“When Cantinflas received the letter from Lecumberri prison in 1967, he thought it was a joke. A death row inmate was asking for his help. Not money, not lawyers. Something stranger. He wanted Cantinflas to make him laugh one last time before he died. But when Mario Moreno read the man’s full story, he realized something terrible.
That man was innocent and had 72 hours to prove it.
March 1967. Cantinflas was at home going through his mail, hundreds of letters from fans, most asking for autographs, photos, money. But one letter was different. The envelope was gray, with the official seal: “Lecumberri Penitentiary, Mexico City.” Mexico’s most famous prison, nicknamed “The Black Palace,” where the worst criminals were sent.
He opened the letter with curiosity.
*Dear Cantinflas:*
My name is José Luis Herrera. I am 34 years old. In three days I will be executed for murder. I am not writing to ask for mercy. I am not writing to proclaim my innocence, although I am innocent. I am writing for something simpler. I want to laugh one last time.
I’ve spent six years in this cell, six years waiting for death, six years without truly laughing. And his movies… his movies are the only thing that’s kept me human. The guards sometimes put on his movies in the yard, and for 90 minutes, I forget where I am. I forget what awaits me. I just laugh like a free man.
*I know it’s a lot to ask, I know you’re busy, but if you could visit me before my execution, if you could make me laugh one last time, I would die in peace. Not as a criminal, but as a man.*
*Eternally grateful,*
*José Luis Herrera*
*Cell 47, Sentenced Persons Pavilion*
P.S. I’ve attached my file. If you have time to read it, you’ll see that I’m innocent, but nobody believes me.
There was an additional, thick envelope filled with documents. Cantinflas opened it. It was José Luis Herrera’s complete legal file. The case was brutal.
In 1961, a family of three was murdered in their home in Coyoacán, on Milatos Incientes Street. The father, mother, and eight-year-old son were all stabbed to death, and the house was robbed. José Luis Herrera was arrested two days later. He was the family’s gardener. He had blood on his clothes. He had no solid alibi.
The trial lasted three weeks. He was found guilty and sentenced to death. He had been on death row for six years. The appeals had failed. The execution: March 15, 1967. In three days.
But as Cantinflas read the file, something didn’t add up. The blood on José Luis’s clothes was type O positive. The victims were type A negative. Why didn’t anyone mention that at the trial? Witnesses who saw him near the house that night said he was wearing a blue shirt, but the bloodstained shirt the police presented was white. And strangest of all, José Luis had a receipt from a bar 20 km away with the date and time of the murder, but the judge dismissed it as easily forged.
Cantinflas closed the case. His heart was racing. He called his personal lawyer, Ramón González.
—Ramón, I need you to see something.
Two hours later, Ramón arrived and read the entire file.
—Mario, this man is innocent.
-You’re sure?
—As sure as I can be without reinvestigating. There are too many inconsistencies, too much evidence ignored. This was a quick, dirty trial. They probably pressured to close the case fast.
—We have three days.
—It’s impossible. It would take weeks just to file an appeal, months to investigate, and years for a new trial.
—But he’s going to die in three days.
—I know, and it’s a tragedy, but legally there’s nothing that can be done.
Cantinflas looked at the letter again. The words *“I want to laugh one last time”*.
—I’m going to visit him.
-That?
—I’m going to Lecumberri. Now. You’re coming with me.
Ramón hesitated. Then he nodded.
-Come on.
Lecumberri was terrifying. Gray walls 10 meters high, barbed wire, watchtowers. A place designed to break the human spirit. The guards recognized Cantinflas immediately.
—Cantinflas, what are you doing here?
—I’ve come to visit an inmate, José Luis Herrera.
The guard frowned.
—The one they’re executing on Thursday? Why do you want to see it?
—Personal reasons.
The guard escorted them through dark, damp corridors that smelled of despair. They passed cells full of men. Some shouted when they saw Cantinflas: “Cantinflas! Cantinflas, help me!” It was heartbreaking.
They arrived at the Sentenced Persons Pavilion. Twelve cells, twelve men waiting to die. Cell 47. José Luis Herrera sat on a miserable cot, thin, pale, with an unkempt beard. But when he saw Cantinflas, his eyes lit up like a child’s.
—No… I can’t believe it. He really came.
Cantinflas approached the bars.
—I came. I read your letter and your file.
—My file… yes.
—And José Luis, I don’t believe you’re guilty.
Tears began to fall down José Luis’s cheeks.
—Nobody… nobody has believed me in six years. Not my family, not my friends, nobody.
—I believe you. And we’re going to prove your innocence in three days.
—It’s impossible.
—Maybe, but we’ll try.
The guard interrupted.
—Mr. Cantinflas, you have 30 minutes.
—I need more time.
—Those are the rules.
Cantinflas turned to face him. He was no longer the comedian, he was Mario Moreno, the man from Tepito, who would not accept injustice.
—You know what? The rules can change. I want to speak to the prison director. Now.
The guard swallowed hard. Nobody spoke to him like that.
—I can’t…
—Yes, you can. Go and tell him that Cantinflas wants to see him, that it’s urgent, that it’s about an innocent man who is about to die.
The guard ran off. Ten minutes later the director arrived, an older man in an impeccable uniform with a stern face.
—Cantinflas, it’s an honor, but…
—No “but” director. This man is innocent.
—That was determined by a judge.
—A judge who ignored evidence, who dismissed proof, who closed the case in record time.
—I can’t do anything. The sentence has been signed. The execution is scheduled.
Cantinflas took a step forward.
—Do you have children, director?
—Yes, three.
—And what if one of them were unjustly convicted? If you knew in your heart that he was innocent, but no one believed you, what would you do?
The director didn’t respond immediately. His eyes showed something: doubt, awareness.
—I would fight until the last second.
—Exactly. And that’s what I’m asking for. Give me time, give me access, let me investigate. If I don’t find anything in three days, the execution continues. But if I find something… isn’t it worth a try?
The director looked at José Luis, then at Cantinflas. He sighed.
—72 hours. Full access to the file, to the witnesses if they agree to talk, to the crime scene if it still exists. But Cantinflas, if he doesn’t find anything solid, nothing changes. Understood?
But what Cantinflas didn’t know was that someone very powerful didn’t want this case reopened, someone who had been involved in the original trial. And that person was about to do everything possible to stop the investigation, even if it meant threatening Cantinflas’s own life.
72 hours. Three days to undo six years of injustice.
Cantinflas and Ramón worked tirelessly. They divided the tasks. Ramón would meticulously review the legal file, searching for procedural errors, ignored evidence, and witnesses not questioned. Cantinflas would go to the crime scene, speak with neighbors, and look for anything the police might have overlooked.
First stop: the house in Coyoacán where the murder took place. It was abandoned. Nobody wanted to live there after what happened. Cantinflas entered with the prison director’s permission. The house was dusty, abandoned, but untouched.
He walked through the rooms. He imagined the scene. A family brutally murdered. Why? Robbery. But according to the report, they only took 200 pesos and a watch. It didn’t make sense. An entire family murdered for 200 pesos. There was something more, something personal.
She went out and knocked on neighbors’ doors. Most didn’t want to talk. Six years later, people wanted to forget. But one elderly lady, Doña Carmen, agreed to talk.
—Mr. Cantinflas, I knew the Ramírez family. Good family, quiet, no problems.
—Do you remember the night of the murder?
—How could we forget her? We heard shouting, but we thought it was just a family argument. It happens a lot, you know? We didn’t want to get involved.
—Did you see anyone leaving the house?
—Yes, a tall man in a black jacket running.
Cantinflas checked his notes. José Luis was 1.65 meters tall. He was short and, according to the file, he was wearing a blue shirt that night.
—Did you tell this to the police?
—Of course, but the detective said I probably misheard, that it was nighttime, that it was dark.
—Which detective?
—Detective Armando Salazar.
Cantinflas wrote down the name. Something about him sounded familiar.
He visited more neighbors. Three more said the same thing: they saw a tall man in a black jacket fleeing. None of those testimonies were in the file. He returned to Ramón.
—I found something. Multiple witnesses saw someone other than José Luis, but their testimonies never made it to the trial.
—I found something too —Ramón said—. The detective in charge of the case, Armando Salazar, was fired three months after the trial for corruption, for fabricating evidence in other cases.
—So… so it’s possible that he fabricated evidence in this case too.
—They have something, not much, but something. They needed more.
Cantinflas had an idea. He visited the cantina where José Luis said he had been the night of the murder. The owner, Don Arturo, was still there.
—Do you remember José Luis Herrera?
—Of course. He came often. Good lad.
—Do you remember the night of August 12, 1961?
Don Arturo thought.
-A long time ago.
—Please, it’s important. A man will die if we don’t remember.
Don Arturo closed his eyes, concentrating.
—Wait. August 12th. That was the night of the blackout. The power went out in the whole neighborhood. José Luis was here playing dominoes. I remember because we had to bring out candles.
-What time?
—From 8 to 11 at night. I know why I closed early because of the power outage.
The murder occurred at 9:30 pm. José Luis could not have been in two places at the same time.
—Why didn’t he testify at the trial?
—Nobody called me. I didn’t even know that José Luis had been arrested until months later.
Cantinflas now had solid evidence: witnesses who contradicted the official version, a corrupt detective, a verifiable alibi. But he needed more. He needed the real killer.
That night, while reviewing documents, Ramón found something.
—Mario, look at this. The father of the murdered family, Mr. Ramírez, was an accountant. He worked for a large construction company. And… and three weeks before his death, he filed an internal complaint. He said his boss was embezzling funds. Millions of pesos.
—Who was your boss?
Ramón showed the name.
—Engineer Ricardo Montoya.
Cantinflas looked for the name. He was well-known, a powerful man, well-connected.
—And wait… Ricardo Montoya… his brother is…
“Yes,” Ramón confirmed. “His brother is Armando Salazar, the corrupt detective who handled the case.”
Everything fell into place. The accountant uncovered fraud. He was going to report it. He was murdered. The detective brother fabricated evidence to frame the innocent gardener. The perfect case. Quickly closed. No one suspected a thing. Until now.
—We need to talk to Montoya.
—Are you crazy? If he really is the killer, he’ll kill us.
—Not if we go with protection and with evidence.
They called a journalist friend, Roberto Cruz. They told him everything. “If anything happens to us, publish the whole story: names, evidence, everything.” Roberto agreed. With that protection, they visited Ricardo Montoya.
The confrontation with Montoya was not what they expected. Because when they knocked on his door, they weren’t greeted by an arrogant and powerful man; they were greeted by a broken, drunk man on the verge of collapse. And what he confessed that night would change everything, but it would also put them in mortal danger.
Ricardo Montoya lived in a mansion in Las Lomas, but when he opened the door he didn’t look like a millionaire, he looked like a ghost. Red eyes, stubble, the smell of alcohol.
—What do they want?
—Mr. Montoya, this is Cantinflas. This is my lawyer. We want to talk about the Ramírez family.
Montoya paled.
—No… I don’t know what you’re talking about.
—I think so. And I think he’s been living with this for six years and it’s killing him inside.
Montoya started to close the door. Cantinflas stopped her.
—José Luis Herrera is going to die in 36 hours. An innocent man. And you can stop it, you can save him, you can finally do the right thing.
Montoya broke down and began to cry.
—Come in.
The house was a mess. Empty bottles, rotten food, a man destroyed by guilt. They sat down. Montoya poured whiskey. His hands were trembling.
—I… I didn’t kill them. I want you to know that. It wasn’t me directly.
—So, who?
“I hired someone, a criminal. I paid him 10,000 pesos. I told him just to scare Ramírez, to get back the documents I had about the fraud.” He drank. Tears streamed down his face. “But that son of a… killed them all. Even the boy. God, the boy…”
She covered her face.
—When I found out, I panicked. I called my brother Armando. He was a detective. I told him what happened and he… he said he could fix it.
-As?
“He planted evidence on the gardener. Blood. He dismissed witness testimony. He closed the case quickly. He told me, ‘It’s done. You’re safe.’” More tears. “But I’m not safe. I haven’t slept well in six years. I see that boy every night. I hear his screams, and I know an innocent man is in prison because of me.”
Cantinflas recorded everything. Discreetly, with a small recorder in his pocket.
—Mr. Montoya, can you end this? You can officially confess. You can save José Luis.
—If I confess, I’ll go to prison. My family, my reputation…
“His soul,” Cantinflas interrupted. “He can save his soul.”
Montoya looked at his empty glass.
—Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll call my lawyer tomorrow. I’ll confess everything.
—No. Not now. Not tonight.
—Why the rush?
“Because I’ve seen how guilt works. Tomorrow, when he’s sober, when he’s thinking clearly, he’ll convince himself not to do it. Now, while he’s broken, while the truth hurts so much he wants to get it out, now is when he must act.”
Montoya nodded slowly. They called Roberto, the journalist. He brought a camera. They filmed Montoya’s full confession.
“I, Ricardo Montoya, confess that I ordered the attack on the Ramírez family. I didn’t plan to kill them, but I hired the man who did it. And my brother, Armando Salazar, fabricated evidence to frame José Luis Herrera, who is completely innocent.”
It was 2 a.m. They had 28 hours before the execution. They rushed to the courthouse with the recorded confession. The judge on duty received them.
—This is extraordinary, but I need to verify it. I need to speak with Montoya in person.
—He’s at home waiting.
They all went together, but when they arrived, the house was dark. Too dark. They knocked. No one answered. The judge authorized entry. They found Montoya in his study with a pistol in his hand, a gunshot wound to the head. Dead. And a note.
“I can’t live with this anymore. José Luis Herrera is innocent. I am the guilty one. May God forgive me.”
Cantinflas felt nauseous. Had they gotten that close?
“Is the recorded confession still valid?” Ramón asked the judge.
—Yes, especially with the suicide note. It’s enough to stop the execution and order a new trial.
It was 4 a.m., 22 hours remaining. The judge signed an order for the immediate suspension of the execution. They rushed to Lecumberri.
José Luis Herrera was awake in his cell. He had stopped sleeping. What for? He had 18 hours left to live. He heard footsteps running, agitated voices. His cell door opened. Cantinflas entered with the prison director.
—José Luis, you are free.
-That?
—We found the real culprit. We have a confession. The judge suspended your execution. You’re going to have a new trial and you’re going to be acquitted.
José Luis couldn’t process the words, he simply cried.
Two months later, the retrial declared him innocent. He was completely freed. He left Lecumberri prison after six years. Cantinflas was waiting for him outside. They embraced. A long, brotherly hug.
—Thank you —whispered José Luis—. You saved my life.
—No, you saved yourself. Your letter, your story, your humanity. I was just the messenger.
José Luis smiled. For the first time in years, he truly smiled.
—And what do I do now? I’ve lost six years, I have no job, no family, I have nothing.
—You have life, you have freedom, and you have a future. We’ll build the rest together.
Cantinflas got him a job, helped him rebuild his life, and years later, José Luis became a judicial reform activist.
In 1975, eight years after his release, José Luis went to visit Cantinflas.
—Mario, do you remember what I asked in my letter? That you make me laugh one last time before I die.
—I remember.
—You never did. You came, you saved me, but you never made me laugh.
Cantinflas smiled.
—No, look at you now. You’re alive, free, happy. That’s the best comedy I could have written for you.
José Luis laughed a deep, liberating laugh.
—You’re right. My life turned into a comedy, a comedy with a happy ending.
Cantinflas died in 1993. At his funeral, among thousands of people, there was a 60-year-old man crying in the front row: José Luis Herrera.
When asked who he was, he replied:
“I am the man Cantinflas saved from dying unjustly. I am the man who learned that art can change destinies. I am proof that a clown with a heart is worth more than a thousand judges without a conscience.”
If this story touched your heart, tell me in the comments what you would have done in the protagonist’s place.
