Help! I Don't Want To Go To Prison - A Day Under Spanish Law Enforcement

What you can learn from Spanish lawyers is: Don’t worry, be happy and relax. Spanish lawyers operate very differently to English attorneys. They do not keep their clients informed. I have never once received a letter, a copy of a document, and very rarely a phone call from Spanish law firms. All my Spanish friends tell me that this is normal practice but how can anyone relax, even in the most exotic Spanish rural surroundings we live in, on a day like this one:

Monday Morning, 8 am

Someone is banging on the door. “Suzanna, Suzanna”. I sling on my dressing gown and squint into sunshine to unbolt the door . It’s that local police woman again. I don’t like her. She’s been here several times before. What I dislike most about her is that she is always so happy and friendly, yet she always brings bad news. The first time she came was about a year ago just before the extension to our house was finished: ‘You don’t have a valid building licence' . She had stuck a luminous poster on the wall that said “stop building”, taken a picture of it with a big smile on her face to say, this is just a formality. Then she had ripped the poster off the wall, crumpled it up and thrown it into the geraniums.

Ever since that day our case is like 20,000 others in the area in the hands of solicitors. Why do people build illegally? This council has a policy of not granting a building license – listen to this: “if the works increase the value of the property”. You can’t even put in a new bathroom. Many of our friends who have tried the legal way have stumbled upon many months of waiting, being charged exorbitant non refundable fees and license denials. So the first thing the local Spanish people do when they buy a piece of land with a derelict building on it is to fence it off tightly so nobody can see what they are building. We weren’t that smart. The police woman saw our little extension growing and reported us to the council who have since threatened with demolition.

We have learned to live with the spectre of Spanish law. Except on days like today when the police woman drops by with yet another incomprehensible legal document from the Court of Justice. Again, she is very friendly. Two little kittens run out into the garden. ‘Oh qué gracioso!’ With a grin on her face, she hands me a letter to sign while she plays with the kittens. The letter says I have to go to the council offices to pick up another document. I can feel the familiar butterflies in my gut.

Good, there are only five people in the queue today at the council office. When it is finally my turn I hand over the letter to the same man as last time. He looks at the letter and goes to a filing cabinet to retrieve more paperwork. Spanish people assume that a) foreigners are deaf, and b) anyone with blond hair doesn’t understand Spanish. They always insist on speaking English, hence our difficulty in learning to speak the Spanish language fluently.

The man scares the daylight out of me by shouting in his poor English: ‘You house illegál, you avocado (lawyer)? Comprendes? He asks for my ID and starts copying fragments of the new document into a computer. He types slowly with two fingers, a lot of deletions and retyping. When he finally finishes, he hands me four newly printed pieces of paper to sign. Before I can read any of the Spanish legal jargon, his hand is waving to the next customer. Never mind, let’s get out of here with yet another document duly stamped and signed all over the place.

Now my next priority in life is to fax this new 4 page document to my lawyers. I have to drive home to get their fax number, no problem. I go home to be welcomed by the dogs wanting to eat the kittens. I chase the dogs away, copy the fax number onto a piece of paper and drive back to the village to the papeleria (the newsagent) where they have a fax machine.

Back in the village, the lady at the newsagents puts the 4 pages into the fax machine Beep, beep. Good. Soon this will all be over and I can go back to gardening or writing a new Hub. The fax machine rings and rings but the fax is not going through. I phone the lawyer to check the number.

No answer. Right, we’ll try later. I go for a coffee. Once out of the shop I feel OK again. Any amount of aggravation is always smoothed by the constant sunshine and tranquillity of these beautiful Spanish surroundings. Until I peruse the document and read on the third page something about 2 YEARS PRISON SENTENCE in capital letters. The butterflies are back fluttering in my solar plexus like their house was on fire.

Back in the fax shop we try again. Again, it is not working. I go to an internet café where they have a fax machine. It’s worth a try but no, the fax won’t take there either. Now what? I decide to go home to check the fax number and phone the lawyer again. Good she picks up this time. ‘Our fax is broken; try in half an hour or an hour.’ But the fax shop closes for siesta at 2pm. Maybe the internet café will still be open.

I drive back to the village. Good, the internet café is open. We try again but no luck. My lawyer’s fax is still out of order. The lady in the internet café has a good idea. We can scan the documents, send them to my email, and then I can email them to my lawyer. Brilliant! I am online at home so that should solve the problem. I really feel I have spent too much time on this for one day and look forward to finally solve the problem.

At home I find the document in my spam box and forward the four pages to my lawyer. That’s that. Oh no it isn’t. Next thing, new message: Sorry the server couldn’t send your message blah, blah. Finally the third time round, the pages have been sent. Good. I phone the lawyer to find out if she has received them. No answer; it is still siesta time until five o’clock. Well, we have three days to reply, I ponder. Try to think about something else. But instead my brain keeps asking me questions like: Will I have a single cell in prison or will I have to share with some smelly criminal? Do they allow laptops in prison? Is there Internet access? Will my family come and visit me? Two years goes by very quickly etc etc.

5.30pm

I check my email. There is a message from the lawyer saying ‘Sorry cannot open the files you sent me.’ I call her. No answer.

A family of neighbour friends drop by. We sit outside eating freshly made pancakes with homemade jam that they brought. We play fun games with the children. I offload my heart and tell them all about the lawsuit and the two years prison sentence looming over me.

Reassurance?

My friends say if you have no previous convictions you only have to spend the nights in prison. You have to be in by 10pm and out by five or some ridiculously early hour. But they try to assure me that it won't come to that. My friends leave at about 7pm.

.

The phone rings. It’s my lawyer saying: ’Sorry I couldn’t open your attachments. We have a new fax number; can you fax the document now? She gives me the new number. I shut in the kittens, get my car keys and drive back to the village, back to the Internet café.

Nerves

I shaking with nervousness for fifteen minutes in a queue of 5 people. The Spanish talk too much. Everything takes so long. They just have a different notion of time. Will I succeed in sending the fax this time? It's my turn. At last the fax goes through. Somewhat relieved I go home. It's dark outside.

Standing in the kitchen, still terrified about the threat of prison, I phone the lawyer to ask her if she has received the fax. She has. In a very alarmed voice I tell her that it says in the document that I have to go to prison for two years.

‘No, no, no,’ she says, ‘don’t worry Suzanna,

that’s normal. It’s all under control. Really, don’t worry. I received that very same document three weeks ago from the probate office. It’s been dealt with in the last hearing, everything is going to be OK, don’t worry, relax.’ By that I hope she means that we might get away with a fine instead of demolition or a prison sentence.

After dinner I write this down thinking that an entire day of stress and anxiety could have been avoided if my lawyer had kept me informed, like they do in normal countries like England. Had I received a copy of the document from my lawyer, with a reassuring letter 3 weeks ago, then today's nightmares would have been avoided. I shall now (again) put the whole matter of our illegal extension on the back-burner. I've learned my lesson today. When the police woman comes again with more bits of paper to sign, perhaps in a few months time, I firmly resolve not to read any of it, not worry, to be happy and relaxed, to smile back at her, have a friendly chat about the by then grown up kittens, and leave all the rest to my Spanish lawyers.

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