The Beast (27 page)

He takes us to the Mariposa arroyo, a bed of dry dirt that’s the only open pathway in these parts for crossing over to the United States. Both sides of the creek end in coffee-colored hills and valleys that continue steadily and in uniform as far as the eye can see. From here we can spot the last sections of the wall and the start of an area so rugged it’s unnavigable, even by an ATV.

In a quarter hour we get a decent look at the stage and have even met a few of the actors. A black Suburban pulls up and fifteen migrants, their
pollero
, and a drug mule get out. All of them are following the same route. They’re going to a small town, Río Rico, which is a three-night trek away. A US Border Patrol officer watches the movement from behind the wall, and from the top of one of the brown hills on this side of the line two narco hawks watch the patrol. Today is a load-carrying day. Everyone against everyone, migrants caught in the middle.

Migrants tend to walk these dry, crumbling lands until they get to the hill, El Cholo, and from there they duck into the desert, leaving the best roads open to the narco-scouts. Grupo Beta has to search these inhospitable expanses to find the bodies of those abandoned along the way—migrants who’ve died of starvation or who were shot by bandits, as well as any bandits shot by narcos.

“It’s impossible to know how many have died here,” Commander Henríquez says. “Sometimes, because animals eat the flesh, we only find skulls.”

~

We’ve quickened our pace. The border repeats itself down the line. In about four hours of highway driving we’ll get to Agua Prieta, Sonora. That’s the closest point to Juárez, the most violent city in the world.
²
Agua Prieta is where all of the migrant routes on the western side of Mexico end. It has the most scattered and quickly tightening funnels. Beyond that, there’s only Palomas left, with its small suburb, Las Chepas, but because the cartels of that area have been in perpetual war for the past two years both towns have been abandoned as crossing points.

There’s a rule in these parts for the coyotes: Juárez might be close, but it’s off limits. There are simply no migrants crossing on foot anywhere near Juárez anymore. In the best case, a lucky migrant can get away with paying $3,600 for a fake visa and a ride to El Paso. That’s if Border Patrol’s laser technology doesn’t detect them first. It’s advance payment only and, of course, there’s no guarantee.

Agua Prieta is not quite a town and not quite a city. It hasn’t stopped being the one, and is just starting to become the other. It’s full of one-story houses that look built for a Hollywood stage set, with shops that sell only cowboy boots and billboards picturing tough-guy laborers with cigarettes hanging off their lips, amid neon-lit nightclubs and horse-drawn carts ambling between cars on the two-lane streets.

In the late 1990s, laborers would go over to Douglas for a day of work and be back in Mexico by six in the evening, in time for dinner with their families. Mexicans knew Border Patrol agents and would greet them as they walked by. Now there’s a wall with metal bars over two yards high, surveillance cameras,
and flood lights. No one waves to anyone. Instead people are caught.

According to Grupo Beta, until two years ago Agua Prieta was characterized by its coyotes guiding large migrant groups. When coyotes caught wind of the growing number of Border Patrol facilities in the area, they rushed to cross large groups all at once, knowing that soon they’d have to face what so many others were starting to face along different routes. They were like cowboys feeling a storm approaching, galloping to bring the cattle in.

Two Border Patrol officers outside of Douglas apprehended a group of eighty migrants walking across the prairie in late 2008. Ten vans were needed to take them to the detention center, escorted by a helicopter and a troop of officers on horseback, making sure no one escaped back into the desert.

Then the arrangement started to crumble because of two events, one that happened four months ago, the other only three. The first was when a van, while trying to escape, failed to clear a ramp that was set resting against the border wall and got stuck, dangling on the edge of the wall. The patrol crew complied with the rule they had been given: if it’s not the mafia, it’s not anyone. They lit the van on fire and shot into the air as the people inside fled.

The second event was when two drug mules were detained by a Border Patrol officer who took them for migrants, and didn’t ask for backup. He got out of his car fingering his gun. One of the drug mules grabbed the pistol that the agent had left in the passenger seat. He fired into the air, disarmed the agent, ridiculed him, and fled with the agent’s weapons. The agent was later discharged for violating protocol, for being over-confident. And then Washington got yet another letter from the Douglas sector, requesting forty more officers, who now patrol the area.

It’s five-thirty in the evening and we pass by a crossing point some seven miles from Agua Prieta, known as the green bridge. Again, dry brown hills and plains full of thorn bushes. We’re 200 yards
from the military checkpoint on the highway, hidden from the soldiers by the curve in the road.

Suddenly, one by one, fifteen migrants and their
pollero
show up. They quickly gain distance from the checkpoint and crowd into the thickets. In a few minutes, another group of twenty-four runs to catch up with the first. Five minutes later another group shows up, this time thirty strong. All of them jog rigidly, like a military garrison. They don’t pay us any mind, but we watch them until we can only see what looks like ants trudging up a distant hill. Eventually they’ll take cover and wait for nightfall.

Here are three different groups, each with their
pollero
, out to take advantage of the last quickly fading rays of light. They run, trying to evade the military closing in on them. They get so close to the agents they almost crawl inside their noses, risking being extorted or detained. That’s the only way to avoid narcos and bandits.

But they break all the rules that a good
pollero
would follow: don’t take a group larger than eight; don’t travel with other groups; give them at least a day’s worth of walking space; don’t get too close to the military; and the best route is the one least taken by others. But today’s border isn’t fit for following rules. The only rule now is to hurry, before the wall closes altogether and only leaves space for the narcos. It doesn’t matter that Border Patrol agents are waiting up ahead and that they’ve probably already seen you. Nothing matters except running, running like someone trying to reach a slowly closing door. There’s nothing to do but run.

1
Minerva is the officer’s code name. All municipal and federal officials work under a code name.

2
According to both Mexican and US news sources, violence in Juárez has considerably dropped since. See Jesse Hyde, “ ‘The Broken Windows’ Theory Worked in Juárez”
Atlantic
, March 26, 2013,
theatlantic.com/international/archive/2013/03/the-broken-windows-theory-worked-in-juarez/274379/
and Lorena Figueroa, “Juárez Now Ranked 19th Most Violent City”
El Paso Times
, February 8, 2013,
elpasotimes.com/juarez/ci_22545964/ju-225-rez-now-ranked-19th-most-violent
.

10
The Narco Demand: Sonora

After visiting this city for the third time, I’ve only now started feeling comfortable. It wasn’t easy finding the principal migrant- and drug-crossing zones the first few times. Two cartels were fighting to control the passage, but then one of the cartels won, and everything changed. Now people at least know which bosses to ask permission from to approach the border. Now the undocumented know how much and who to pay. And now the coyotes know, because it’s still fresh in their memory, what the consequences are of slipping up. Even though it’s more expensive these days, it’s a lot simpler and more peaceful when there’s only one cartel in command
.

The last time we talked, he was trembling. Nineteen months ago when we met in the hotel room he had hand-picked, Mr. X was shaking, his voice was cracking, and every few seconds he’d glance at the closed blinds, hoping he wouldn’t glimpse the shadow of a man with a machine gun. But not today. Today he’s not shaking, nor is he jumping at every noise or asking repeatedly if I work for the narcos. He’s calm, even smiling.

When I first met him he made me go through a process that seemed overkill for a tiny border town like Altar. He had instructed me to come alone, arrive at nine on the dot, and then knock three times on the door before we could talk for thirty minutes. After our talk, he told me to get in his car so he could drop me off at a street behind a church. Not until he drove away should I begin to
walk toward my hotel. This was what Mr. X made me go through back in May 2007.

Today our meeting is at the same time, nine at night, and again we’ll meet in a hotel room, but this time that’s all there is to it. Meet and talk.

Outside of the hotel, Roman candles are lit and firecrackers explode in celebration of the Virgin of Guadalupe Day. I watch Mr. X get out of his truck. When he takes off his thick brown coat I see his black norteña-style shirt with flashy buttons and gold embroidery on the sleeves. He enters the room and surprises me by calmly asking, “How are we gonna dance this time?”

“You should know,” I say. “I want to talk about the same thing we talked about last time. About migrants and their situation with the narcos. I’d like to get an idea of how things have changed in the past year.”

The last time we talked, more than a year ago, he was jumping at shadows, mistaking them for assassins. Just before we met there had been a mass kidnapping of 300 Mexican and Central American migrants. They were holed up in a narco ranch not far from the border. Nobody except for the priest, Prisciliano Peraza, knew anything of their whereabouts. Prisciliano negotiated the release of 120 migrants with an unnamed narco. Most of them were beaten black and blue and had had their ankles broken by a bat. “Of the rest of them,” the other 180, the priest later told me, “I don’t know a thing. They refused to give them up.”

The 120 were released by the truckload. And all of them soon got lost, fled back to their houses or to other border towns where they wouldn’t be recognized. Nobody filed a single report. No official denouncement was made. And nobody ever learned the fate of the 180 left back at the ranch.

This is how it works: if a narco (one of the unnamed narcos) doesn’t want to give up 180 migrants, he doesn’t give them up. That’s it. That’s how the game plays out.

THOSE WHO KNOW DON
’
T TREMBLE

Mr. X knows a lot about how the dirty work gets done in Altar. He’s someone who since he was eight years old, in order to survive, has tried his hand at everything. He isn’t a narco. Despite looking like one, with his big truck and gold embroidery on the cuffs of his black shirt, he really isn’t a narco. All the same, the deal we made back in May 2007 is that I wouldn’t reveal who he was, what job he had, where he was from, what he looked like, how I found him, or anything at all about anything he does. “Anything about anything,” that’s how he put it. We agreed to baptize him as Mr. X.

On that day in 2007, narcos kidnapped a whole bunch of migrants who were traveling on various buses and vans heading toward the small, nearly hidden desert town of El Sásabe. The town, which is now a primary crossing point for the undocumented, sprawls right in front of the nearly ten-mile-long wall the US government began building in late 2007.

The migrants were kidnapped because it was to be a high-traffic day for drug crossing, a day of fat loads or
paquetes bien ponchados
, as they say around here, and they were sick of migrants heating up their turf. Drug mules, almost always young men between sixteen and twenty-eight years old, are in charge of carrying forty pounds of marijuana on foot to a particular stretch in the Arizona desert, where another employee picks up the packs for distribution to vendors in the ultimate drug market: The Northern Giant, or, as they say in Mexico and Central America,
El Gabacho
. The USA. A drug mule makes $1,500 per journey of two or three nights.

Getting the place hot—or fucking it up—means attracting the Border Patrol or the Mexican army. When they turn up it’s not to ask questions but to start shooting. The last battle was just a month ago, when the army and the narcos went at each other right near the turnoff to El Sásabe. Two of the drug mules are now behind bars at the Nogales penitentiary, three hours from Altar.

What gets narcos angry is that migrants attract enough attention to force authorities to look like they’re doing something about
a situation that, as long as no one heats the place up, happens daily without anyone blinking.

Mr. X sits on a bed in front of a closet mirror with his boots propped over the brown tile floor. Now he gets that I want to talk about the same things as last time, and I wait for him to start quaking.

“Sure,” he says, “lay it on.”

He’s still, calm. We start talking. He doesn’t answer with the truncated short phrases I remember. He seems to be a whole new Mr. X.

“I remember,” I said, laying it on, “that drug traffickers charged van drivers 500 pesos per migrant to go to El Sásabe, and that the tax was forked out by migrants. I remember that if any driver lied about the number of people he had with him, a narco would burn their trucks, sometimes kidnap their people, and force them to sneak across drug loads. I remember seeing three burned vans on the dirt road going to El Sásabe. Is it still like that?”

“Yeah,” he answers, locking my gaze.

“I was told this afternoon that narcos are thinking of raising the tax.”

“Look, when they hit, they hit. And in this business that’s what they do. They’ve already planted the fear and locked in their fee, which is how it’s going to stay. That’s how it is everywhere, they’re demanding fees, it’s just that here the price is locked. So now van drivers have more peace. They say it’s better this way, that the rules are clear, that they know what to do. They know they have to pay
los mascaritas
, and they pay them.” He readjusts himself on the bed, remaining cool.