by Mark Gado
Mariel Bay,
Cuba
9:00 A.M.,
May 15, 1980
The young man,
who was just 26 years old, he didn't think much. Most of his time was
spent following others. He had been that way as far back as he could
remember. When the guards kicked the prisoners out of their stinking
cells that morning, he simply followed behind the people in front of
him. But he hadn't committed any real crime; on this occasion, that is.
He simply told the police that he was a drug dealer so he could join the
boatlift to leave Cuba. The guards marched them quickly through the
forest toward the bay. A rolling surf pounded against the beaches with a
familiar rhythm as they gathered at the edge of the sea to wait. They
huddled onto a dilapidated wooden dock that seemed to barely hold the
crushing weight of hundreds of people. They stood in rows of threes as
Castro's troops, their AK-47s held at the ready, hurried them along. "Vamanos!
Vamanos!" the soldiers yelled as they pushed the helpless men and women
toward the swaying boat at the end of the dock. The crowd moved quickly
for they knew the soldiers would shoot them down like dogs at the first
provocation.
"Vamanos
desgraciado!" they screamed as they beat the prisoners with long,
flexible sticks held in one hand and drank cerveza with the other. Of
course, these people didn't know where they were going and didn't really
care. Anything was better than a Cuban prison where there was no food,
little water and lots of muerte. Some said they were headed for America,
though none could really comprehend this. What government would be crazy
enough to take in another country's criminals?
Somewhere among
this multitude, the young man, who was wearing rags and hadn't eaten in
two days, glanced around him. He had deserted the Cuban Army in the
early seventies and spent 3 years in prison. He recognized some of these
men since he had been in jail with them in 1974. They were thieves, drug
addicts, the mentally deranged, rapists, murderers and worse. There were
political prisoners too, for Castro's jails made no distinction between
them and other common criminals. These people were the national flotsam
of Cuba: the corrupted and depraved, the rejected and the homeless. They
joined a hundred thousand other refugees who would soon risk life and
limb to reach the shores of a magical country they could easily die to
see.
They were a
small part of a larger group, a footnote to history. And although these
prisoners represented less than 4% of the immigrants who arrived in
America during this tumultuous period, this era would mostly be
remembered as the time Fidel Castro emptied his jails and dumped Cuba's
unwanted into Carter's lap. This ragtag exodus became known as the
Freedom Flotilla and these people were later called los marielitos.
The crowds
shuffled along the dock, like so much cattle, until they were tossed on
the boat deck by two powerfully built soldiers who alternately cursed
and beat the prisoners between gulps of warm beer. The tropical heat was
brutal; several women fainted and were lying on the deck unattended as
the frightened mass simply stepped over their bodies, eager to escape
the swinging whips of the guards. The boat trembled as the shifting
weight caused it to tilt dangerously to port. When it finally got under
way, its ancient engine kicking and gasping for air, the boat seemed as
if it would barely make it out of Mariel Bay. But out to sea it went,
northeast, across an azure sea, on its perilous journey to the fabled
country that, for them, existed only in their dreams. For most of these
refugees, however, that dream would soon become a nightmare when they
later found themselves languishing for months and years in detention
centers in Arkansas and Wisconsin, the pawns of bureaucratic red tape
and the ever-shifting political winds. Barely two weeks later, on May
31, 1980, at Key West, Florida, Julio Gonzalez, 25 years old,
uneducated, impoverished, a military deserter in his own country, a man
who, so far, had accomplished nothing in life, an ex-convict with no
possessions and no future, arrived in America.
East Tremont
Eventually,
Julio Gonzalez made his way to New York City where a large number of los
marielitos seemed to gather. Through his sponsor, the American Council
for Nationalities, he assimilated into American society without
incident. Later, he managed to secure a series of low-paying jobs, which
gave him barely enough money to live in one of the most expensive cities
in America. He met a woman in 1984, Lydia Feliciano, who worked in a
social club named Happy Land in the East Tremont section of the Bronx.
Soon he moved into her apartment and for the next few years, drifted
along in anonymity, making few friends, barely surviving and living a
life that, even in its paucity, was infinitely better than that in Cuba.
The area of East
Tremont Avenue near Southern Boulevard in the Bronx is an area that has
undergone a vast amount of ethnic, social and economic change after the
Second World War. Then a neighborhood of primarily Italian and Irish
immigrants, it evolved into an African American community during the
late 50s and 60s. During the 70s and 80s the area became a vibrant
business enclave for the Hispanic immigrants from Puerto Rico, Honduras,
Ecuador and Mexico.
Each ethnic
group maintained its own culture, traditions and heritage in the form of
social clubs along East Tremont Avenue, Southern Boulevard and the
surrounding neighborhoods. No one really knew how many existed since
most of these clubs operated in violation of city ordinances that were
designed to prevent such clubs to conduct business in an unsafe and
illegal manner[1]. Social clubs are usually located back from street
front locations away from the prying eyes of police and inspectors who
had the authority to shut these places down upon discovery. But on the
weekend nights these clubs would rock with the sounds of marenge, Carlos
Santana, all variations of Latino music and especially the legendary
Tito Puente, a Bronx icon. Such a club was Happy Land.
This club was
unique from the other bars in the Tremont neighborhood since it became
the central meeting place for the Honduran community in the Bronx. These
immigrants, from Central America's poorest country, also tended to be
from the same region in Honduras: the northern border near Nicaragua.
They came to America for the same reasons all other immigrants come: to
seek a better life, escape grinding poverty and chase the mythic
American Dream. Happy Land catered to the Hondurans by supplying
customers with the homeland beer, Salavida, and sponsoring a soccer team
for neighborhood youth. Unlike the Puerto Ricans, who have a much larger
presence in New York City, Hondurans maintain a more fragmented
community than other ethnic groups. Illegal social clubs pulled them
together and provided a center for all types of social activities.
Located at 1959
Southern Boulevard, just off East Tremont Avenue, Happy Land was a major
attraction for the Honduran and Dominican communities in East Tremont.
It was a place where immigrants could go to catch a glimpse of the old
country, interact and be with fellow countrymen and women. Happy Land
also sponsored a Little league baseball team. Baseball is very popular
in Central America and especially the Dominican Republic. Chicago Cub
Sammy Sosa, a Dominican native, is considered almost a god in his
country. The club hosted many parties for the league players and on the
weekends, Happy Land was packed wall to wall with patrons who almost all
knew each other by sight. "It's a connection to our culture" one
customer told the newspapers (Parascandola and Peyser, p.17).
[1] TIME
magazine reported on April 9, 1990 that over 1,000 such clubs existed in
New York City (p. 38)
"Fuego! Fuego!"
March 25, 1990
was the weekend of Punta Carnivale, which is the Honduran equivalent of
Mardi Gras. Upstairs in the Happy Land bar, at about 2:30 AM this early
Sunday morning, Julio Gonzalez, the Cuban Army deserter and ex-convict,
was sitting with his ex-girlfriend, Lydia Feliciano, 45. Julio recently
lost his job as a warehouseman at a lamp factory in Queens. He was
having a hard time paying his rent and was reduced to hustling on the
streets of the South Bronx. At the bar, he drank beer and argued with
Lydia who had been living with him on and off for six years. There were
also words about Lydia's employment at the club, Julio wanted her to
quit and she refused. Lydia didn't want much to do with Gonzalez anymore
and refused to take him back. She told him that she had lots of
potential boyfriends. Her family had already pressured her to end the
relationship. But Julio persisted until Lydia finally tried to leave him
at the bar. He grabbed her and a bouncer intervened. Somewhere around 3
AM, when the bouncer intervened. Julio became angrier.
"She's my woman,
not yours!" he screamed, his fingers pointing at the bouncer and hands
waving toward the ground.
The bouncer
escorted Julio out of Happy Land, but he continued to argue in front of
the club on Southern Boulevard while other patrons watched in
amusement. "Regresare, ha cerrar esto!" (I will be back! I'll shut this
place down!) Julio screamed as he walked off into the night. Assuming he
went home, the bouncer returned to the party on the second floor.
The container
used by Gonzalez to start the Happy Land fire
Julio was
enraged. He had no job, no money and no prospects. And the only
stabilizing influence in his life, Lydia Feliciano, had just dumped him.
He walked over to East Tremont and Crotona Parkway where the idea of
burning Happy Land first came to him. He walked three blocks away to an
Amoco gas station at 174th St. and Southern Boulevard On the way, he
found an empty one gallon Blackhawk Hydraulic Jack Oil container.
Inside the gas
station, Edward Porras, 23, a Lehman College freshman, was working his
first day on the job. He tried to buy gas but Porras refused at first.
Julio told him that his car broke down. Another man who was hanging
around the station told the attendant that he knew Julio and that he was
all right. Julio gave Porras one dollar and filled the container. Later
when Porras found out he was the one who sold Gonzalez the gas, he said:
"I don't know why this happened to me!" (Oliver, p. 9).
So, at about
3:30 AM, Julio approached East Tremont Avenue carrying his $1 worth of
gasoline. He walked the 50 feet from the corner to the street level
entrance to Happy Land. There was no one standing in the doorway at that
time. All the customers who were usually found out front were upstairs
drinking and dancing to the D.J. music. The building itself seemed to
rock from the pulsating music. Gonzalez, full of beer and anger, his
sense of machismo deeply wounded, spilled gasoline onto the floor and
steps of the hallway. Several patrons who were at the top of the steps
saw him in the shadows below, but thought nothing of it.
When he finished
dumping the gas, he stepped back. Gonzalez lit two matches and threw
them onto the floor. Immediately, the gas ignited. Volatility is highest
when gasoline is first exposed to air. Even just a small amount will
burst into what seems like an explosion if conditions are right. The
fire quickly flamed up but remained confined inside the hallway area
between two doors: the one that led to the street and the inside door
that led upstairs. Gonzalez walked across the street and watched.
Inside Happy
Land, Lydia Feliciano, seeing the flames behind the front door, began to
scream "Fuego!" from the coat check area. Roberto Argueta, 23, who was
at Happy Land since midnight, was picking up his coat and preparing to
leave with Orbin Nunez Galea when he heard the yelling. He and his
friends saw the flames fully engulf the entranceway. They thought they
had no way out. But Lydia led them to a little used door on the north
side of the club. When the terrified group reached the exit, they found
that the outside metal gate was in the down position preventing them
from opening the door. Frantically, one of the men managed to reach
between the door and the gate and with great effort, raised the metal
barrier up enough to open the door. They ran out onto Southern
Boulevard, not realizing at the time how truly lucky they were.
On the second
floor, the music was blasting and most in the crowd were unaware of what
was happening. They had no way of knowing they had just minutes to live.
The fire burned ferociously within the enclosed hallway as the inside
door began to glow red from the heat. The D.J., Ruben Valladarez, saw
what was happening and tried to warn the crowd. He could see the fire
down below from the 2nd floor landing. He stopped the music, raised up
the houselights and screamed to the crowd. Some people began to take
notice and tried to exit. They crowded around the stairway to go down
but were turned back by the smoke and the heat. The situation was
becoming desperate. But Ruben decided to take his chances. He bounded
down the steps, bypassing the partygoers, crawling between their legs
and crashed through the inside door tumbling into the street below. He
lay on the sidewalk, smoldering, his clothes burned off. He was badly
injured but he survived.
Now that the
door was opened, oxygen poured onto the fire and a powerful draft was
created. The effect was very similar to a chimney. The fire exploded to
life and charged up the wooden steps and into the room. The people on
the top of the steps screamed and fled in terror. "Fuego! Fuego!" they
screamed. Within seconds, a huge cloud of toxic, black smoke filled the
staircase. As the blaze began to feed upon itself, the heat increased
dramatically. The realization of a fire then became immediate to
everyone. Soon the crowd on the dance floor was in a full panic as the
black smoke poured unobstructed into the room. There were no windows in
the 60' by 20' club. People instinctively fell to the floor face down
where at least they could breathe if only for seconds. For some it was
already too late. Those sitting at the tables had already inhaled the
poison gasses and a few breaths of such a mixture is all it takes.
Smoke from this
type of fire is loaded with carbon monoxide, aldehydes, cyanide and
other gases emitted from burning wood and plastics. Blood cells absorb
carbon monoxide readily, even faster than oxygen, causing immediate
unconsciousness and imminent death. That is why statistically, most
people in a fire die from smoke inhalation rather than burn injuries. In
Happy Land, there was no ventilation on the second floor, which
contributed to the high concentration of airborne poisons. What little
air existed in the club was replaced by thick, acrid smoke containing a
lethal combination of burning gases. It is frightening to see the speed
at which this type of fire can travel. Death can come very, very fast.
Dr. Yurta of the Medical Examiner's Office later said: "If you consider
together carbon monoxide poisoning, oxygen deprivation and the effects
of toxic substances in the smoke, death could in some cases be almost
immediate, within a matter of seconds" (Angier, p. 1). Some patrons were
later found sitting at their tables still clutching their drinks. Those
closest to the stairwell died first, where 19 bodies were later found in
a pile. Some had severe burns, but all died from smoke inhalation.
The fire roared
like an express train out of control. People were screaming and fighting
each other to get to the stairway. But the way out was fully engulfed by
flames. In less than three minutes, the second floor was filled with
dense, compacted smoke and lethal gases, which were concentrated to
extremely high levels. By the dozens, the partygoers fell into
unconsciousness, stumbling onto the chairs, tables and each other. The
fire continued to burn unmercifully, sending superheated gases into the
room, filling every nook and cranny, every corner, every square inch of
space with poison smoke until the crying, the panic and the suffering
stopped. Then, there was only silence. Silence but for the persistent
sounds of reggae and Honduran calypso still playing in the background, a
faint reminder of the brutality of life and the indiscriminate cruelty
of death. In less time than it takes to read this chapter, eighty-seven
people, along with their dreams, their hopes and a lost future that
would never happen, lay dead on the floor under a sign that read Happy
Land.
At the Scene
Outside the club
on Southern Boulevard, pedestrians heard the muffled screams coming from
the second floor. Ruben Vallardarez was writhing in agony in the street,
still smoldering from his leap to life, the only one to escape from the
second floor. The fire department was already notified. It received the
alarm at 3:41 AM. Within three minutes, fire apparatus from Ladder
Company 58 arrived at the scene. When firefighters first drove on the
block, they had no idea of the magnitude of the fire. It was very quiet
inside Happy Land. "There were no screams. There was no sound at all," a
firefighter later told the N.Y. Post (Koleniak, p. 2) NY Post 3.26). As
the firefighters applied water to the hallway, on the steps they saw
several bodies. They entered into the darkness and began to pull out
several victims. Soon, the numbers multiplied. The rescuers found a
total of 19 bodies. As bad as it was, they thought, at least, it was
over. Bronx firefighters are accustomed to the dead.
Other firemen
then began to climb the steps and up to the second floor. As they
entered the darkened room, the floor felt strange under their feet. They
tripped over piles of clothes and unknown bundles. But slowly, the
horrible truth dawned upon them: they were walking and crawling on
bodies. Everywhere the firemen aimed their flashlights, they saw bodies
piled upon bodies. "What we saw was not unlike the after battle scene of
any war movie. Only this was real," said Firefighter Craig Buccieri,
Ladder Co. 33, assigned to relief duty at the club (W.N.Y.F, p. 4).
Once the fire
was extinguished and the club ventilated of smoke, the reality began to
emerge. "As the smoke lifted, the magnitude of the tragedy was
uncovered, so enormous, it was hard to fathom," reported Deputy Chief
Kenneth Cerreta, Division 7 to the W.N.Y.F. (p. 2). The victims were
dressed in party clothes or their Saturday night best. They lay on the
floor, entwined with each other, some holding hands or grasping their
throats. One man still held a fire extinguisher in his hands. Many had
their arms outstretched as if to reach for the door. A scene so
horrible, it shook the most hardened firefighter to the core. "The
worst! The worst!" mumbled one fireman. The people seemed frozen in some
grotesque parody. It had the sense of the surreal, like some Nazi gas
chamber. Assistant Chief Frank Nastro was on the 2nd floor of Happy
Land: "The scene was paralyzing. We stood there numbed. No one spoke.
There were 69 bodies spread about this 24x50 foot area. They all could
have been sleeping" (W.N.Y.F., p. 2).
For the men of
the New York City Fire Department who worked the fire, they would never
forget the horrors of that night. Special units were sent out to all
firehouses whose members worked the Happy Land scene to help with the
lingering emotional stress. Psychological counseling was made available
to all rescue crews who were present. It's not easy to look at, pick up,
touch and feel 87 dead bodies. Lt. Richard J. Bittles of Ladder Co. 58,
First Alarm Unit describes the men at the fire: "In their eyes was the
hollow and distant look of men who could not believe what had occurred"
(W.N.Y.F., p. 3).
As the true
dimensions of the tragedy emerged, city officials flocked to the scene
en masse. Mayor David Dinkins arrived quickly and surveyed the
incredible carnage. First Deputy Mayor Norman Siegel said, "It was
shocking. None of the bodies I saw showed signs of burns" (Blumenthal,
p. B4). Police Commisoner Lee Brown, Fire Commissioner Carlos Rivera,
1st Deputy Commissioner Ray Kelly, Chief of Detective Joseph Borelli and
a virtual army of reporters and photographers arrived at East Tremont
and Southern Boulevard. Already the question of accountability was
raised. It was common knowledge that Happy Land was one of hundreds of
illegal social clubs that existed in the city. An immediate inquiry into
the city's role was begun. Even as the bodies of the victims lay on
Southern Boulevard, clerks at City Hall were digging through official
records, code violations and inspection logs. The question of why Happy
Land was allowed to exist had to be answered. It was the worst fire in
New York City since the notorious Triangle Shirt factory, which, by a
strange coincidence, occurred March 25, 1911, exactly 79 years ago on
the same day as Happy Land. And like the Bronx blaze, nearly all the
victims were young immigrants. At least 146 people died in that tragedy
which eventually inspired many reforms in the fire code and safety laws
of New York City[1]. It was soon discovered that Happy Land was ordered
closed by the city for building code violations in November 1988. The
club was cited for no fire exits, alarms or sprinkler system. Follow-up
was supposed to be conducted by the Fire Department but it was unknown
exactly what had transpired. Politicians, as is their manner, promised
investigations and revelations. But for eighty-seven immigrants, it
mattered little which bureaucrat failed in his responsibilities.
[1] The worst
fire in New York City and one of the worst in American history was an
explosion and fire in 1904 on board an excursion ship, the General
Slocum, which burned in the East River near Hell's Gate. Over 1,000
people lost their lives in this tragedy.
Capture and
Arrest
After setting
the blaze, Gonzalez stood in front of the club and watched it burn.
Then he calmly walked across the street and waited for a few minutes as
the fire began to take hold. Within seconds, fire apparatus arrived and
the firemen began to go to work. EMS arrived soon after, parking the
ambulance just feet from where Gonzalez stood. He sipped his beer as the
first body was carried out the front door of Happy Land. Then he walked
the few yards over to East Tremont Avenue and boarded the #40 bus
westbound. On the bus ride home, Gonzalez began to cry, thinking about
what he had done. He went directly to 31 Buchanan Place, off Jerome
Avenue, to his apartment, which consisted of one cramped room. Yvonne
Torres, another tenant, later told police she saw him arrive at about
4:15 AM.
Gonzalez entered the lobby and soon knocked on a neighbor's
door, Pedro Rivera. Carmen Melendez, Rivera's girlfriend, opened the
door. Gonzalez told Carmen that he had trouble at Happy Land and started
crying. He said that he killed Lydia and that he burned the club down.
Carmen didn't believe him and seeing that Gonzalez had been drinking,
told him to go home and go to sleep. He went to his apartment, removed
his gasoline soaked clothes and promptly fell asleep.
At about the
same time Gonzalez collapsed upon his bed, a few miles away at the
four-eight precinct, Det. Kevin Moroney, a senior investigator with over
20 years with the New York City Police Department, was told about a fire
at a nearby social club. "I was doing a turnaround that night," he
recently said, waiting for his next on-duty tour to begin. "One of the
other detectives came running into my office and yelled that 80 people
were killed in a fire. My first reaction was what the hell is he talking
about? I never heard of such a thing, I didn't believe it at first," he
said. Within minutes it seemed, an onslaught of people descended upon
the four-eight. Uniformed officers brought in potential witnesses and
survivors, the press began to assemble, local district attorneys and
assistants appeared, fire department personnel, police department brass,
politicians and a platoon of detectives all came to the front desk of
the four-eight until the lobby was jammed with a mixture of frantic
people all clamoring for immediate and urgent attention. It was
pandemonium. Det. Moroney never reached the front door of the precinct
house. "I never made it to the street. Witnesses had to be interviewed,
statements had to be taken. We did not know what happened, all we knew
was that lots of people were dead," the detective recalled.
Moroney and his
partner, Det. Andy Lugo began to piece together a first draft of what
happened at Happy Land. Slowly, the story began to emerge. "We finally
spoke to Lydia Feliciano later that day. She left the scene and never
told anyone where she was. In fact, at the time, no one even knew that
she was vital to the case. As soon as she said that she had a fight with
her ex-boyfriend and that he left the club angry just before the fire,
we had strong suspicions" Det. Moroney said.
At about 4 PM
that same day, Detectives Maroney and Lugo went over to 31 Buchanan
Place and knocked on the door of Julio Gonzalez' third floor apartment.
"Quien es?" a
voice behind the door asked.
"Policia!
Deceamos hablar contigo," replied Det. Lugo.
"Si," the voice
replied.
When Gonzalez
opened it, the detectives were immediately overwhelmed by the odor of
gasoline. They asked him to come over to the police station to talk
about the fire. Gonzalez didn't seem too upset at the time. Moroney said
that he wasn't surprised to find Julio sleeping. Cops are familiar with
the curious sleep habits of criminals. They know that even after the
most horrendous crimes imaginable, suspects will fall asleep; in the
rear of a police car, at the station, during booking, in cuffs, anywhere
at all. It doesn't matter how violent the crime, how shocking or brutal,
a criminal will fall asleep as if he didn't have a care in the world.
Gonzalez put on his gasoline soaked shoes and went with the detectives.
Gonzalez was
taken over to the four-eight where he was read Miranda Warnings in
Spanish and agreed to talk about the incident. Det. Moroney said that he
turned to get a cup a coffee and before he could give it to Gonzalez,
Julio immediately began to confess. "We practically didn't even have to
ask him anything," he said. He told police that he set the fire for
revenge against Lydia Feliciano. He said that he was angry that she
broke up with him and wouldn't take him back. "I don't know, it looks
like something bad got into me, it looks like the devil got into me!"
Gonzalez said in his confession. He was later arraigned in Bronx
Criminal Court at 2 AM on 87 counts of murder, the worst mass murder in
American history up to that time. In a highly unusual move, Bronx
District Attorney Robert Johnson handled the court appearance himself in
front of Judge Alexander Hunter. Gonzalez was held without bail and
taken to a local psychiatric ward where he was held as a suicide risk.
"Por Que, Mi
Dios, Por Que?"
Over the next
few days, a tidal wave of grief and anguish swept over the South Bronx.
More than 60 of the people who died at Happy Land were of Honduran
descent. More than 90 children became orphans. Over 40 parents lost
their children, some lost more than one. Seventeen players on the county
league's soccer teams were killed in the fire. In nearby Roosevelt High
School in the Fordham section, five students died in the smoke and
flames of Happy Land. There was almost no one in the Honduran community
who was not affected in some way by the tragedy. Even in Honduras
itself, the towns and villages of those who were killed were plunged
into mourning. The newspapers spoke of little else except el fuego en
Estados Unidos.
Rio de lagrimas
(A river of tears) began in the Rivera Funeral Home on Bathgate Avenue
where seventeen of the fire victims lay in repose. Outside, in the mean
streets of the South Bronx, life came to a halt as the shrieks from
grieving families filled the neighborhoods. A funeral procession started
on the morning of March 28 from Rivera's to St. Joseph's Church across
the street. In a grim caravan of death, seventeen caskets were carried
into the church as the crying multitude, many on their knees, prayed for
deliverance from the grief and pain. "Por que? Por que?" a woman wept. "Llevame
contis!" (Take me with you!) cried another. People fainted. The
hysteria and the suffering were overpowering inside the church. Rev.
Henry Mills gave a tear-filled sermon as mothers and fathers collapsed
in the pews. "We pray this evening that the Lord may strengthen our
understanding. We hope the Lord eternal will lead them to his home!" he
said (Scwwartzman, p.2). The intense and solemn refrains of Ave Maria
echoed through the church and into the streets that were strangely quiet
and devoid of the usual frenetic activity that typifies life in the
South Bronx.
All across the
borough, in small neighborhood chapels and churches, anguish engulfed
family, friends and strangers alike. Long lines of mourners waited
patiently to view the bodies at a dozen funeral homes, which were
overwhelmed by the sudden influx of business. The crowds were kept at
bay by police barricades, usually reserved for sporting events and
traffic control. At St. Thomas Aquinas Church a few blocks away, the
people lay on the front steps, weeping for the young and the lost, whose
torn photos seemed to appear everywhere, on doors, walls, mailboxes,
taped to clothing and windows, a transient shrine to the dead, a movable
wailing wall for weeping families who knew no peace.
In front of
Happy Land, a mountain of flowers and memorabilia began to accumulate. A
steady stream of traffic crawled past its doors on Southern Boulevard,
curious on-lookers striving to catch a glimpse of where so many died.
Fire Marshals from the Fire Department sifted through the rubble
searching for clues and evidence of the fire. Most people blamed city
government for allowing Happy Land to remain open despite numerous
safety code violations. There was a strong impression that East Tremont
was always an area that suffered from benign neglect by city officials.
"This neighborhood has never gotten the proper service," Pedro Segul
told the N. Y. Post (Parascodola, p.4). It was a sentiment that was
shared by many. But in between the seething bitterness, and sometimes
angry shouts, was an onslaught of grief and despair. And no assurances
of rectitude by politicians or promises of belated investigations would
bring back the souls of the dead or alleviate the horror of mass murder.
The Trial
The trial of
Julio Gonzalez, which was held in the Bronx in the summer of 1991, was a
formality. That's not to say it was unjust. Rather, in a testament to
the principles of due process of law, Judge Burton B. Roberts bent over
backwards to ensure the proceedings were conducted in a fair and legal
manner. Of course, the evidence against Gonzalez was overwhelming: his
gasoline-soaked clothes, his many admissions to friends on the night of
the event, the recovered container, multiple statements of witnesses and
his own lengthy and detailed confession to Moroney and Lugo. Testimony
as to Gonzalez' sanity was allowed and although that avenue of defense
was explored, it was ultimately rejected by the court.
On August 19,
1991, the same day that the notorious anti-Jewish Crown Heights riots
began in Brooklyn, Julio Gonzalez was found guilty in one of the worst
mass murders in American history. After four days of jury deliberations,
he was convicted of arson charges and 174 counts of murder, two for each
victim killed in the fire. The verdict, which took over 5 minutes to
read, was announced at 1 PM when the jury foreman, Luis Rodriguez
repeated the word "guilty" an unprecedented 174 times. Relatives of the
victims present in the courtroom, solemn at first, gradually fell apart
as the verdict proceeded. Many screamed in grief as the dazed families
held onto each other, sobbing uncontrollably. Gonzalez sat transfixed in
his chair, a pathetic figure of defeat and despair, his facial
expression rigid and unforgiving.
Headline,
September 20, 1991
On September 19,
1991, Gonzalez was sentenced to 25 years to life on each of the 174
counts of murder, a sentence that was without equal in New York State
history. However, he could still be released after 25 years since in New
York, any sentence for an act committed during a single offense must be
served concurrently, not consecutively. In the courtroom, hundreds of
relatives and friends cheered the sentence as Judge Roberts gave
Gonzalez the maximum allowed by law. Of course some relatives saw this
sentence as an injustice since 25 years equals only 3 months for each
murder. In the courtroom, Gonzalez refused to make any statement in his
own defense. For whatever it was worth to the families, he would not be
eligible for parole until March 2015.
Ten Years
Later
The Clinton
Detention Center is located in the Town of Dannemora in upstate New
York, approximately 300 miles from East Tremont and Southern Boulevard.
Clinton is the largest prison facility in New York and today houses over
2,600 inmates including Julio Gonzales. In the 19th century, prisoners
were put to work mining and processing iron ore in the nearby Adirondack
Mountains. Executions were carried out in Clinton from 1895 until 1914
when downstate Sing Sing prison installed another electric chair. The
infamous Dannemora State Hospital for Insane Convicts, which opened in
1900, was located at Clinton until it closed in 1972, a relic from
another era.
Inside the high,
gloomy walls of Clinton Prison, Julio Gonzalez sits in his cell for a
period of 25 years to life, surely never to emerge again, his journey
from the beaches at Mariel Bay over at last. He will be eligible for
parole in about 15 years. But there is little sympathy for this man and
he will most likely die in prison. There is a real sense of injustice
felt by the victim's families, for one life seems a vastly inadequate
price to pay for the deaths of 87 others. One thing is certain: nothing
can bring back the victims.
The monument
to the Happy Land victims
Today, in front
of 1959 Southern Boulevard, a monument stands in memory to the dead.
It's an eight-foot-tall concrete obelisk, surrounded by a high metal
fence. On the sides of the structure the names of the victims are
engraved in the stone, a final reminder of 87 lost lives. Across the
street, the club that was Happy Land remains vacant and probably will be
for many years. No one dances there today. Many of the families have
since moved away, some returned to Honduras, taking their grief with
them. In 1995, a civil suit was settled for $15 million. Judge Burton
Roberts presided over the civil trial as well. The funds were to be
distributed to each of the victim's families. Life, as it is said, must
go on.
But on quiet
summer evenings, one can almost visualize nights passed when the hot,
pounding rhythms of calypsos emanated from the Happy Land disco. The
echoes of laughter and good times might be heard bouncing off the walls
into the corridors and hallways, reverberating across Southern
Boulevard, into the streets and around the corner to Tremont Avenue. You
can close your eyes and imagine the young, writhing bodies moving to the
pulsating sounds of Latino music as they dance the night away, the hard
life in the South Bronx forgotten for a few hours, their memories,
softened by drink, turning back to the fields and mountains of Honduras,
to home, oblivious to the grinding poverty and hunger that brought them
to America. But there's nothing left now of Happy Land, only a boarded
store front and the faint, lingering ghosts of the dead, espiritu de los
muertos, who like their dreams, disappear from memory and reality until
one day, their names will become forgotten by most, a vanishing remnant
of a tragedy whose cause and purpose seem more insane with each passing
year.
Bibliography
