Kick Ass (14 page)

The Haitian blockade has international approval. A blockade of Cuba doesn’t, and wouldn’t. Not only would it violate the trading rights of neutral nations, it would generate more misplaced sympathy for Fidel.

More importantly, a blockade is an act of war. Not even Bob Dole wants a war with Cuba; too many Americans would die. The truth is that, short of sending troops, only so much can be done to destabilize Castro.

In the meantime, it’s insane not to protect our own borders. Stopping refugees at sea is a heartbreaking affair, but the alternative is to throw open the doors to every hungry soul in the Caribbeannot just Cubans and Haitians, but everybody.

Oh, we’ve got acres of open space

in Montana, Wyoming, Utah and Nevada. But Caribbean refugees tend to stay here in South Florida, and we’re already jammed to the gills with people.

Another Mariel would be catastrophic. Florida would be swamped, and Castro would get a new lease on life.

Gov. Lawton Chiles was right to demand fast federal action, and Clinton was right to begin intercepting rafters. The word will quickly spread in Cuba, and the number of those taking to the sea will begin to drop.

Among Clinton’s most venomous critics is the aptly named Newt Gingrich who, being from Georgia, has no firsthand experience with immigration problems. Newt says the new Cuba policy displays a “mixed morality.”

As usual, Newt’s confused. Mixed morality is imprisoning one group of economic refugees while welcoming others.

When Rep. Gingrich visits Guantanamo to show support for the Cubans detained there, perhaps he’ll find time to chat with some Haitians as well.

They’ll be the black ones, Newt. The ones you forgot about.

Protests create anger, gridlocknot friends

May 11, 1995

What a great idea for civil disobedience: Let’s block an expressway!

Brilliant. Let’s see how many thousands of working people we can tick off on a sweltering afternoon! Won’t that help the cause!

The plan is to call attention to the fate of 13 rafters returned to Cuba by the U.S. government. And Monday’s mess on State Road 836 did attract all the TV stations, as did Wednesday’s multiple street blockades.

What the protesters have failed to anticipate is the fierce backlash. An elementary rule of pro test: You don’t win public support by antagonizing the public.

Those stuck in a man-made traffic morass aren’t thinking about rafters or the implications of U.S. immigration policy.

They’re thinking: Where are the cops? Why aren’t these yahoos being hauled away?

They’re thinking: I’m late for work. I might lose my job.

I’m late for court. I’m late for a sales meeting. I’m late for a doctor’s appointment.

My children are waiting at the day-care center. My mother’s waiting at home for her medical prescription.

My baby’s in the car and it’s 95 degrees out here.

What do these people think they’re doing?

All over town, small numbers of Cuban-American protesters are staging “spontaneous” traffic blockages. Everyone else is out of patience. The havoc bred rancor, starting at the 836 tollbooth.

The public relations damage from such a brainless, inconsiderate stunt is incalculable. Those protesting President Clinton’s new Cuba policy are a minority who ought to be trying to win converts, not alienate those who might otherwise be sympathetic.

I was a long blessed way from the traffic jams, but I know how drivers felt. What a senseless tragedy if some elderly motorist, trapped between exits, had died from a heart attack or a stroke.

Nothing is gained by disrupting the lives and livelihoods of ordinary folks who had nothing to do with the Cuba deal. It’s infinitely more logical to hop a bus to Washington, B.C., and block traffic at the White House. Of course, the police there wouldn’t be quite so tolerant.

That’s the irony. Outside of Miami, hardly anybody in the country cares much about what’s happening in Cuba. Polls show that more Americans are upset about the admission of the Guantanamo refugees than about the new repatriation policy.

In fact, a WPLG-Channel 10 poll reveals similar feelings here in Dade, including a sharp division within the Cuban-American community. The last thing that protesters can afford to do is undermine their support here at home, but that’s what they do when they block traffic.

It’s reckless, pointless and counterproductive.

Civil demonstrations are a core part of American democracy, and of the Miami exile movement. Marches and rallies take place frequently, and are almost always well-organized and nonviolent.

On Tuesday, a couple of local politicians, to show support for the refugees, got themselves peacefully arrested outside the White House. That’s a tradition.

Another is the hunger strike, such as the one taking place outside the Herald. Equally irresistible to TV cameras, these protests make their pointand they make the 6 o’clock news.

Meanwhile, nobody’s day gets snarled. Nobody’s welfare is endangered. Nobody gets stuck in the hot sun. Nobody’s fuming and cursing. Nobody’s worried sick about their kids, their jobs or their doctor’s appointments.

There are many ways to keep the passion and anger in political demonstrations without provoking scorn and hostility.

All those motorists stranded by protests were plenty angry, but not at Bill Clinton or Fidel Castro.

Flotilla really empty vessel of exile protest

August 31, 1995

On Saturday, another flotilla sets sail for Cuba.

The best thing that could happen is that nothing will happen. The worst thing that could happen is that somebody decides to be a martyr.

Organizer Ramon Saul Sanchez has promised there will no repeat of July’s fiasco-at-sea, when flotilla vessels entered Cuba’s territorial waters and defied government patrols.

That confrontation ended when a flotilla craft was intentionally side-swiped by Cuban gunboatsan incident that caused an uproar in Dade County and deafening silence in the court of world opinion.

Scarcely a peep of protest against Fidel Castro was heard outside Miami. Many foreign governments plainly felt the Cuban president showed restraint in not blasting the seafaring intruders out of the water.

World leaders who care nothing for Castro’s regime will still defend Cuba’s sovereign right to protect its own borders. That’s why July’s flotilla excursion was an international flop.

This time Castro says he won’t be so patient with the exiles. Maybe he’s bluffing, maybe not.

Last month, flotilla supporters in private planes buzzed downtown Havana in a deliberate breach of Cuban air space. Since then, anti-aircraft batteries have been placed near the harbor.

I don’t care how good a pilot you are, a Cessna will only go so fast. Chuck Yeager himself wouldn’t fly one over a machine-gun nest. Then again, Yeager never fantasized about martyrdom.

Whether any would-be martyrs join Saturday’s flotilla is a big question. But if any protesters seriously think that getting themselves shot will galvanize the global community against Castro, they’re foolishly mistaken.

Ramon Saul Sanchez, who once favored paramilitary action against Havana, now advocates nonviolent strategies in pushing for a democratic Cuba.

Yet his July flotilla, billed as a solemn and peaceable ceremony, disintegrated into a taunt. Its reckless cat-and-mouse tactics nearly provoked Castro’s patrol commanders into unsheathing their heavy guns.

This time, Sanchez says, his boats won’t cross Cuba’s 12-mile territorial limit. But they will be carrying outboard-propelled inflatable rafts.

Twinkling with mischief, Sanchez won’t divulge the mission of the little rafts. Presumably, protesters intend to dart into Cuban waters and do somethingdrop leaflets, shoot off flares, moon the gunboats. Who knows what.

The rest of the world will only shake their heads and wonder what’s the point. The only one to gain from petty provocation is Fidel himself, who milks these moments for all they’re worth.

Here I am, minding my own business, when those darn Miami exiles show up in planes and boats, picking another fight …

But turn on the radio in Dade County and you’ll realize that, after 36 years, the mere act of annoying Castro is considered a great moral victory. It’s sad, like a little kid who stands outside the window, making faces until he finally gets your attention.

A genuine heartfelt protest is one thing, invigorating in its dignity. But a prank is just a prank.

Nothing that takes place this weekend off Havana will bring Cuba one bit closer to democracy, or push Castro one day closer to exile, or move the suffering Cuban people one step nearer to freedom.

As thrilling as it might be to provoke Fidel’s regime face to face, it accomplishes zero. The flotilla simply becomes a floating pep rally for one faction of the exile community and a dangerous pep rally at that.

In a battle against inflatable rafts, Castro’s gunboats won’t even need bullets. A knitting needle will do the job.

Immigration priorities are warped

January 8, 1998

Every kid who wants to get out of Cuba should be taking batting practice, because baseball is their best ticket to the United States.

Cuban pitcher Livan Hernandez defected and became a World Series hero. His half-brother Orlando escaped by boat to the Bahamas last week, and was promptly offered a humanitarian visa by U.S. officials. Soon he’ll be playing in the majors.

No other country can match our mania for professional sports and the way we idolize athletes. It’s an obsession that warps our immigration priorities, among others.

A Cuban jock has a better chance of getting into the United States than a Cuban doctor, engineer or schoolteacher does. That’s hard to justify, and one reason for the mixed reaction in South Florida to the special way Orlando Hernandez was treated.

No one disputes that El Duque, as he is known, was persecuted in Cubakicked off the national baseball team after Livan’s defection. Likewise, no one doubts that Orlando would have faced prison or other retribution from the Castro government had he been sent back.

That’s exactly what has happened to others who were not blessed with a 90 mph fastball.

Three years ago, the United States began repatriating Cuban rafters intercepted on their way to Florida, a move designed to deter another chaotic Mariel exodus. The policy shift was necessary and overdue.

For a long time the United States had used a double standard for Caribbean refugees, routinely turning away Haitian boat people while accepting most Cubans without question. Yet the dream they carried on their journeys was the same: to escape economic hardship caused by political repression.

The world is full of people in similar grim predicaments. The United States cannot absorb them all, but it makes room each year for a fixed number from each country.

Exceptions to the rules are commonly made for sports stars. Ballplayers are always welcome. So are tennis prodigies and ice dancers and champion weight lifters.

These aren’t political activists; they’re jocks looking for a payday. Nothing wrong with that. Unfortunately, the same opportunity cannot be promised to everyone who wants to come here. It’s just not possible.

Every year, 20,000 U.S. entry visas are offered in Havana, and the demand far outstrips the supply. El Duque turned down his special visa and is instead headed for Costa Rica, a move that allows him to negotiate more fruitfully with American baseball clubs. Soon he’ll be rich, and good for him.

But I can’t help thinking of a woman I met near Havana a few years ago. She lived in a small apartment with her husband, children and mother. Though she expressed no interest in moving to Miami, the woman had big-league credentials.

She couldn’t throw a slider, but she was as valuable as any athlete for whom we’ve rolled out the red carpet.

This woman was an eye surgeon. She specialized in caring for children and the elderly. For her skill and dedication, she was rewarded by the Cuban government with a salary equivalent to about $Ł a month.

In this country the woman would be wealthy, of course. In this country she could afford $Ł for a daiquiri.

Still, she didn’t speak of leaving Havana; she had her family and patients to think about.

But I’m wondering what would happen if she changed her mind; if she and her relatives ended up stranded on a Bahamian island, like Hernandez and his friends. I wonder whether anyone in Washington would make a fuss, or even notice.

I know visas are scarce, but maybe they’d let her use El Duque’s. If not her, then maybe somebody like her. Somebody without a sports agent leading them to freedom.[“#chapter_05”]

The War on Drugs

Justice deposes the ruling king of cocaine wars

June 4, 1985

Say farewell to one of Dade County’s most treacherous outlaws. His name is Conrado Valencia Zalgado, but he is better known as El Loco.

He was the original cocaine cowboya drug runner, machine gunner, bond jumper, high roller, master of disguise. In his prime, he made Pacino’s Scarface look like Tommy Tune, but now Conrado’s day is passed, his luck evaporated.

On May 22, a Dade County judge ordered El Loco to prison for the next century or so, thus closing a wild saga in our cavalcade of crime. For once, the good guys actually won.

Valencia was the bullet-headed, bare-chested maniac who hung from a speeding Audi and fired a submachine gun at rival coke peddlers on the Florida Turnpike Extension six years ago. When the cops caught up with the car, they found a dead Colombian named Jaime in the trunk.

Conrado, of course, professed total surprise.

Three months later, the late Jaime’s friends retaliated, blasting two of El Loco’s soldiers in the infamous Dadeland Massacre.

South Florida’s image never fully recovered from that summer of 1979, and the torrent of national publicity that followed. Those of us who covered the cocaine wars imagined Dodge City reborneach day seemed to bring a new atrocity, a new corpse (35 drug killings in one six-month stretch).

Along with their precious powder, the Colombians imported an astounding brand of violence. The crimes were almost impossible to solvesuspects and victims alike possessed an impenetrable array of fake names and phony passports. Among these alien gangsters, El Loco was a king.

After the turnpike shootout, he was charged with attempted murder and tossed in jail, but not for long. Conrado came up with the proverbial cash in a briefcase$105,000 to be exactposted bond and immediately disappeared.

He moved his family and his cocaine network to Los Angeles, where he became a laid-back Valley guy. He began calling himself Max, and cruised the Topanga Hills in a red 1948 DeSoto convertible (vanity tags, of course). He was having a swell time until some smart cops went through his garbage and found a phone bill with lots of calls to Miami.

From then on, El Loco’s days were numbered. One summer night in 1982, Conrado Valencia opened the door to a girlfriend’s apartment and wound up sucking on a gun barrel. A Los Angeles policeman was on the other end.

A few days later Metro-Dade detective Al Lopez and I went to California to see the legendary Loco. He was clanging around the Los Angeles County Jail in body manacles, and he was in a crummy mood. The cops out there had thrown the book at him; the cops back in Dade County were waiting their turn. El Loco didn’t want to talk. Not to me, not to Lopez, not to anybody.

A California judge gave Conrado 30 years in prison, and last month he returned to Miami to face, at long last, the charges from the Turnpike shootout. He was convicted swiftly and on May 22, acting Circuit Judge Norman Gerstein sentenced “Jose Ramon Ruiz” (one of Conrado’s many aliases) to 125 years.

Even if Loco escapes, which is always a possibility, he will find a different world awaiting him. The bloodiest era of the cocaine cowboys seems to be over, and flamboyant enforcers are less in demand. The word’s gotten back to South America: Low profile means more profit.

True, cocaine is more plentiful now than in the summer of 1979, but at least the malls and highways are a little safer. These days most drug killers are polite enough to do their work in private.

Maybe that’s the best we can hope for.

Adios, Conrado. Don’t bother to write.

Dade’s latest drug fight all wetpass it around

November 5, 1985

Everybody sing: Ninety-nine bottles ofon the wall, ninety-nine bottles of. Take one down, pass it around …

Congratulations, Dade County. No longer are we merely the Murder Capital of America; now we’re the Specimen Capital, too.

First it was a couple hundred Miami police, proudly lining up to give samples to prove they’re drug free. Not to be outdone, the Hialeah police followed suit. Next came the idea to test firefighters and even garbage collectors.

If they keep going at this rate, they’re going to need a tanker truck to haul all this stuff away.

Lester Freeman of the Miami Citizens Against Crime has come up with the nuttiest scheme of all: All 52 MCAC membersstaid bankers, lawyers, civic leaders, media honchosare to have their exalted urine screened for drugs this week.

Curiously, the results will be reported anonymously, no names attached.

So much for this week’s bizarre contribution to the national news: Miami’s most prominent citizens cheerfully urinating into a cup to prove they’re not whacked out on dope.

The point of this distasteful little charade? “A leadership demonstration,” they say.

This isn’t leadership, it’s vaudeville. Is there another place in the civilized world where the Catholic archbishop has to urinate into a cup to prove he’s clean?

As a member of MCAC, that’s what the Rev. Edward McCarthy is going to do this week. Talk about trying the Lord’s patience.

Who’d have expected such embarrassing publicity from the same folks so obsessed with purifying South Florida’s image? Welcome to Miami. Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled massesand how about some urine, while you’re at it.

True, this kind of drug testing has become quite the national rage. The military uses it, and major league baseball wants to make it mandatory.

But a preplanned mass urinalysis is nothing but a gross publicity stunt. It doesn’t prove you’re honest. It doesn’t prove you’re competent. It doesn’t even prove you’re drug-free.

All it proves is that you know how to hit a cup.

Experts have contended that this kind of assembly-line testing can be unreliable, error-prone and unfair.

“The issue has become preposterous,” says Dr. John P. Morgan of the Mount Sinai School of Medicine in New York. “It’s like hunting Communists.”

Dr. Morgan, who has written and testified extensively on mass urinalysis, says the most common type of test is flawed by “stunningly high false-positive results.” The odds of a mistake are frequently compounded, he says, by incompetent lab work.

“God forbid you take the sample and mix it up with somebody else’s. Or suppose you mismark one of the cups,” adds Erich Gressmann, a toxicologist at the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office.

No wonder the MCAC doesn’t want its members’ names on these jars. There’d be hell to pay if Frank Borman’s specimen somehow got mixed up with that of, say, rock musician David Crosby.

Even if the urine test is done correctly, it might show that you haven’t snorted cocaine during the last 48 hours, or smoked a joint in a couple weeks, or dropped diazepam since yesterday morning. And that’s all it shows.

And nobody in their right minds (Chuck Muncie being the possible exception) is going to voluntarily give a urine sample while he’s flying high.

Mass urine testing is no way to get rid of crooked cops, and it’s certainly no way for South Florida’s civic pillars to demonstrate “leadership.”

If they’re so darn proud, maybe they ought to take the test in public. They could rent the Miami Beach Convention Hall, charge admission, maybe auction off a few celebrity specimens.

Call it Bladder-Mania.

Everybody sing …

‘Cocaine’ tea has bitter taste of controversy

January 13, 1986

As I write this, I’m wired to the gills on cocaine. Speeding like a bug-eyed banshee. Flying first-class on the David Crosby Express.

That’s what urinalysis shows.

The only trouble is, I haven’t touched any cocaine. Not a single toot. Is the test wrong? Technically, no.

But it’s not right, either. Here’s what happened and why it illustrates a hazard of drug-testing mania.

Last week you probably heard about Health IncaTea, a Peruvian product sold in health food stores. Health Inca is an herbal tea made from coca leaves. “Just one cup leaves you feeling up,” the box promises. The leaves are purportedly “decocainized” to remove the cocainethe same process used for Coca-Cola.

However, the Journal of the American Medical Associationrecently reported that Health Inca Tea was not cocaine-free, and that traces of the drug turned up in urine samples of 36 tea drinkers.

The amount was quite small and not considered harmful for normal persons (Andean dwellers have been chewing coca leaves for centuries with no ill effects). But, as you might expect, some stooge in California drank 80 tea bags’ worth of Health Inca and complained of “severe agitation.” Surprise, surprise.

The reaction to the journal article was predictable.The DBA and FDA immediately announced plans to reassess the legality of Health IncaTea, and wholesalers yanked crateloads out of circulation. Meanwhile, health food stores were inundated by consumers who generously offered to buy up all remaining coca tea bags (no doubt to keep them from the hands of impressionable youngsters).

The controversy was too crazy to pass up. The other day I bought one of the last boxes of Health IncaTea from Beehive Natural Foods in South Miami. Dr. Lee Hearn, a well-known Miami toxicologist and drug expert, offered to test my urine after I drank the tea.

Honestly, this is not great stuff. My sister remarked that it smells like old lawn cuttings, and the taste is not dissimilar. The only way to choke it down is with honey.

Last Tuesday I drank less than two ounces. A day later I stopped by Dr. Hearn’s lab to give a urine samplesure enough, the test revealed minute but detectable traces of a cocaine metabolite.

The big experiment began: On Wednesday I drank five cups between 8:30 P.M. and 11:30 P.M. That’s 35 ounces of tea. God hasn’t invented the bladder that can hold 35 ounces of hot tea, so it was a long night.

According to the journal report, each tea bag contains 4.8 milligrams of cocaine. Five tea bags are roughly equivalent to one line of street cocaine.

After the first cup, I felt slightly peppy and that’s all. Pulse: normal. Frankly, I get more of a buzz from a can of Pepsi.

Even after five cups I wasn’t exactly hanging from the ceiling by my fingernails. I wasn’t grinding my teeth. I wasn’t paranoid and I wasn’t euphoric. I wasn’t even doing my party impression of Robin Leach.

What I was, was bloated. Slept like a log. Pulse: normal.

The experiment continued: Thursday, 6 A.M. Groggily I aimed for the little bottle. Then the ultimate etiquette question of the 1980s: Exactly how does one carry a urine sample?

I tried an inside pocket of my coat, but then I thought: What if I get in a messy car accident? People will think I’m bleeding this stuff.

Next I tried the glove compartment, but then I thought: What if the top of the bottle comes unscrewed? It would ruin my new ZZTop tape, not to mention the auto warranty.

So I put the sample in my briefcase, which contains nothing of value, and drove to Toxicology Testing Service. On Friday Dr. Hearn called with the news: “A good strong positive.”

Under both the common EMIT drug screen and the more sophisticated gas chromatography mass spectrometry, my urine tested positive. It showed cocaine and two related substances, benzoylecgonine and methylecgonine, the latter in such concentration that the test went off the scale, Dr. Hearn said.

“There was a bunch of cocaine,” he said. “We found a complete pattern of someone who uses cocaine

a very high positive.”

Except that all I had was coca tea, a legal product, purchased and consumed legally.

“It’s not decocainized,” Dr. Hearn asserted. The amount of cocaine in Health IncaTea probably isn’t enough to get you high, he said, adding, “The only thing it can do is get you in trouble.”

Why? Because many companies and branches of the military automatically fire, discharge or refuse to hire anyone whose urine shows benzoylecgonine. Courts, employers and DUI prosecutors have long recognized this as proof that someone has used illicit cocaine.

But, as shown, that’s not necessarily so.

An expert witness in many drug trials, Dr. Hearn had never heard of Health IncaTea before last week. Most drug labs hadn’t. It isn’t known how many other such products are floating around.

Dr. Hearn plans more tests on the Health Inca brand. When he called the health food store to order a box, the price had jumped from $7 to $24the true spirit of free enterprise!

I told my boss that I failed the drug test but he refused to fire me, even though it would have made a better ending to the column.

The real ending is not so funny.

With consternation Dr. Hearn described the current case of a U.S. Air Force man in Panama. The Air Force wants to dump him because his urine tested positive for cocaine. All along, the serviceman has insisted that he’s never used the drug.

What he has done, he says, is drink a blend of coca tea, purchased regularly (and legally) at a small Panama shop.

Last week Dr. Hearn called Air Force investigators and told them to go find a box of that tea.

This time it’s not a lark. This time a man’s career is at stake.

TV drug raids rated a ‘G’for goofy

December 5, 1986

The other night, while watching Geraldo Rivera attempt his now-famous undercover TV drug deal, I found myself sort of wishing that some crazed doper would do us all a favor and shoot him.

Not kill him or anything truly seriousmaybe just a flesh wound to the buttocks, though the irony of such an injury would have been lost on most viewers.

In case you missed the action, Rivera hosted a two-hour documentary that included live drug busts from several cities, including Pompano Beach and Miami. The audience got to see real-life footage of cops pulling their guns, busting down crack-house doors, handcuffing squirming suspects and seizing relatively minuscule amounts of dope.

I can’t say it wasn’t excitingdrug raids are. Whether staging one for a national television audience is smart law enforcement or self-serving hokum is another matter.

In Houston, for example, the big take was less than a gram of cocaine and an ounce of grass; on the positive side, a reporter there says it was the first time in recent memory that the sheriff had bothered to show up at a crime scene.