The Coke Machine - Michael Blanding [90]
As Cardona waited, he says, a white Toyota minibus pulled up. Seeing the face of the driver, Cardona went numb. Around Urabá, that car was known as the “Pathway to Heaven.” People got in and never got out. Oh my God, they are going to kill me, he thought, eyes quickly darting from side to side in an attempt to find some line of escape. That was when he saw the two men who had shot Gil coming out of the shop. “Hey, man, you come with me,” one of them said. Cardona began to move in the direction he indicated, looking to put a little distance between himself and the minibus.
When he had a little opening, he took it. “Catch me if you can!” he yelled, starting to sprint down the street in the direction of the police station two blocks away. Expecting bullets to hit him any moment, he saw a banana waste truck parked up on the sidewalk next to a billiards hall, and ducked behind it. He watched as Caliche parked his motorcycle on the opposite side of the truck --between him and the police station—sending another man around the back. At that moment, El Diablo ran again, narrowly skirting by Caliche as he tried to grab his shirt. “Son of a bitch!” Cardona screamed, running down the street in a zigzag pattern so he’d be more difficult to shoot. “Why are you running?” yelled a startled friend as he careened past. “Can’t you see, these sons of bitches are going to kill me!” he screamed back as he ran for the safety of the police station.
Meanwhile at the plant, the union leaders waited in vain for their friend to return. Finally, word came that he had been seen at his house escorted by police, staying just long enough to get a suitcase. (He eventually fled to Bogotá, and later the United States, where he currently lives in asylum in Detroit.) As the unionists took in this information, a company representative emerged to say Bebidas would buy plane tickets for anyone who wanted to leave town tomorrow. As they dispersed to spend a sleepless night, the paramilitaries were busy breaking into the union hall in a cramped neighborhood across town. They grabbed the typewriter and petty cash before burning the hall to the ground.
The next day, a friend appeared at the hiding place of union president Hernán Manco, to summon him to La Ceiba before he could go to the airport. He went to the soda shop resigned to die. As he climbed the stairs, the gate rattled shut behind him. Sitting at a table in the dark bar was Cepillo. “That kid was murdered at the plant because of you,” said Cepillo. “The burning of the union hall was because of you. Tomorrow we are going to have a meeting at the plant,” he continued. “Anyone who doesn’t want to resign, well, we’re not responsible for what happens.” Addressing Manco directly, he added, “Since you are the president of the union, I don’t ever want to see you again.”
Manco didn’t need to hear more. He and Giraldo headed to the airport to fly to Bogotá along with several other executive committee members. The rest of the workers assembled at the plant the next day to find the yard full of paramilitaries, including Caliche. They passed out prepared resignation letters, and one by one the workers signed them. In all, forty-five members signed letters or fled town. The union was finished.
The destruction of the union in Carepa wasn’t an isolated occurrence—at least not in the minds of the union leaders. “From the beginning Coca-Cola took a stand to not only eliminate the union but to destroy its workers,” says Javier Correa, SINALTRAINAL’s national president, speaking in the union’s Bogotá headquarters. Short and serious with short-cropped dark hair, he talks in almost a monotone, a stoic expression on his pock-marked