-Caveat Lector-
an excerpt from:
The Arizona Project
Michael Wendland©1977
ISBN 0-8362-0728-9
Sheed Andrews and McMeel, Inc.
6700 Squibb Rd.
Misson Kansas 66202
276 pps. - first edition - out-of-print
New revised edition - available amazon.com
Paperback, 304pp.
ISBN: 0945165021
Blue Sky Press, Incorporated
June 1988
--[9b]--
The reporters drove to the American side, left the car there, and walked to
the Mexican side for some shopping. There was a welcoming party waiting for
them when they returned. The Border Patrol had found the reporters' car,
parked on a side street about six blocks from the border, and had surrounded
it. A patrol car with emergency lights flashing was parked directly behind
it. A jeep was parked in the street right next to it. A U.S. Border Patrol
agent named R. G. Ramos and three other agents were leaning against a jeep
waiting. Earlier, the reporters had encountered Ramos in downtown Nogales.
They had introduced themselves and asked a few questions. He had refused to
answer and, instead, insisted on searching the trunk of the IRE car. The
reporters had complied but were convinced that the search was simply a means
of harassing them. Ramos obviously didn't like their snooping around. He told
the reporters that if they intended to stay in the area asking questions,
they had better "clear" their activities with his superiors because his
agency didn't want to be portrayed in a bad light. The reporters told him
they had no intention of "clearing" their questions with anyone. Ramos
stalked off, looking angry. And now he was waiting at the IRE car. He looked
like he meant business.
"You looking for us?" Drehsler asked as they approached the agents.
"Yeah," answered Ramos. "Open your trunk."
"Again? We've already gone this route today," said Wendland.
"Just open it."
"What's this all about?"
"We have reason to believe that you have illegal contraband," replied Ramos.
"We had a tip that when you went back up to the hole in the fence, someone
from the other side tossed you a sack."
"That's pure bullshit," said Wendland. "You're making the story up just to
hassle us."
"I'm not going to ask you again. Open that trunk."
It was ridiculous arguing with them. Drehsler found the key and popped
the trunk. Ramos went through everything, opening suit- cases, searching the
tire wells, looking through the pockets of the reporters' clothing. Finding
nothing, he went to the inside of the car and began a similar search of the
glove compartment, the seats, even under the vinyl carpeting. Wendland pulled
out his camera and focused on Ramos.
"Hold it," warned another agent. "You can't do that."
"The hell I can't," said Wendland, turning to also photograph the other
agent, who quickly displayed his backside.
Ramos spent nearly fifteen minutes going over the car. He found nothing. He
didn't say a word when he finished. Instead, he got back in his car and drove
off, followed by the other agents in the jeep.
"What the hell do you make of that?" Wendland asked his partner. The incident
unnerved them, not because there was any chance the agents would have found
anything but because the search had given them an opportunity to plant
something on the reporters' car which would conveniently be "found" by
another crew of agents. The reporters spent ten minutes checking each area
Ramos had examined, making sure that the agent hadn't left anything behind.
It was three o'clock, time to make a telephone call.
Drehsler's wife was from the Mexican town of Agua Prieta, one of several
Arizona border cities used as major smuggling centers. Before leaving
Phoenix, Drehsler had called his wife's brother, tactfully explaining their
need to meet and talk with a couple of narcotics smugglers. The brother had
agreed to help, though he could not guarantee anything on such sensitive
matters. Drehsler was to call back to see what could be arranged.
Three hours later, after a meeting had been arranged for seven o'clock that
night, they were in the small cowboy town of Douglas, crossing over the
Mexican border into Agua Prieta, a smaller and much neater version of
Nogales. The reporters arrived at the restaurant-cantina designated as the
meeting place ten minutes early. They ordered Mexican beer and soup and had
to wait less than five minutes.
Alex's brother-in-law, a tall, slim man of about thirty, came in. He was
alone and greeted Alex in Spanish. They talked for a few minutes about family
before getting to the matter at hand. The brother-in-law had found two men,
brothers, who would help the reporters out. The brothers were top smugglers,
using a small resale business they ran as a cover for traveling throughout
Mexico and the southwestern United States. There were conditions to the
interview. The reporters were not to directly identify them in print and, if
possible, were to obscure their descriptions so that authorities reading
about them in the States would not be able to identify them from the
newspaper accounts. The reporters were free to ask the brothers anything they
wanted. If the smugglers didn't answer, the question was to be dropped.
"I tell you this," said Drehsler's relative. "These are good, proud men. They
are friends of mine. They will help you because I asked them to help you. But
you must understand that this is their business. Their families survive by
their work. You will be their guests tonight. They will be friendly to you.
But they expect you to be friendly to them as well. Do not do them harm. That
is all I ask of you."
The relative left, giving Alex an address, not far away, where the brothers
were waiting for them.
The reporters immediately decided to give the smugglers different names in
the story they would eventually write. They would call the eldest brother
Pancho. The other brother would be referred to as Fernando, named after a pop
song they had been hearing on the car radio for the last several days.
Pancho, a short, stocky man with neatly combed hair, welcomed the reporters
warmly in the office of his resale shop. On the way in, Wendland noted that
the main area of the small shop was crowded with inexpensive looking art
work, a couple of young workers, and a shiny green pickup truck. The office
itself was spartan, containing only an old wooden desk, a pair of folding
chairs, and a small radio. Pancho shut the door between the office and the
main area.
"I understand that you want to know of our business," he said in Spanish,
sitting down behind the desk.
The reporters nodded. Wendland, using the little Spanish he had learned in
school and what he had picked up from Drehsler, told Pancho that he did not
speak the language well.
"Then I will speak in English. But before we talk, I want you to listen to me
for a little while. You understand that this is, for my brother and me, a
somewhat delicate discussion?" The reporters nodded again. "Good. Then you
should also understand that here in Mexico, what we do is not a bad thing.
What we sell is a crop, grown on farms. What your people in the United States
do with our crop is another matter. For our people here, there is no other
way to make a living. Mexico's economy is ruined. The value of the peso is
half what it used to be only a year ago. Today, the average wage here is
twenty-two dollars American a week. So we do this to survive. It is a
business, that is all."
The smuggling business Pancho and Fernando ran began in the fall of 1975, he
said, just a year before. Now, it employed some fourteen persons who
supported nearly fifty dependents in all, located in Agua Prieta and a couple
of villages to the south. "We are not the largest," said Fernando. "To be
really successful, one must be mafioso, or organized." He described the
mafioso as the elite of the smuggling world. "They are what you would call
gangs, many different gangs, all separate but all together. They have one big
boss, who collects from everyone."
Pancho readily admitted smuggling marijuana, which he said "grows everywhere
here, like trees in a forest." He was vague about what other drugs were
handled, though he implied that heroin and, more recently, cocaine were
starting to be hauled north across the border in the fleet of five pickup
trucks he and his brother owned. Their primary sales area was the Southwest,
with most of their business being based in Tucson and Phoenix. "We have been
to California and one time, even to Chicago." His customers were Anglos.
"They are wealthy people in Arizona" was all he would say.
The reporters wondered how he got his drugs across without problems. He
rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together. "Everyone
thinks the mordida just happens in Mexico," he smiled. "But it works on both
sides." Sometimes, depending on the cargo, his trucks moved across the border
at checkpoint stations. At other times, "there are many places to cross.
Between Agua Prieta and Nogales, the border is unguarded. The fence is broken
everywhere."
But it was a rough business. "There are banditos, who try to steal from us.
There is the mafioso, which wants us to join them." He and his brother were
always armed, as were their "mules," the people they employed to haul the
drugs across. Then there was the expense of his trucks, all of which were
specially outfitted with false bottoms, heavy duty shocks and springs, and
four-wheel drive.
What about police?
"They are our friends. Everyone here in Agua Prieta is involved. It is all
there is for us." There were occasional problems with the Mexican army but
nothing that could not be handled by mordida.
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Fernando, the younger
brother. He shook hands with the reporters and, from a paper sack he carried,
handed them each a can of beer. He looked to be in his late twenties, slim of
build with long hair and a scraggly beard.
"So you are the two reporters who want to get killed?" he laughed. "This is a
dangerous business. It is not wise to ask too many questions."
Where Pancho was the office manager and chief accountant of the family
business, Fernando was the foreman, the one who was out in the field handling
the day-to-day mechanics.
"You see this?" he asked, brushing his black hair off his forehead to reveal
an ugly red scar that extended from just over the left eyebrow to the
hairline. "From a bullet. Not two months ago. The mafiosos they think that
maybe we are getting too big."
Pancho interrupted. "It was a small problem. It is resolved now. The look he
gave Fernando indicated the subject was closed.
"I am sorry but there are matters I must attend to," said Pancho. "My brother
will talk to you now. You will see our town."
They got into the reporters' car, leaving the elder brother. Fernando was in
the back seat.
"Fernando, I have a question," said Wendland. "You and your brother have a
good small business. You said all your employees are Mexican. But what about
Anglos? Are they partners with you?"
"But of course. They are our good friends. When Pancho and I began, they lent
us the money to buy our vehicles."
"Where are these Anglos from?" asked Drehsler.
"Ah, that I cannot say. They are very powerful men. They have friends in many
places in Mexico and your country."
"But they are U.S. citizens?"
"But of course. But, please, I can say no more. They would not want me to say
even these things."
"We understand," said Wendland. "But it is important for us to know how
powerful these Anglos are."
"They are very strong. We are not their only friends here. They have
airplanes that they use. And they have partners like us in other places in
Mexico."
"Are they mafiosos?" asked Drehsler.
"You must understand. These are things I cannot talk about."
"Did they give you that bullet scar?"
"Oh, no. This was from the Mexican mafiosos. You see, there are Mexican
mafiosos and American mafiosos. The Mexican mafiosos want to have all
businesses like my brother's and mine with them, so they can deal from a
position of strength with the American mafiosos. Sometimes, there are
difficulties. We are partners with some Americans. The Mexican mafiosos want
us to be partners with them, so that the Americans do not get so much money.
And there are different Mexican mafiosos. And they fight between themselves.
It is very difficult to explain."
"What about you and your brother? Who are you with?" asked Wendland.
"We are alone. We are still small. Sometimes, we have problems. But we work
them out, you understand? Right now, the different mafiosos are too busy
fighting among themselves to bother with us.
"Why were you shot, then?"
"It was because I would not go along with them."
"How did you settle it?"
"Please, you are asking too much from me. In Mexico, there are ways these
things are settled. A man cannot back down. That is all. Such things must be
settled."
The reporters decided to drop it. But without knowing it, Fernando had told
them a lot. His brush with the mafiosos had been settled, the reporters
suspected, with blood. And the smuggling operation the two brothers ran was
obviously much more organized than Fernando and Pancho wanted them to realize.
There was one more thing the reporters wanted to do before leaving Agua
Prieta. Next morning, they asked Fernando to show them some of the routes
used to smuggle narcotics across the border. He was waiting for them outside
the resale shop used as the headquarters for the smuggling operation, sunning
himself on the stoop and reading a Mexican comic book. His brother Pancho
closed the shop and joined them.
Three miles south of Agua Prieta, on the only real road leading out of the
town, was a Mexican government checkpoint. Armed guards were stationed at the
checkpoint, charged with restricting passage into Mexico's interior only to
nationals and tourists with proper visas. Wendland and Drehsler had no such
tourist cards.
"Where are you going?" asked a checkpoint guard in a wrinkled brown uniform.
"Nine miles down the road," replied Pancho.
The car was waved through with no further questioning.
"You see how easy it is?" grinned Fernando. "You are two Americans in a very
dirty car. You are not asked for the proper identification. There is no
reason for you to be going nine miles down this road. The nearest village is
fifty miles away. There is nothing between here and there. Nine miles will
take us to nowhere."
The unmarked but paved two-lane road dipped south of Agua Prieta a few miles
and then wound its way to the northwest to Naco, a border village forty-eight
miles from Agua Prieta. It was, explained Pancho and Fernando, one of their
favorite smuggling routes. The brothers pointed out numerous dirt roads and
trails leading north from the highway to the border. The trails were deeply
rutted with many tracks.
To the south were mountains and small peasant farms. "It is there where our
crops grow," said Pancho. "Look about you. You see few cattle, no corn or
tomatoes. Up there are poppies. In the foothills grows the marijuana."
Heroin was referred to as chiva, meaning nanny goat, or carga, which roughly
translates to load, he explained. A kilo of heroin cost about $15,000 in the
mountains around Agua Prieta. Across the border, cut five or six times, the
same kilo brought $600,000. Marijuana sold for about $10 a kilo in Agua
Prieta, wholesaling in Phoenix for $125.
They passed a couple of pickup trucks heading in the opposite direction.
Heavy tarpaulins covered the cargo area. "They are full of marijuana," said
Fernando. "See how some of it falls out? Those seeds will sprout next season.
All along the shoulder of this highway marijuana grows. You plant trees and
cactus to decorate your roads in the United States. In Mexico, we plant
marijuana."
They reached the small village of Naco shortly after one o'clock. There was
little to see. Pancho pointed out a body shop that specialized in making
false bottoms for the trucks used by smugglers. "This is a smugglers' town,"
said Fernando. "See all the new trucks."
Unlike Nogales or Agua Prieta, Naco was a border town without a sister city
on the U.S. side. At the American Customs checkpoint, an elderly guard waved
the two Americans and two Mexicans through without a single question. They
returned Pancho and Fernando to Agua Prieta by the American side. On the way
back, the brothers pointed out dirt trails leading south, which connected at
the border with the roads they had seen on the other side. "You see, if we
had been loaded with a cargo, we could have crossed many places," said
Pancho. "It is very easy. We have encountered no authorities from Mexico or
the United States. It is always like this."
The reporters dropped the brothers off at their resale shop, thanking them
for their help. The brothers had enjoyed it, they said, inviting the
reporters to spend Sunday night with their families. But the reporters had to
move on. Maybe they could return someday. They said goodbye.
Monday morning, after their best sleep in days, the reporters were off to
survey the border between Sierra Vista and Nogales, identified by U.S. law
enforcement sources as one of the drug smugglers' most heavily used stretches
of land.
It was the most incredibly beautiful but rugged country the report-ers had
yet seen. Nogales was fifty-six miles to the west. And there was nothing but
mountains and deep gorges between the two cities. The border was totally
unguarded, marked only by a six-foot wire fence. Much of the land on the
American side was in the Coronado National Forest. At the Patagonia ranger
station about ten miles south and west of Sierra Vista, the reporters pulled
in to look at a map of the area. Paul Thompson, the forest service ranger,
seemed pleased to have company. The reporters identified themselves and told
him why they were there.
"I suggest that if you're going to drive between here and Nogales, you be
extremely careful," said Thompson. "There are a lot of narcotics smugglers
who use this country and they don't like having strangers around." Thompson
said that his rangers had recently asked for authorization to carry side arms
when patrolling the area. "They've occasionally stumbled across a smuggler
and the smuggler opened up," he said. "So far, none of our people have been
hurt. We've been lucky. My advice to you guys is to go ahead and drive
through, but stay on the main road. And if you see something unusual, don't
stop to look."
The road they were on narrowly wound its way to the peak of Montezuma's Pass,
elevation 6,575 feet. At a turn-off overview, the reporters got out of the
car for a look. The wind howled as they stared down the mountain slope to
Mexico, just two miles to the south. From their vantage point they could see
nearly fifty miles of border. It was wide-open country. As they got back in
the car, they spotted a coati-mundi, a slinky little black animal that looked
like a cross between a beaver and a fox, watching them from the other side of
the road. A mile or so down the mountain to the west, a herd of ten scruffy
javelinas crossed the road in front of them. It was beautifully desolate
country.
"Hold it, stop the car," said Wendland a few minutes later. "Down there,
look." They were nearly down the mountain. A half-mile away, not far from the
border, was a tan automobile. Two men were by it. Wendland pulled out a pair
of binoculars. The trunk of the car was open, and one of the men appeared to
be loading something into it. The other man was squatting on the ground, next
to a pile of what looked like bricks. Leaning against the car was a long
stick. Or was it a gun? It was too far to say for sure. Wendland handed the
binoculars to Drehsler. "What do you think?"
"I don't know. It sure as hell looks suspicious."
They watched the men for about five minutes. The pile of bricks was transferre
d into the trunk of the car, which was then closed. The men then sat down
around a campfire. It looked like they were eating something. There was no
way to know what was in the trunk without inspecting it. And there was no way
to know whether the stick was a gun without going closer. Neither solution
seemed particularly wise to the reporters, who drove off, headed toward
Nogales.
Twenty minutes later range land gradually began to replace the rugged gorges
and mountains. They passed a signpost and backed up. Facing south, the
weathered metal sign warned vehicles entering the U.S. to report immediately
to the nearest U.S. Customs office. A two-wheeled, deeply rutted trail led
away from the sign towards Mexico. The reporters bounced along the trail for
a quarter-mile. It ended at the border fence.
There were truck tracks, horse tracks, and footprints all over the ground on
both sides of the fence. It was obviously a heavily used illegal crossing
point. After photographing the scene, they got back in the car. Drehsler put
it in reverse gear. But nothing happened. "Oh-oh," he said, getting out and
looking under the car. "You'd better take a look at this." Oil was pouring
out from the undercarriage.
"We got a big problem," Drehsler understated. "We're in the middle of
nowhere."
They got back in the car and again tried reverse. Something was obviously
jammed. It refused to engage. They tried the drive gear and sighed with
relief. At least they could go forward. Drehsler made a sweeping turn and,
creeping along, maneuvered the car down the trail back to the main road.
Nogales was still nearly forty miles away. It took nearly two hours but they
made it. At one point, Drehsler missed a turn on the main road and had to
drive an extra fifteen miles down a bumpy dirt fire-trail until there was a
spot wide enough to turn the car around in the forward gear.
In Nogales, they found a gasoline service station and dropped the car off for
repair.
They had lunch and made a telephone call. One of their federal sources in
Phoenix had given them the name of an undercover drug agent who worked in
Nogales. The agent would talk to the reporters strictly on a background
basis, and at no time were they to reveal his name. Drehsler called the
source. He would meet the reporters at seven that night in the bar of the El
Dorado Motel.
The gasoline mechanic had repaired the oil leak. The rough roads had poked a
hole in the oil pan and a rock had been jammed in the transmission. He
charged them twenty-five dollars and filled the car with gas.
The source showed up a few minutes past seven, just after "The Captain and
Tennille" show began blaring out of the bar's television set. He didn't want
to talk in the bar, so he took the reporters outside to his car. They began
driving around the city.
He had a lot of things to say.
"If they took dope out of here, the whole town would collapse. Everyone is
involved in it in one way or another. And that's here, on the American side.
It's even worse across the fence. There's a war going on over there. Three
and four people a week are either disappearing or being gunned-down." He told
the reporters of several known U.S. organized crime figures who had been
observed in Nogales, Sonora, including mobster Moe Dalitz, a friend of
Phoenix's Robert Goldwater.
"Two years ago, Dalitz is spotted entering the U.S. from Mexico. He's in a
big motor home, accompanied by a man and woman, neither of whom we'd ever
heard of before. We ask him what he was doing there. He says he was on a
little vacation, that he was going to visit the interior but was turned back
because he didn't have the right identification. He didn't have a tourist
card."
"So what's wrong with that?" asked Drehsler.
"The whole story stinks," said the agent. "For one thing, Dalitz is a very,
very wealthy man. He doesn't vacation in motor homes. He goes in style,
Learjet all the way. For another, he's not stupid. Everyone knows you need a
tourist card to go to the interior. And a tourist card is easy as hell to
get. So he doesn't have one? All he has to do is ask and he would get one.'
The source gave the reporters a list of major narcotics traffickers on both
sides of the border which they could verify after returning to Phoenix. He
drove them past a palatial home just a few blocks north of the border. "It
belongs to one of the big dealers. He just had the place remodeled. Spent one
million dollars doing it. He even brought in workmen from Italy to do the
stone work."
Finally, he had two incidents to relate, both of which involved Joseph
Montoya, the senior U.S. senator from New Mexico for the past twelve years.
He showed the reporters government files documenting them both.
The first incident occurred on April 9, 1971, at Tucson International
Airport. "The feds got a tip from a very reliable informant about a
twin-engine airplane coming out of Mexico. It's supposed to be carrying
drugs. So Customs sets up and hits on it at the Tucson airport. On board the
plane is Senator Montoya. Customs wants to search the plane, but Montoya
blows up. He's furious, and refuses to let the agent search. Instead, Montoya
goes to a telephone and gets on the horn to Washington. He calls the head of
the whole Customs department, Myles Ambrose. Okay, now the agent gets on. He
talks to one of Ambrose's assistants. He's told that Montoya is a very
powerful man and that it could cost him his job. So the plane isn't searched."
The next incident took place on November 14, 1973, and involved the transport
of an old red, white, and blue forty-one-foot pleasure boat from Guaymas,
Mexico, through Nogales on to Albuquerque, New Mexico. "Again, there was a
tip to the feds about this boat," explained the agent. "It was supposed to be
carrying fifty kilos of heroin. Anyway, one day, just as the tip had it, the
boat shows up, being towed across the border. Customs conducts a
stem-to-stern search of the whole boat. I mean they go over every inch.
Nothing. Then they realize they haven't checked the boat's engine. It's a big
operation, pulling an engine and searching it, so they go to the phone for
permission. Now, here's where Montoya comes in. While they're waiting for
authorization to pull the engine, the agents get to talking with this guy
named Joe Cruz. This Cruz fellow is the guy in charge of hauling the boat
across. He tells the agents that when the boat got to Hermosillo, Mexico, it
gets pulled over by Mexican police, who say that it can't go any further
because it doesn't have a highway permit. So Cruz says he calls Senator
Montoya for help. He says he was given Montoya's name by the junkyard owner
in New Mexico who hired him. After that, Montoya is supposed to have gotten
on the phone and called the Mexican authorities. Bingo, just like that, their
problems are over. They even get a police escort from Hermosillo to Nogales.
"Then what happened?" asked Wendland.
"Meantime, word from the Customs brass comes back. Agents are not authorized
to pull the boat's engine. They said it would cost too much. So the boat is
released. Well, we decide to watch it. We follow it all the way to Albuquerque
. It's taken to a junkyard there. And guess what the first thing is that
happens to it as soon as it arrives? They pull the goddamn engine and scrap
the rest of the boat. Interesting, huh?"
The reports the agent had produced verified his story. Later, when IRE
reporters telephoned Montoya, who had lost his senate seat in the 1976
election, they were rebuffed in trying to find out more. "You guys distort
everything," Montoya said. "I'm not even going to talk to you. You don't have
any business talking to me." Ambrose also was contacted about the airplane
incident. He could not recall such a telephone call from Montoya.
Drehsler and Wendland wanted to know what Customs, the Drug Enforcement
Administration, and the Border Patrol were doing to combat the flow of
narcotics through Nogales.
The source chuckled. "That's part of our problem. Some of the investigators
are being paid off. My personal work has convinced me that at least a
half-dozen are turning their backs."
He mentioned one U.S. government official in Nogales who was under active
investigation for taking narcotics payoffs the year before. "This guy made a
salary of something like $12,000 a year," explained the agent. "Well, we were
able to find $17,000 in a safe-deposit box under his name. We started to put
the pressure on him and he cracked. He implicated three others. Then one
night, I get a call at home. The guy's dead, he supposedly shot himself in
the head. We rush over and sure enough, he's dead. The case was handled by
local cops. And it was botched up bad. I looked at the photographs they took
of the death scene, and, in five of the six pictures, something had been
moved. The gun he supposedly used was jammed or something. So, instead of
sending it to a crime lab, they dismantled it with a screwdriver. Can you
imagine, a screwdriver? But that's not the worst. Two hours after its
discovery, the local cops release the body to the undertaker and it's
embalmed. All the evidence was destroyed. Our whole case just went down the
drain."
The agent dropped the reporters back at the motel.
"Good luck," he said. "I hate to wash our dirty linen like this. But maybe
you guys can do something about it. These things just get covered up. This
whole state is like that. I hope you guys do some good." He drove off,
leaving the reporters standing in the darkness outside their motel rooms.
They stood there like that for five minutes. Then, not saying anything, they
went into their rooms.
Both reporters had trouble falling asleep. They now realized just how
hopeless the American government's much-touted effort to curtail the flow of
narcotics into Arizona really was. The rugged terrain along the border and
the lackadaisical, corrupt officials in America and Mexico spelled a dismal
story. Like so many other criminal aspects of Arizona, the drug problem was
totally out of hand. And no one, anywhere, appeared to be doing anything
about it.
pps. 139-166
--[cont]--
Aloha, He'Ping,
Om, Shalom, Salaam.
Em Hotep, Peace Be,
Omnia Bona Bonis,
All My Relations.
Adieu, Adios, Aloha.
Amen.
Roads End
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