’s case filecontained identical statements from all the eyewitnesses present. The student was not a noble, and he had confessed without torture, and the law demanded the death penalty and must take its course. Mendoza’s three colleagues had agreed on the sentence, and even though he had voted against it, it was his duty as the investigating judge to preside over the execution. None of this gave him any satisfaction. Some murders were premeditated and planned a long time in advance, and those who planned them had ample time to consider the morality of their actions.
    Such murderers deserved to lose their lives. But this case was different. Even when pronouncing sentence, he remembered the fights from his own university days and thought how easily he could have been in the student’s place. It was luck, not judgment, that had saved him, because when men were drunk and brandished daggers at each other, the outcome was never predictable. The previous evening he had visited the student in his cell according to the usual custom, together with the priest, the prosecutor and the
alguacil—
the constable—who had made the arrest, and he brought the condemned man the customary biscuit, sweets and wine. A more unlikely murderer would be hard to find. The student had been studying philosophy and law, just as Mendoza once had done, and his parents had hoped for great things from him. The young man spoke in a soft, squeaky voice, and his eyes were red from sleeplessness and tears, as he expressed his regret at having broken his parents’ hearts and thrown away his friend’s life and his own through a combination of hot blood and too much wine. With more money and connections or a title, he might have been able to procure a lighter punishment by going above the heads of Mendoza and his colleagues, but the student’s family had not even been able to gain an appeal, and now the time for a reprieve had passed.
    At seven o’clock, Gabriel brought him a bowl of maize porridge, accompanied by raisins, dates and a glass of almond milk, and drew back the curtains. “A good day for a hanging, sir,” he observed, looking out at the cloudless sky.
    Mendoza clicked his tongue in disapproval. “An execution isn’t something to joke about, boy.”
    â€œSorry, sir, I wasn’t thinking.” Gabriel laid the tray on the bed. “May I ask a question, sir?”
    Mendoza drained the almond milk in a single gulp. “Go ahead.”
    â€œHave you ever sentenced someone to death and found out afterward that he was innocent?”
    â€œI never sentenced anyone who hadn’t confessed first.”
    â€œBut didn’t some of them confess under torture?”
    â€œYes. But the confession isn’t valid unless they confirm it afterward. And I have never sentenced anyone who
I
didn’t believe was guilty.”
    â€œBut isn’t it possible that a suspect could confess under torture and then ratify his confession afterward—not because he was guilty but because he didn’t want to be tortured again?”
    Mendoza agreed that this was a possibility.
    â€œAnd it’s also possible that the witnesses who testified against that person might be lying?”
    â€œOf course. The law is an imperfect instrument.”
    â€œBut if that happened and the man you arrested was executed, would that also be God’s will?”
    â€œIf God allowed it to happen, it must be,” Mendoza conceded warily.
    â€œBecause otherwise it would mean that God had made a mistake, wouldn’t it?”
    â€œBe careful, boy.”