Juarez

by Michael Douglas Carlin

Many years back, I met a former Federale who worked for ten years in Mexico.

He is the only known American ever to have served as a Federale. Over the years, he has told me stories about his time across the border. I have often thought that his story would make a great feature film. Earlier this year, I started calling him for an hour at a time and writing an assemblage of short stories. I also traveled to meet him and video him telling this amazing slice of life history in the trenches in the American/Mexican War on Drugs.

He spent most of his time in Juarez, which is the most dangerous city in the world. Interview footage can be boring, so I thought that I would add production value by shooting some video in the old places that he used to frequent in and around Juarez.

When I told him my plan, he quickly agreed. "You know me, I am down for whatever." Many times during our conversations he told me that he said these words before engaging in a firefight (he was in over twenty-two of them) or apprehending some dangerous suspect. The meaning of those words was lost on me until now.

The specific plan was to enter Juarez on a Sunday morning to capture that footage. Lobo was going to take me on a tour. I intended to document the trip on video. The night before, I received a telephone call that Lobo was in the emergency room and was expected to undergo emergency surgery. I was left with a big decision: cancel or go it alone.

I prepared the camera and loaded four duffle bags of medical supplies to donate to the local clinic as a side trip. I woke up Sunday and decided that I would attempt to make the trip alone. I drove to a parking lot next to the Santa Fe Bridge located at the dead end of Stanton. Years ago, a line of taxicabs would be waiting for me. However, on this particular morning, none were present. I asked the parking lot attendant why there were no cabs, and she told me that there haven’t been any for a while. I asked her how could I find someone to take me to Juarez?

She cautioned me about going. "This isn’t like you might remember it."

When I pressed her, she pointed to a gentleman that might help. As soon as I asked him about getting a cab, he drove off to bring me someone to take me across. He returned with a cabdriver in tow.

I asked the cabdriver to take me over the bridge to Juarez. He told me that he had no intention of getting killed and refused to take me. Hedid offer to find someone who would embark on this adventure. I told him that I had medical relief to take over, and he asked to see it. I opened my car and unzipped one of the duffle bags. He told me that no one would agree to take this relief in. But the conversation changed from that point. He didn’t mind the video camera, but the medical relief was something he couldn’t comprehend. Why would an American bring relief to Juarez?

He didn’t want to be involved in it, but he couldn’t stop attempting to understand it. Clearly, he wasn’t American, and he wasn’t Mexican. I asked him if he was Muslim. He told me that he was from Jordan and that he had strayed from his religion. I asked him if he thought about going back to it. This led to a most interesting conversation. He told me that he had not done anything for humanity recently. After thinking back to his youth and his roots, he decided to take me to Juarez. Then reality set in. He started second guessing himself. I met his doubt with dollars. We agreed on a price, and the adventure was on.

Immediately upon crossing the border, I knew that this was very different from the many times I had been there before. There were barricades and bunkers with machine gun turrets. There were Federal Police, State Police, Municipal Police, and soldiers. The streets that used to be populated with hundreds of thousands of people were virtually empty. Storefronts were boarded up, and "For Rent" signs were everywhere. We drove through the various parts of the city. Everyone looked as I held the video camera—wondering what I was doing there shooting video. We attracted a lot of attention.

When we got out by the airport, we discussed coming back through the heart of the city. They were probably waiting for us. That wasn’t very comforting.

I suggested that we cut through the Barrio to the border highway. He cautioned that this was perhaps the most dangerous Barrio in the world. I agreed, but I said that, for that very reason, nobody would expect us to go through this area. He agreed, and we cut through. I was able to capture tremendous footage overlooking the El Paso side from the Juarez side. We got onto the border highway and, after about five hours in what could have been harm’s way, we made a turn onto the Santa Fe Bridge and back to safety in the United States of America.

The very next day, nineteen people were murdered in Juarez, many of whom were killed in the parking lot of the clinic where we would have delivered our medical relief. I had time to digest the trip and contemplate how this would have happened if I had gone in with Lobo. I called him and discussed it with him.

I said, "You were there for ten years."

He said, "Yeah."

I said, "What are the odds someone would have recognized you if we went to all of the places you used to hang out?"

He replied, "One hundred percent."

I asked, "What would have happened to us if they had recognized you?"

He said, "Oh, we would have been killed." I thought that was a pretty important detail to have had in the planning process. He told me, "Mike, I told you then and I’ll tell you now, I am down for whatever."

Ojinaga

by Michael Douglas Carlin

Lobo, my Federale friend, was responsible for killing Pablo Acosta. Since Pablo’s body had more than one bullet, it is possible that others also can claim that they had a hand in his death. The word came down from the top that he was to be put down–not arrested. I think we all know why. Dead men don’t talk. When the corruption is inherent in the system, people tend to want to protect themselves. Taking care of loose ends keeps the people in power happy and productive.

Pablo Acosta used to frequent Ojinaga. He was the head of the Juarez Cartel and chose to run the operation from the middle of nowhere, where it was easy to get drugs into the United States. Ojinaga sits on the Texas border across from Presidio. I needed footage for a documentary that I am working on. So, I thought I would travel to Presidio and find someone to take me on a tour.

I arrived In Presidio at about 10 pm. There are only two motels in town. I chose to stay at the one with a restaurant next door. I checked into my room and walked into the restaurant. I ordered food and sat for a few minutes at a table by myself. There was a long table along the wall. The Mexican Nationals were at one end, the Mexican Americans were in the middle and the Americans were at the other end.

A few minutes after I arrived, I was asked to join the Americans, and they bought me a beer. They asked what I was doing in Ojinaga—I guess not too many tourists wander in. I told them I was going to attempt to shoot some video and asked them if they knew someone who could take me on the Pablo Acosta Tour. At the mere mention of his name, the entire restaurant was suddenly silent, and all eyes were on me.

I shrunk inside. I felt like the biggest dumbass in the world. How could I be so careless? The Mexican-Americans immediately came down and told me that I should not travel to Ojinaga, because it was far too dangerous.

Rudolfo, who was born in Juarez but lives now in Houston, gave me a stern warning. "Mister, I don’t know why you are here but do not go into Ojinaga. There is no reason that is worth losing your life."

Others especially warned me about ever mentioning the name of Pablo Acosta in these parts. I took their advice seriously and told them that I would not venture over the border. I thanked them for looking out for me. Soon, the restaurant was back to normal activity, and I turned to one of the Americans who was there as a construction worker helping to build a new school. I quietly asked him how he would go about finding someone to take him over the border if I theoretically wanted to go there. He told me to go to the El Patio Restaurant and ask to speak with the owner. The owner would make the arrangements.

In the morning, I did just that. I got the camera ready early in the morning, and I loaded four duffle bags of medical supplies into the car. The Knights of the Order of Humanity collect single-use medical supplies from hospitals in the United States and take them to war-torn countries.

I arrived at the restaurant to order food and to make my inquiry. The call was made and my driver was on the way. I excused myself, because I wanted to retrieve my camera from the car. When I walked in with the high-definition camera, the owner looked slightly surprised.

The driver was a thirty-something-year-old woman driving an unmarked Suburban. She didn’t bat an eye at the camera. I asked her in my broken Spanish if we could also take in some medical relief to a local clinic, and she looked confused.

I took her to my car and opened up the hatch. I unzipped a duffle bag and showed her the contents. She agreed that we could take them with us to Ojinaga. On the way, she began making calls to find the right place for the supplies.

Mexican Customs was so preoccupied with the video camera that they paid little attention to the bags in the back. As soon as we cleared customs, I asked if she knew any of the history of Ojinaga and Pablo Acosta. She immediately made the Catholic sign of the cross and pretended not to know anything about this person, "whoever he is." I saw immediately that I had hit a nerve, and she was now uncomfortable with the trip. Her imagination was swimming, and I could see her thinking, "Who is this, and what am I involved in now?"

We got to the clinic. We waited for at least twenty minutes. Out came two women, a nurse and a doctor. They looked really confused as we began to explain to them what we wanted to do. They were also distracted by the video camera. These two beautiful women struggled to understand why an American with a video camera and a driver had arrived with medical relief. We took them out to the car and showed them the duffle bags. They got it, and immediately welled up inside.

Then doubt took over. "What do you want for these supplies? How much?"

I told them that they were a gift from America to the people of Mexico, and tears began streaming down their faces. As we carried the bags from the Suburban to the clinic, I’ll bet they said "Thank you" a thousand times.

When we got back in the car, my driver turned to me and told me what a great thing I had done for these women. She told me that we had made their day. A few minutes later, she brought up Pablo Acosta, Amado Carillo Fuentes, and El Chapa Guzman. She agreed to take me on my tour. She also explained to me that these men were heroes in this community and had provided jobs and money to the inhabitants. They had built clinics, schools and churches and had fed the people of Ojinaga. She warned me that I was not allowed to get out of the car where she was taking me. Her warning continued by telling me never to mention these names in this community if I wanted to live. People here would kill me to protect the memory of these sacred druglords.

We drove past homes that had belonged to the men. We also drove around the downtown area. I was allowed to get out briefly in the town center. It didn’t take long to shoot video of the entire village. On our way back, the driver asked me if I minded her stopping at the market for a few groceries. Now my imagination raced. I did mind but trusted my instincts not to let it show. She pulled up to the grocery store and exited the vehicle, leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine running. She disappeared around the corner and I sat in the idling vehicle. My senses were heightened for those fifteen or twenty minutes. I watched every mirror with great interest. I was prepared to jump over the hump and get into the driver’s seat to battle my way back to the border. I tried to be calm, but my heart was racing.

My driver emerged from around the corner carrying a couple of bags of groceries. She jumped into the vehicle, and off we drove to the border and safety…or so I thought. She took me back to the El Patio Restaurant and dropped me off at my car. She told me that I had done a great thing for those women but that it was now time for me to leave, because my life was in danger. From the way that she said it I knew she was telling me the truth. I wasn’t going to wait to find out. I got in my car and headed straight for El Paso.

I was followed the entire way from Presidio to El Paso by an unmarked blue van. When I got to the Lomaland exit, I got off and pulled into the Whataburger parking lot. I took a bunch of papers with me and my cell phone and started making calls and conducting business like I had not noticed the man following me. He was shorter than me, with a long ponytail, tattoos, and a pock-marked face. I pretended not to notice, and when he went to refill his drink I was out the door in a flash. I jumped in my car and disappeared down an alley. I had lost him, and I hope that I never see him again.

Border Mexico is dangerous enough right now without mentioning the wrong names. We may have freedom of speech here, but that doesn’t mean that saying the wrong thing might not carry with it consequences–severe consequences.

© 2013 Michael Douglas Carlin. All Rights Reserved.

Life as a Mexican Federale

By Michael Douglas Carlin

There is a party over at the club. The who’s who of the power structure in Juarez is hanging out tonight. The bouncer at the door is dressed in civilian clothes but he is here protecting the interests of the Mexican Government and he has been assigned to his task by his chain of command in the Military. His job tonight is to make sure that none of the competing interests can get their guns inside. A survey of the room would be misleading because there are plenty of guns inside. Loaded revolvers, assault rifles, and machine guns lying around amidst the cocaine, marijuana, and booze that keeps the party roaring.

Lobo is a Federales who is frequently trusted with tremendous responsibility. Today he and the new guy, Gaspar, transported a shipment of millions of dollars that they deposited on a plane bound for Mexico City. Gaspar was full of questions. Lobo explained that the cold hard cash had been collected from the various merchants involved in illegal activities that can only exist under the protection of the Mexican Government. That protection comes with a price and every single official, including Lobo has received their taste of this money before they packed the suitcases that are now on their way to Mexico City. Gaspar was wide eyed when he got an envelope with ten one-hundred dollar bills.

Lobo asks Gaspar to wait in the car. He walks into the club and the bouncer acknowledges that Lobo is recognized and not subject to search. He has earned respect from his time as a Federales as well as his previous assignment in the Mexican State Police. Lobo comes with a reputation as a man who can be trusted to carry out orders and get things done. Juan “La Tortuga” has been here for a while, hanging out with Angel Robels Gonzales who is known as a crazy, stone cold, killer. 

“Ready for a road trip? Calderoni wants us to execute some warrants.”
“Andale Pues”

The four men are all in the car. The ride south is slightly tense because executing warrants can be tricky. The process is a gamble at best. It might be smooth sailing or it might be an outright gun battle.

Gaspar breaks the silence, “La Tortuga, what should we know about these warrants?”

“You should be ready for anything.”

“Who are we going after?”

Angel looks over, “Gaspar, you ask too many questions. Lobo is down for whatever. La Tortuga has his shell. He pulls his head in. He doesn’t hear anything. He moves slowly but deliberately.”

Juan chimes in, “what kind of a name is Gaspar anyway? We have to come up with a name for you on this trip.”

“Carnal, turn up here past that house, to the left.”

“Down that dirt road?” Gaspar can’t help himself, “who are we gunna find out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Again with the questions," as Angel shoots a glance.

Juan breaks the tension, “naugh, the warrants are for another time, we are gunna meet some people out here.”

They pull up to a group standing out in the middle of nowhere. Two vans, a fuel truck, a pick-up truck with a generator in tow all have stickers on their windshields that have an Bengal tiger insignia. The generator is on idle when the four climb out of the vehicle armed to the teeth with AK-47’s and back up pistols holstered. The generator is cranked up and lights are switched on. The dirt becomes a landing strip. The lights are on for only a few minutes before a plane touches down. Hundreds of kilos of cocaine are unloaded into the vans, the fuel truck refuels the plane and within a few minutes the lights are once again lit and the plane is back up in the air. This is a well-oiled machine because all of this happened in fifteen minutes, tops.

Gaspar asks, “where are we taking this?”

While Angel shakes his head he turns with a single fluid movement and shoots a few rounds from his AK that hit Gaspar, “I figured out your name… Metiche!” Everyone there hears this and watches Gaspar as he struggles to breathe but no one says a word and no one offers to help him.

The lights have been collected and everybody is loaded into their vehicles. The fuel truck and the pickup turn south but the vans turn north toward Juarez with their Federales escort. There will be no one stopping this shipment at any of the checkpoints. Gaspar is left behind in the field. The bullets didn’t kill him, curiosity did. His death will not be investigated. What would be the point? Everyone there who was an eyewitness to this murder will never speak directly about it. They were not really there, they didn't see a thing, and they don't remember anything. If they ever mention this it will only be to confirm what everybody in Mexico already knows; this is what happens to people who ask too many questions - especially the wrong questions.

Michael Douglas Carlin is a filmmaker, author, and journalist. American Federale is available on iTunes, Amazon, and GooglePlay. Rise a Knight is available on Amazon. Peaceful Protests and A Prescription For Peace is available on iTunes.

© 2000 – 2014 Michael Douglas Carlin. All rights reserved.