The Devils Highway - Luis Alberto Urrea [90]
The secretary comes back in and notes the woman is crying.
“Oh!” she says. “We’ve upset you.” She sits and says, “Señora, you must forgive us. We deal with death so often in here that we forget. We forget, you see. We’re indelicate. If you don’t work here, death still means something to you.”
She smiles as she collects the files. The chief comes back in and takes the grieving woman by the arm.
“Let’s get your man,” he says.
The files go on the shelf; a stack of newer files is dislodged and falls over. It is almost dark now. The secretary pats her hair into place, then bends once at each desk, and with a small puff from her deep red lips, blows out the candles.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Iowe thanks to many. Their generosity and expertise made this complex investigation possible. Most assuredly, any errors are my own.
Any writer undertaking a project such as this can only hope for a veteran investigative journalist for a partner. My wife, Cinderella, did more than her share of work. She set up a database, ran the computer, surfed the AP newswires and the LexisNexis cyberservice. She arranged interviews, worked the phones, and accompanied me to some of the meetings. She occasionally wrangled with the Border Patrol. Finally, she was my first reader and my first editor, keeping my nose to the news and my head out of the stars.
Tucson author, and my legal counsel, Brian Andrew Laird Esq. took part in many uncomfortable adventures as I sniffed around. Bad miles, the smell of death, many hot roads, cheap motel rooms, bad stares from Migra agents. Laird broke a few laws in our first uninvited penetration of the Goldwater range, nearly broke his axles in jaunts across forbidden landscapes. He sat with me as we peeled open the death packets in the Tucson consulate. And later, he survived our car wreck with armed Chicano drug mules on the rez. Viva Pelón.
I am indebted to the Mexican consular corps for generous help and support at every turn. Late in the game, San Diego consul Felipe Cuellar and his wife, Calexico consul Rita Vargas, were stationed in Chicago. Rita, as the manuscript reveals, happened to be the Mexican official in charge of the entire “Yuma 14” investigation. She and Felipe proofread my manuscript and caught me out in foolish errors. They hosted me to long locked-door meetings at the Chicago consulate. And Rita made her diaries of the event available to me. I will forever be in their debt.
My cousin, Enrique Hubbard Urrea, is the Mexican ambassador to the Philippines. Even from that great distance, his presence and name opened doors for me. His books lent a welcome bit of clarity to my understanding of Mexican politics. I’m waiting for him to become president.
His son, Alan Hubbard, in the security wing of the Phoenix consulate, made many incredibly valuable documents available to me, as well as the addresses and phone numbers of the survivors, and many notes on the structure of the Cercas gang’s Coyote empire. In Tucson, consul Carlos Flores Vizcarra was generous with his time and wisdom. He opened his archives to us and allowed us to inspect them and observe the daily operations of the consulate. His public affairs agent, Dulce, was professional and kind, and I am grateful to her for helping us penetrate their secretive world.
Finally, in Mexico City, a spirit hovering over much of this investigation is Gustavo Mohar, cacique of the consular corps.
In Phoenix, Mendez’s federal defender, Gerald Williams, gave us hours of his time. He turned over reams of information, and stacks of invaluable tapes. He also delivered messages to Mendez.
This book would be nowhere, however, without La Pinche Migra. For some reason, the Border Patrol decided to take a risk and, after