Published Wednesday, December 12, 2001 in
The Miami Herald
Lawyers' maneuvers delay sentencing of Cuban espionage master for one
day
By Gail Epstein Nieves. gepstein@herald.com
The scheduled sentencing of convicted Cuban spy master Gerardo Hernández
was continued until today after hours of legal wrangling by the lawyers ate up
more time than expected Tuesday.
U.S. District Judge Joan Lenard told a packed courtroom of more than 100
spectators in downtown Miami that she will reconvene Hernández's hearing
at 9 a.m. A second spy, Ramón Labañino, is scheduled to be
sentenced separately this afternoon.
Hernández, the most culpable of the five spies convicted after a
six-month trial, is expected to address the court and ask for leniency, as is
his mother, Carmen Nordelo.
Also expected to address the judge: relatives of the four men who perished
in the 1996 Brothers to the Rescue shoot-down by Cuban fighter jets. They will
ask Lenard to mete out harsh punishments.
Hernández faces two life sentences: one for murder conspiracy for
participating in the planning of the Brothers shoot-down, and the second for
espionage conspiracy.
Espionage conspiracy prosecutions are not common -- the lawyers say there
haven't been any others in the 11th U.S. Circuit, which includes Florida -- but
under federal sentencing guidelines set by law, Hernández scores out for
life.
On Tuesday, Lenard ruled against the defense and upheld three
recommendations made by Hernández's probation officer that enhanced the
sanctions he faces.
Labañino and spy Antonio Guerrero also face life sentences. The two
other spies, René González and Fernando González, no
relation, face lesser jail terms.
But the mothers of four of the convicted men called their sons "patriots''
and said the American justice system was flawed for allowing the trial to be
held in Cuban exile-dominated South Florida.
Nordelo, Hernández's mother, told The Associated Press that her son "was
not capable of doing anything to hurt the United States'' and that he "was
just trying to protect his country. He is not a criminal.''
"Our sons did nothing wrong,'' agreed 62-year-old Magali Llort, mother
of Fernando González. "They were defending their country from the
Cuban Mafia here in Miami. They are patriots.''
By design of the defense, the jury that convicted the men included no Cuban
Americans.
The women said their sons were battling terrorists waging war against their
country.
Cuban humor unleashed
By Ana Veciana-Suarez. aveciana@herald.com.
If humor defines a people, if it reveals the soul, then filmmaker Joe
Cardona may qualify as priest, psychologist, and exorcist on his latest project.
Nuestra Risa, (Our Laughter), scheduled to air on WPBT-Channel 2 at 8 p.m.
today, is a loving tribute to the men and women who made a people laugh despite
exile, lost careers, separation from relatives and death. Using interviews and
film footage, it traces not so much the history of a community's comedy as its
necessity. Cardona manages to pack a comprehensive look at humor in three
mediums -- radio, film and television, and theater -- in a fast-paced 56-minute
ride that is full of nostalgia and insight.
Here you have the two greats of Cuban comedy -- the late Leopoldo Fernández
(better known as his alter ego, Trespatines) and Guillermo Alvarez-Guedes, who
defined a generation of Cuban-American burla and choteo, akin to mockery and
ridicule. There are also clips from the hit series, Que Pasa, USA? and the film
El Super.
But the merit of this film turns on its ability to integrate the less
prominent masters of the art, many who continue to entertain the children of the
children of exiles. Included are Salvador Ugarte and Alfonso Cremata, best known
for hilarious theater work poking fun at all aspects of exile life. And also,
Carlucho, arrived from Cuba less than a year ago, as well as stalwarts Salvador
Blanco, Armando Roblán, Aleida Leal, Marta Picanes, Eddie Calderón,
Carmen Peláez and many, many others.
"Everybody talks about Cuban music,'' says Cardona. "But the real
rhythm of Cuban life is the constant, almost obnoxious, humor we use in our
lives. I have a renewed appreciation for these performers now that I've stopped
to analyze their work. It's a tribute to them that they've kept us laughing all
this time.''
Cardona, 34, got the idea for the film shortly after the Elián González
incident that tore South Florida apart. He was amazed that the world beyond the
boundary of exile saw his people as humorless and obsessed by politics. He also
wanted to remind Cuban-Americans of their ability to laugh. So, for the next 14
months, under the auspices of Channel 2, he set off to show the face of a
community few see unless they live in it.
"It's so unlike Cuban radio,'' Cardona says of Cuban humor. "We
laugh at Fidel. We laugh at ourselves. We laugh at anything. Cuban humor treats
any theme. There are no boundaries. If Anglos saw this and understand humor,
they would be dumbfounded.''
Alina Valle, a Channel 2 producer and manager of on-air fundraising, was
intrigued by Cardona's proposal. She had never seen anything like it, but she
was confident Cardona would bring a lively perspective to the subject. She had
worked with him on four other projects, including the highly successful Café
con Leche and Adiós, Patria.
"He has done so well capturing the Cuban-American experience,'' Valle
says. "We trust his eye.''
With Valle's input, he decided early on that instead of a documentary using
experts to explain why something is funny he would instead concentrate on the
comedians at work or explaining their work. "I didn't want a Cubanologist
expressing how Pototo [one of Leopoldo Fernández's trademark characters]
is funny,'' he added. "That would be a borefest. I wanted Pototo being
Pototo.''
With rare exceptions, the film is entirely in Spanish. (It has English
subtitles.) By doing so, Cardona took a risk. Because humor rarely crosses
cultural lines, he knew he might be limiting his audience.
But it was something he could afford to do. His four other documentaries for
PBS have gone on to national exposure. He also just won a screenwriting award
for his feature film Bro at an alternative film festival in Los Angeles.
Bill Teck, one of the producers, said the concept was to feature humorists
at work, to explain why, despite travails, the Cuban people laugh best when they
laugh at themselves.
"It's almost like we're laughing so we won't cry,'' Teck explains. "Anything
is fair game. Something happens to us, and within five minutes, there are six or
seven jokes about it.''
When Cardona began work on the film, he wasn't sure what he would find.
After all, the audience of many of these comics is limited by both language and
geography. Some are not known beyond Miami. Yet, he discovered a common thread
in Cuban humor.
"Absurdity,'' he says. "We take everything to the extreme. We
don't do anything in a little way.''
Cuban comedians also are linked by an almost perverse interest in poking fun
at tragedy, particularly death. No situation is free of their caustic humor, and
the more tragic the better. Everyday incidents became fodder for the mill, from
the cheese given out by the Cuban Refugee Center to the old Cubans who couldn't
understand their new neighbors, los americanos.
"Talk about pushing the envelope,'' Cardona adds. "These people
don't even know there's an envelope.''
Self-deprecating comedy -- think Alvarez-Guedes, Ugarte and Cremata, and
Carmen Peláez -- is particularly prized. In fact, one of the highest
insults one can hurl at a Cuban is to call him a pesado -- a bore, a stiff. If
you can laugh at yourself, at your situation, then it won't hurt so much, goes
the thinking.
And so, this is how a Trespatines is born and thrives.
"He's our Charlie Chaplin, or really a cross between Chaplin and
Cantinflas [the famous Mexican comic],'' Cardona explains. "All of us know
a Trespatines. We either have an uncle like him or a neighbor, somebody.''
Growing up in Hialeah, Cardona's parents often dragged him to Las Máscaras
Theater in Little Havana, where Cremata and Ugarte made a struggling community
roar at its own problems. He learned that Cuban humor worked best not when it
was erudite, but when it reaped material from el pueblo.
Now after 14 months immersed in the funny stuff, the filmmaker has also come
up with some serious stuff:
"Humor is the elixir that keeps us ticking,'' he explains. "It's a
necessity. It's the way we cope. That's how we deal with death, with exile, with
integrating into another country.''
Copyright 2001 Miami Herald | 
