To Die in Mexico: Dispatches From Inside the Drug War (14 page)

Now with permission, they drive up closer. Eduardo films the roadblock from various angles while Rafael talks with the police commander, who begins to speak with what might appear uncharacteristic candor for the police.

“Look, what we want is to get the Zetas the fuck out of here,” he says. “All they do is commit barbarities among the civilian population, and we don’t want them here.”

But this is still in code. Rafael begins to understand. The police are working with the Gulf Cartel. The roadblock is to either stop Zeta gunmen from entering Reynosa, or if overpowered, to tip off the CDG about any Zeta convoy arrivals. The gun battles raging in Reynosa are part of an open war between the Gulf Cartel and the Zetas, their former employees, fighting for control over the
plaza
. Just the other day Rafael had seen a
narcomanta
, a huge banner hung from an overpass that read:
THE UNION OF CARTELS IS NOW HERE TO ELIMINATE THE
ZETAS. AUTHORITIES, WE ASK THAT YOU NOT GET INVOLVED. VENOM
MUST BE FOUGHT WITH VENOM
. The police commander made clear that they were complying with the Gulf Cartel’s request, maintaining roadblocks on the outskirts of town, and leaving the gun battles to the CDG.

Rafael and Eduardo have been in Reynosa for five days and they have stayed in five different hotels. Rafael gets up in the morning of the sixth day and checks his email. He has a message describing how a local reporter was taken to the hospital the previous night because he had fallen into a “diabetic coma,” but it turns out he had severe wounds all over his body from a beating. He died at the hospital, shortly after being admitted. Another email says that two reporters with Reynosa’s largest daily paper,
El Mañana de Reynosa
, are missing. Rafael writes down the names of these three reporters in his notebook and starts to call around. He finds the name and number for the deceased reporter’s wife and calls her. She says, “I can’t talk to you right now; I can’t give you an interview. We are on our way to Tampico to bury my husband.” He calls the editorial desk at
El Mañana de Reynosa
to ask for the two journalists reported missing. He does not mention their possible disappearance, but simply asks for them by name. The receptionist says, “No, they haven’t come in yet.”

Rafael checks his email again and sees that people are starting to send Twitter messages about a gunfight in a neighborhood in Reynosa. Rafael says, “Well, let’s go look for this gunfight, no? See if we can get some images of what has happened.” They go out to their rental car, a red Volkswagen Jetta with Coahuila plates, and head out. They changed rental cars the day before after hearing rumors that a convoy of Zetas had arrived in town from Coahuila state. They had been driving an SUV with Coahuila plates and decided it would be best to get a different car. Unfortunately all the vehicles at the rental agency had Coahuila plates, but at least a red Jetta would not immediately look like a satellite unit from a Zeta death squad.

They get in the car and head out toward the neighborhood where the Twitter messages had reported the shoot-out. They are driving through downtown, Eduardo at the wheel, Rafael checking Twitter on his mobile. They stop at a major intersection and look up to see a CDG convoy pass right in front of them. About seven Suburban-type SUVs traveling at top speed with armed men hovering in the windows. They decide to go straight and then turn right two blocks up ahead. But as they turn they see the convoy parked alongside an outdoor public square, right there in front of them. The men are out of their vehicles, putting on their bulletproof vests, loading their assault rifle clips, preparing for battle. Rafa and Eduardo drive on, but they notice that the men are watching them. And then they hear a whistle and a shout, “Go get them!”

Eduardo speeds up and turns. Then he floors it and turns again. And then an SUV passes them and cuts them off. Eduardo brakes and five men jump out wearing bulletproof vests and aiming AR-15 assault rifles. They shout, “Get out of the car! Get the fuck out, assholes!”

Rafael says to Eduardo, “We’re fucked.” Then they get out.

One gunman says, “What are you fucks up to, eh?”

Rafael holds his press credential out and says, “We’re reporters.”

The men surround them and take their press credentials. One says, “Get in the truck. We’ll take your car. Give me the keys.”

Eduardo gives him the keys and they get in. Rafael notices the plush leather seats.

The gunmen tear off, back to the parked convoy. Two follow in the red Jetta. Traffic parts around them. One says to Rafael and Eduardo, “You guys are done. We’re going to fuck you up.”

They pull up and park. Gunmen approach on both sides and open the doors, forcing Rafael and Eduardo out on each side. They frisk them and remove all their belongings: wallets, notebooks, and mobile phones, which they turn off. Another group of gunmen begins to extract everything from the red Jetta, opening the glove compartment, the trunk, checking under the hood, gathering their computers, backpacks, cameras, everything. The gunmen ask if they have a satellite-tracking device in the car, and they say no.

Once the gunmen take all their possessions they force Rafael and Eduardo to get back in the SUV, each sitting on one side facing their interrogators, who stand gathered around the doors, weapons pointed straight at them. The gunmen all wear bulletproof vests with
CDG
stitched over the chest. They carry extra clips for their guns and some have grenades hanging from their vests; some carry radio equipment. All carry AR-15 assault rifles and most also have a 9mm pistol strapped to their thighs.

A thick man, about five feet nine inches tall, with a flame tattoo on his neck, stands before Rafael. He carries only an AR-15. A thinner man stands guard slightly behind him with an AR-15 ready and a pistol in its holster.

The interrogation begins.

“Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here?”

Rafael answers, “We are reporters for Milenio TV in Mexico City.”

“Where are you from?”

Eduardo answers, “I’m from Mexico City,” and the gunman with rage in his eyes standing before him says, “Ah? Chilango?” and begins to hit him in the face and body.

Rafael, from a northern state known for drug production and trafficking, lets the question slide and luckily the gunman with the flame tattoo does not pursue it.

“What are you doing here,” he asks Rafael.

“We came to report on the Twitter account that City Hall has opened to inform residents about the gun battles.”

“Bullshit.”

And here the comandante arrives, the boss of this troop. Rafael sees him and thinks, “This guy’s a Rambo, a Blackwater mercenary.” Like the others, the comandante wears a bulletproof vest and a 9mm pistol on his thigh. He holds an AR-15 assault rifle, but he uses two
huevos del toro
, ammo drums capable of holding up to 150 rounds. The comandante’s arms are hugely muscular. On one arm he has a tattoo of a woman’s silhouette. He wears black combat boots and fatigues and a military haircut.

“What are you doing here?” the comandante demands. “You guys are Zetas.”

“We’re reporters,” Rafael begins to answer.

“No, you guys are federal police. You guys are soldiers, you’re from the army. You’re here to betray us. But you know what? We’re going to give you the opportunity to tell us the truth.”

“We are telling you the truth. We’re reporters from Mexico City here to cover this story.”

And with that the beating begins. The comandante walks over to the other side of the SUV where they are beating Eduardo. The thick gunman with the tattooed neck beats Rafael. Punches to the face. Slaps to the face. Open palm slaps over the ears. Punches using the side of the fist against the neck, hitting the carotid artery.

“What are you doing here? Tell us the truth! You’re lying!”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“Hand me the nine. This guy doesn’t get it,” the gunman says to the man standing behind him. “Hand me the nine, I left mine back at the house.”

He takes the pistol, chambers a bullet, and presses it into Rafael’s ribs.

“Tell me the truth or you will die right here, asshole.”

“I’m telling you the truth. We are reporters, believe me sir,” Rafael says. “There are our IDs and press credentials. On the back is the phone number for the news desk. Call and confirm that we were sent here from Mexico City. Please.” Rafael’s voice shakes and cracks.

“Why is your voice cracking, asshole?”

“Because you’ve got a pistol pressed into me and you’re threatening me,” Rafael answers with the precision of a trained reporter.

The gunman raises the pistol and slams the stock down against Rafael’s knee. Again. And Again. “You guys are a bunch of pansy-ass bitches,” he says.

The comandante walks back over to Rafael’s side and flips through Rafael’s notebook. “Why do you have the telephone numbers for the public security chief in Reynosa?” he asks.

“Because I wanted to interview him.”

Rafael looks at the comandante when he answers him. A mistake.

“What the fuck are you looking at punk? Don’t look at my face!”

Rafael quickly looks down.

“What is up with these names?” he asks, seeing the names of the disappeared journalists Rafael had written down that morning. “What do you want to know? Why do you have these names here?”

“Well, those are the names of some journalists that friends gave me to contact for information since I don’t know the situation here,” Rafael answers, not wanting to mention that he had heard reports of their disappearance.

“No, these guys are up to no good. Fuck ’em up, handcuff ’em and ice ’em,” the comandante says. “Take these guys and ice ’em.”

They put black hoods over their heads. They handcuff Eduardo, but can’t find a second pair for Rafael. The gunmen get in the backseat with them, close the doors and drive. Now Rafael knows he will die. This is when he loses hope. He is a dead man waiting only for the last moments. He thinks, “Holy fuck. We’re screwed.” He stares into the pitch darkness of the thick hood placed over him: “This is all that follows; nothing, permanent black and that’s it. I hope they don’t torture me and that they leave my body in a public place. The fucking anguish of families that live with having someone disappeared; that kills families. I hope they leave my body where it can be found.”

A call to the gunmen’s radio pierces his thoughts; he hears a voice say, “Tell them to get them down!” And hands force his head down into his lap and he feels the barrel of a gun press into the back of his skull. But Rafael is a dead man now and thus is no longer ruined by fear. He starts to listen to the gunmen’s radio communications. He hears calls coming in from other CDG gunmen reporting on the locations of both army and Zetas convoys, and reporting on their own movements throughout the city.

The drive does not take long, five or seven minutes. They stop. Rafael hears a large door opening, and then they drive though and the door closes. The gunmen take them out and sit them down in chairs. And the interrogation begins again. Where are you from? What are you doing here? Are you soldiers? Are you Zetas? Tell the truth! If you don’t tell the truth you will die.

Eduardo begins to fidget. The handcuffs have cut off the circulation to his hands.

“Stop moving, bitch!” And someone kicks Eduardo in the stomach.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Who are you?”

“We are reporters,” Rafael says.

“Bullshit! You are soldiers.”

“We are reporters,” Rafael repeats.

“No, you are Zetas. You’re federal police. You’ve come to turn us in.”

Rafael knows that the voices he hears through the hood can disappear him there in the house and no one would ever know what happened. Rafael feels like he is talking to God. The voices have all the power to kill, release, torture, or whatever else they may feel like doing with them. He only speaks when spoken to. He only answers those questions put to him directly and then he answers precisely, truthfully, without sarcasm or aggression, without unsolicited information.

The comandante asks, “Who is Rafael?”

“I am.”

“You’re the smart one, right? You’re the one in charge?”

“No, sir, I am a reporter.”

“No, you’re the tough motherfucker they send all over the place, right? You go wherever there’s action, right?”

“No, sir.” Rafael thinks of responding, “No sir, I’m the idiot who says yes and accepts the assignment,” but he holds back.

The comandante asks, “Who is this general?”

“I don’t know,” Rafael responds, “I can’t see.”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot. Who is this general?”

“Let me see.” They lift his hood and Rafael sees the comandante holding Rafael’s camera out to him with a photograph of an army general on the screen. Rafael does not look at the comandante’s face.

“That is the general in charge of the November 20 military parade. I interviewed him before the parade.”

Eduardo keeps moving involuntarily, adjusting his hands, his arms, his back, trying to release the pressure in his wrists, but also trembling all over. A gunman shouts, “Why are you shaking punk?” Eduardo says, “Because I am afraid.”

One of the gunmen going through Rafael’s things speaks up from across the room. “This guy has a whole fuck of a lot of shit on his computer,” he says, “documents from the Attorney General’s office, army documents, he’s got photos of Beltrán Leyva.”

“Why,” the comandante asks, “do you have photos of Beltrán Leyva?”

“Because I went to cover the operation. I am assigned to cover security issues. They sent me and I went.”

“So you are the badass they send all over the place?”

“No.”

The comandante and his soldiers continue to look through Rafael’s computer, camera, and notebook and talk amongst themselves. Then they pick up a radio and call, “Hey, we’ve got two reporters here who say they’re from Mexico City, from Milenio or whatever the fuck.” They wait for the response and it comes.

The comandante turns back to them, “How much did you have in your wallet?”