Riding the Yellow Trolley Car: Selected Nonfiction

  He also wrote a short story before the family went to Spain, when he was in Osuna High School in Baldrich.

  “It was about drug addiction,” Soto said, “and he won a second prize. I told him I would not read it before he handed it in because I thought he was going to be questioned about whether I had influenced his writing. I eventually read it and found it so-so and told him. But he was interested in doing something creative.”

  The elder Soto now censures himself for what he told Enrique about school. Teachers often chided the boy for occasional slackness in a subject, saying, ‘You’re a shame to your father, a famous writer.’ What I told my sons to say was, ‘Look, my father has his own job to do and I have to do other things. I am not going to be attacked because I am my father’s son. I am me. My father is my father.’”

  “Are you censuring yourself now,” he was asked, “for encouraging too much independence of mind?”

  “No,” said Soto, “I don’t think you can ever go too far in that. I’m all for independent thinking and independent being for all my sons. But perhaps he thought that that [the Maravilla episode] was a way of saying I am my own man.”

  “Rebellion against parents, was that in his makeup?”

  “He was pretty rebellious.”

  Lately Enrique had been trying to find summer work, and had applied at Manpower, the employment agency, but nothing came of it. “He said nobody wanted to give the nonskilled worker a chance to gather, some experience,” his father recalled. The elder Soto had told his son his doubts about gaining employment through Manpower, since he had no skills. “He just had to go someplace and work, and there acquire some skills. He was confident he would get a job. He spent his time reading a lot, and playing chess—he was a good chess player—and talking to his friends.”

  Then in the last three or four months Soto noted a change in his son.

  “In terms of politics we had several conversations, some of which I wish I had continued with. His belief was that something should be done, he didn’t know what. We talked about the Nationalist Party, the Socialist Party, and he was, I found, growing rather desperate. We never talked about violence but I suspect he was looking at that. We talked about the history of France, Spain, and other countries, and he found there was no use in parliamentary proceedings. He once told me: ‘Can you mention a single country which has become liberated by this parliamentary thing?’ I told him about several countries in Africa. Then he posed this thing about having, for instance, Great Britain write your constitution for you. And that any government like that was really a lukewarm nation.”

  “How did he respond to such things beyond parliamentary proceedings as peaceful protest?”

  “We talked about Martin Luther King a lot. He said that the black movement was going to be successful, but they cut off the head of the movement. And what is happening now? We talked about Gandhi and that once you do something—threats—you’re going to be branded and you’re going to be dead sooner or later. He agreed with that, and I think he concluded that we have a problem—there is no solution ever through voting, and what else is there? He was against the Populares and Estadistas. The Populares had been in power for such a long time and had done nothing for the liberation of Puerto Rico. And of course he knew the annexionist attitude of the Nuevo Progresista Party was just awful. And of the independentistas, some things he applauded and others he resisted—going back and forth before the U.N. He said that would take ages. He was happy over the decolonization committee, and of course the attitude of the Cuban ambassador to the U.N. Other than that he didn’t see much of a way out. He was also discouraged by the PSP and the PIP participation in the 1976 elections.”

  “You say he was impatient and wanted some kind of action. Did he express a specific form the action should take?”

  “No, but I recall his commenting on the takeover of the Statue of Liberty [by twenty-eight independentistas, in October 1977; they unfurled a Puerto Rican flag across Miss Liberty’s brow]. Enrique was confused by that. I told him, well, what does it mean? It’s a simple gesture. He said he found history was full of gestures, some good, some not. My position was that it was a publicity stunt and he didn’t agree. He said there should be more publicity like that.”

  “What is your view of the violent gesture, such as the bombing of the Fraunces Tavern in New York City?” Soto was asked.

  “There is not much thought behind that. You’re really limiting your strength by those means. You become an easy target. I talked with Enrique about the Nationalists and he was very much in favor of the Nationalist assault on Congress and all that. Yes, I respected that gesture, but it has done very little for Puerto Rico. And I told him, if you were going to do some violent action, or going to undergo some violent passion, you have to think about it very well and do it well.”

  “You said you had a conversation with him about shooting a cop and that someone else would kill you immediately, or catch you very swiftly.”

  “Sure. And what’s a cop’s death worth in terms of politics? You have to pick better than that when you kill. You have to value human life enough to know when to kill.”

  “Did he ever own a gun?”

  “He had a pellet gun. He told me he was going to hunt in the forest behind our house in Naranjito but he never went there with it. He was going to hunt the fat iguanas there.”

  “Could this pellet gun hurt you seriously?”

  “No. They call them cat chasers.”

  “He had no interest in weapons, as far as you know?”

  “He had no interest in weapons at all.”

  “How do you see yourself as different from what he became?”

  “I think of myself as a rather moderate man. I don’t think much of myself as a political activist. I find that in that way, I have failed. I have concerned myself with writing. I wish I had been a man of action. I’m sorry I’m not.”

  “How do you define man of action?”

  “As an author is an actor, a politician is also an actor.”

  “You’re talking about running for office, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not talking of extremism.”

  “Oh yes. I’m holding that in mind. I wish I had been able to do something for my country other than write. Try to be as heroic as possible to do something to change circumstances here.”

  “Are you moving toward extremist thinking?”

  “No, but let’s say participating more in politics. That would mean sacrificing my writing, but if that’s it, let’s try to do both things, or to do one well. I don’t know which right now.”

  “The question arises of your attitude toward violence as a political weapon.”

  “I believe there is a way out through violence. I’ve come to believe it. I’ve been a dead man.”

  “Did you ever, at any point in your life, consider violence as the proper behavior and then reject it?”

  “Yes, I’ve considered it several times. I think it is the most convincing argument in any struggle for liberty. You don’t gain liberty by dealing with whatever papers are at hand. It’s not been done except for a few African nations. Other states have been creations of violence. After [Governor] Romero falls in 1980 we’ll go back to what—the Populares, who are now demanding more autonomy. They say we have autonomy, we want more autonomy. They’ll probably die talking about it.”

  “You are critical of publicity stunts and gestures. What sort of action is it that you admire?”

  “I would say the Tupamaros in Uruguay. They were not successful, but they shook up the government enough to show that it was not really the Switzerland of South America, as it had been commonly known. Everyone’s eyes were turned toward Uruguay, and that was because of the Tupamaro actions. The movement ended two or three years ago when the leader, Raúl Sendic, was jailed. But I found them intelligent. Everything was well executed—so well that to me they were an exemplary movement.”

  “Do you think yoursel
f capable of violent political action?”

  “I think so. I’d have to educate myself to that.”

  “Is the death of your son instrumental in this, or is it something you’ve been thinking all your life?”

  “I think the death of my son has affected my sense of balance, if you want to call it that. I think it has been a very unjust year. In order to correct things I don’t think you can wait, as this will just float away in the memory of the people. Puerto Rican people tend to forget too soon.”

  “What are you proposing to do?”

  “Something I started several months ago—essay writing. That and another thing. I don’t know what the other thing is.”

  “You’re also undertaking lawsuits against the government.”

  “Yes. And also my main concern is the Committee against Repression. I don’t think this case will really be cleared up ever, not by the government, unless we move, and I mean independentistas, Populares and even statehooders. We are convoking people to meet at 10:00 A.M. on August 20 to march from Condominio Quintana [where the Sotos live] to police general headquarters. We intend to pose several questions concerning the case and demand complete presentation from their part.”

  “How do you respond to the suggestion that the work you’ve done led your son into violent ways?”

  “I don’t think so. My opinion of this particular case is that he was just led into it. He was trapped. Even though in a way he was well read, he was to me an illiterate in the political sense. His feelings were pretty flimsy about politics. He got seduced by this agent, Alejandro González Malave. I blame everything on him. But Enrique was ripe for him. He had all of a sudden developed a thing I disliked. He was buying at least two papers every day. He said he wanted to keep in touch with their differences. I told him it was all repetitious, that the facts you want aren’t there and if you know how to read you see this. He read the statehood paper every day, and El Vocero, the sensationalist paper. He didn’t like El Mundo or The San Juan Star, even though he used the Star for several things concerning civil rights and human rights. He was also being fed these anti-intellectual theories—stop reading, that will damage your brain. You have to do something, it’s about time. Alejandro González Malave.”

  “Do you know how he got involved with this agent?”

  “No. According to what I hear from Quico’s friends, Malave showed up about three months before this [Maravilla], just floating around Quintana. He just came in from time to time. I hear they had meetings at Darío’s house” [Darío Rosado, who was killed with Soto].

  “Your estimate is that this agent came in to collect a couple of likely candidates?”

  “Of course. You can see that he was in every one of the so-called subversive activities—the shooting at former Governor Múñoz’s house, the U.P.R. police raid, and the Maravilla thing. Malave was a fisherman. He just looked around to see what he could catch.”

  “Why was Enrique susceptible to this? Why did he move into such a desperate position where he thought action was necessary?”

  “I find you get gradually into that. And that depends on who the leader is. Once you’re faced with alternatives—you do this or you’re chickening out—what it is is an appeal to his machismo. Then he developed a theory they could do something effective for independence through sabotage—this plan they apparently had for Cerro Maravilla if they had a plan, I don’t know. Malave probably told them he was linked to other subversive groups and therefore he could justify offering them all kinds of weapons—whatever they needed. They were going to Guanica, and Enrique had asked permission to go, for the PSP and the LSP were going to hold a congregation. He’d been there before and I told him to go if he had transportation, and he told me he did. I didn’t ask whose. I have great respect for the intelligence of Enrique, and that’s what amazes me. He being so intelligent, so full of questions on everything, how could he be led into this trap? If the agent tells him, look, I have transportation, I have the weapons, I have everything we need—did they get to inspect what he said he had? I think they were working under pressure—that they were convinced on the way to Guanica, and that they took off for Ponce (where the hijacking of the público took place). Now why did they kidnap this público driver? That’s another person you’re carrying with you as a witness, so it’s silly. They did the kidnapping because González Malave was the kidnapper really. He pointed the gun and all they had to do was follow the leader. But it’s foolish also. What they were attempting to do I don’t know.”

  “Do you think there is a climate here now for political violence?”

  “Oh yes, it’s definitely going that way.”

  “How do you see Enrique as part of this?”

  “I think of him as a good child who grew up and became a good man who thought he could do things for his country in ways I haven’t tried. I believe that he grew more serious, and got into complications of thought and actions. I believe there may be more young men like him who think they have to do something their elders didn’t get to do, a generation already showing such complete frustration and discouragement that they tend to find what they think is a way out for the country, a way out for themselves. That condition is being taken advantage of by the opposition, by the annexionists. They think they can stop the continuity of thought pertaining to freedom beliefs. They have gotten the country into this polarization and now they want to do away with the opposition. I would even accuse them of genocide.”

  “Genocide? Two people are dead.”

  “There are two dead men in one case, six under arrest in another, and three or four in another. They are trying to get them at least afraid. If you don’t, as a young man, shut up and stop thinking in terms of independence for Puerto Rico, they’ll shoot you, or get you where they want you in order to be shot. This is called political seduction, entrapment. Or once you are accused of something you put up bail and are apparently free. But your reputation is dead from then on, and how do you get it back? You are a dead man or a dead woman in Puerto Rican society. If they get away with this, no one here will be sure he can walk the streets, or be sure he can even defend his rights before a policeman.”

  “When was the last time you saw your son?”

  “I saw him on my birthday on July 11 in Naranjito and then took him back to Quintana, because he didn’t like the country. We talked several times about Quintana and I told him I didn’t like the place for several reasons, among them the fact that it has become drug-infested; and that attracts narcotics agents, police agents. And by tracing the drugs they could easily build up cases against the many independentistas living there. Enrique didn’t like the place either and he wanted to move someplace else. The trouble is I didn’t have the money to move into a new condominium. But Enrique was very aware. He said he knew about it all, that he was watching his step in making friends and all that. But I find he failed in that respect. He had been advised. Anyway about Saturday [July 15] I came back to give him some money and said I might be back from the country the next Friday, but we didn’t come back until rather late on July 25 to see how things were and we found this note of his saying he had left for Guanica, and not to worry.”

  1978

  Postscript: The Cerro Maravilla case became the “Watergate” of Puerto Rico—not the cover-up of a burglary, but of two murders; and carried out on a grand scale that involved the Justice and Police departments of Puerto Rico at numerous levels; contributed heavily to the defeat of Governor Romero Barceló, who was in power during the entrapment and killing of Soto Arriví and Rosado; and also generated three federal investigations, along with allegations that the FBI withheld information relevant to the prosecution. It was conclusively proven that the young men had been executed by police while unarmed and on their knees in front of their captors. It was also proven from photographs that came to light in public hearings in 1983 that Soto Arriví and Rosado had also been viciously beaten before their execution, their battered bodies visibly refuting the allegation that po
licemen had killed them in self-defense. In October 1992, the case was still ongoing, awaiting the final results of a Puerto Rican Senate investigation, the conclusion of which had been repeatedly delayed. To date, ten police officers have been convicted of perjury in the cover-up, and sentenced from six to thirty years in jail. The chief of Police Intelligence, who headed the Maravilla investigation, was sentenced to twenty years but is now out on parole. Six policemen, in plea bargains, pled guilty to second-degree murder and went to jail for periods of six to eighteen years. Rafael Moreno, the policeman who pulled the trigger on Soto Arriví, was found guilty of perjury and second-degree murder and was sentenced to thirty-year and twenty-five-year sentences, to run consecutively. Two Puerto Rico Justice Department officials who carried out two of the failed investigations were disbarred for life, the Puerto Rico Supreme Court’s having concluded that they pressured witnesses to give false accounts and conspired to hide the truth. A Puerto Rican district attorney was suspended from the practice of law for suppressing evidence to protect police who argued they acted against Rosado and Soto Arriví in self-defense. Two other district attorneys were also suspended from practicing law because of their behavior as prosecutors.

  Two San Juan Star reporters, Manuel (Manny) Suárez and Tomas Stella, played significant roles in opening the case to official investigation, and were nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for their work. Suárez has written the best book on the case to date: Requiem on Cerro Maravilla: The Police Murders in Puerto Rico and the U.S. Government Cover-up (Waterfront Press, 1987).

  Pedro Juan Soto started to write a novel about the murder of his son and its cover-up, but abandoned it, and has all but finished a nonfiction work on the case. It awaits only the final chapter of the Senate investigation. Eight years and two months after the murder of their sons, the Rosado and Soto families settled, out of court, their lawsuits against the police and Governor Barceló, and each family received $575,000. In the years since Cerro Maravilla, Soto has published two books: a critical study of the Puerto Rican novelist José I. deDiego Padró, and a collection of short stories, Memoria de Mi Amnesia. Asked what he thought of the whole investigation, Soto replied, “Shit. Only the men who pulled the trigger have paid for what they did, but not their bosses.”