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Colorado Town Adopts Fugitive As Folk Hero ('The San Jose Mercury News'
Says Federal Prohibition Agents' Pursuit Of Neil Murdoch In Crested Butte,
Colorado, Has Been Impeded By Residents' Widespread Refusal To Cooperate -
The Fugitive And Widely Respected Member Of The Community
Moved To Crested Butte 25 Years Ago After Jumping Bail In 1973
In Albuquerque, New Mexico, Where He Was Arrested As Richard Gordon Bannister
For Intent To Distribute 26 Pounds Of Cocaine)
Date: Sat, 12 Sep 1998 08:18:37 -0700
From: owner-mapnews@mapinc.org (MAPNews)
To: mapnews@mapinc.org
Subject: MN: US CO: Colorado Town Adopts Fugitive As Folk Hero
Sender: owner-mapnews@mapinc.org
Reply-To: owner-mapnews@mapinc.org
Organization: Media Awareness Project http://www.mapinc.org/lists/
Newshawk: Marcus/Mermelstein Family (mmfamily@ix.netcom.com)
Pubdate: Thu, 10 Sep 1998
Source: San Jose Mercury News (CA)
Contact: letters@sjmercury.com
Website: http://www.sjmercury.com/
COLORADO TOWN ADOPTS FUGITIVE AS FOLK HERO
CRESTED BUTTE, Colo. (AP) - For a man in hiding, Neil Murdoch
lived a very public life.
For 25 years, when he wasn't feuding with town leaders over
buildings for the arts, he was promoting mountain biking. Or wearing a
diaper to a frosty night's New Year's Eve party. Or tangling with the
law for scattering rocks on a road to stop speeders in this mountain
town of 1,500.
So folks were astounded when U.S. marshals marched in last April,
announcing that Murdoch wasn't Murdoch but Richard Gordon Bannister,
57, wanted for jumping bail in 1973 in Albuquerque, N.M., after his
arrest on charges of intending to distribute 26 pounds of cocaine.
Murdoch bolted again, and now he's a folk hero to many of the locals,
who refuse to help the marshals find him.
`He's already paid'
``I don't know Bannister. I knew Murdoch, and he did a lot for this
community,'' said former Mayor Mickey Cooper, a developer. ``He's
already paid for what he did in ways none of us could ever guess. If
someone wants a manhunt, I won't help them.''
That Attitude Angers Marshals.
``He's not a folk hero. He's an accused drug trafficker,'' said Larry
Homenick, chief deputy in the Denver office of the U.S. Marshals Service.
Early on, Homenick said, ``people were not cooperating, not giving us
information that could've led to an immediate capture.'' But now, he
said, investigators do not believe Murdoch is keeping in touch with
anyone in Crested Butte.
Investigators learned of Murdoch's true identity when he slipped up,
using his real Social Security number in applying for a job.
Marshals questioned him April 28 but let him go, convinced they had
made a mistake. Two days later, the marshals returned to this town 250
miles southwest of Denver, intending to arrest him, only to find
Murdoch had fled.
Residents rallied, and sold 2,000 ``Free Murdoch'' stickers for $2
apiece. Council members donned Murdoch masks and marched in the Fourth
of July parade, pursued by someone in an FBI hat. One local, Jay
Mayfield, wrote ``Ode to Murdoch,'' which reads in part:
``Don't know the specifics /
of his chosen name and crime/
but it seems like he's been/
rehabilitated with time.''
Theater officials gave the fugitive a Golden Marmot award, their
lighthearted version of the Oscar, for best acting.
``We gave it to him in absentia, of course,'' Cooper said. ``He did a
great job of acting for 25 years.''
In Crested Butte, Murdoch lived alone in a downstairs apartment and
opened a shop devoted to mountain biking. He volunteered at the
community theater and at a day care center.
``He raised my two kids,'' said Jeff Neumann, who worked with Murdoch
at a printing business. No one knew Murdoch's background, and no one
asked, Neumann said.
``In a small town like Crested Butte, we take people for who they are.
We don't hold their past against them,'' he said. He added: ``People
feel they've lost a valuable member of the community. It's like he
died. We feel a loss, and we're grieving.''
Not A Hero To All
Town Manager Bill Crank, who has known Murdoch for 25 years, insisted
Murdoch is ``not my hero.'' ``I don't think the people who are touting
Murdoch have talked to the guy who had his Social Security number
stolen. I understand he's pretty angry,'' Crank said.
At the same time, Crank said: ``Hell, I don't know if I'd turn him in
or not. It's kind of comical: The feds lost him for 25 years, then
they found him, then they lost him again. It's all sort of amusing.''
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Drug War Masquerade (A Lengthy Account In 'The San Antonio Current'
Of The Killing Of Esequiel Hernandez Jr., A High School Goatherder In Texas,
By Camouflaged Marines Along The US-Mexico Border, Says Putting Troops
In Such Places Is A Compromise - It Allows Congress To Appear Tough
On Drugs, While Not Hindering Trade)
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 1998 07:33:29 -0700
From: owner-mapnews@mapinc.org (MAPNews)
To: mapnews@mapinc.org
Subject: MN: US TX: Drug War Masquerade
Sender: owner-mapnews@mapinc.org
Reply-To: owner-mapnews@mapinc.org
Organization: Media Awareness Project http://www.mapinc.org/lists/
Newshawk: Jim Galasyn
Source: San Antonio Current
Website: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0292715803/latinolink/
Pubdate: 10 Sep 1998
Author: Monte Paulsen, National Editor, San Antonio Current
DRUG WAR MASQUERADE
On the day he died, Esequiel Hernandez Jr. took his goats to the river. He
let them from their makeshift pens of wire and branch, then shooed them
down the dusty lane. They wandered past the ruins of the Spanish mission,
through the abandoned U.S. Army post and down a stony bluff to the Rio Grande.
When he reached the crest of the bluff, Hernandez stopped. Behind him lay
the mud-red adobe homes and melon-green alfalfa fields of Redford. Before
him stretched the Chihuahuan desert, Texas' vast gravel backyard, speckled
with squat greasewood bushes and whip-like ocotillo plants. Except for
Hernandez, whose goats brought him here late each afternoon, the residents
of the little oasis rarely ventured into this no-man's-land.
But on this, his final walk to the river, Hernandez spotted something in
the desert. It looked small and shaggy. He'd lost a goat not long before.
He suspected wild dogs had taken it. His herd was already at the river's
edge, halfway to the gray-brown creature. It moved. He couldn't afford to
lose another goat. He raised his ancient .22-caliber rifle and aimed into
the desert. Twenty minutes later, Hernandez's 18-year-old body lay
grotesquely twisted across a stone cistern at the edge of the village. He
died trying to protect his goats. He was killed by a 22-year-old soldier
trying to protect America's youth from drugs.
On the day Esequiel Hernandez Jr. died, he became the first civilian killed
by U.S. troops since the student massacre at Kent State University in 1970.
His death led to a temporary suspension of troop patrols near the
U.S.-Mexican border. And last month, the government paid his family $1.9
million to settle a wrongful death claim.
Clemente Manuel Banuelos became the first ever member of the United States
Marine Corps to kill a fellow citizen on U.S. soil. Four investigations and
three grand juries probed the May 1997 shooting. Each concluded that
because Banuelos followed orders, he was innocent of criminal wrongdoing.
Those who issued the orders were never tried.
Both young men became victims of the Pentagon's quixotic $1 billion-a-year
war on drugs.
Hooked on Drug Money
Hernandez's days were numbered since 1989, the year then-President George
Bush waved a bag of crack on TV. Seated in the Oval Office with pictures of
his family behind him, Bush held up the clear plastic bag and told the
nation that it was crack cocaine seized in the park located directly across
Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House.
U.S. presidents have been declaring "war on drugs" ever since the Nixon
administration. Bush's remedies were much the same as those proposed by his
predecessors: More cops, stiffer sentences. But because few police officers
and no judges report to the White House, most presidents waged this war
rhetorically. Bush changed that. He ordered the Pentagon to the front lines
of the drug war.
For more than a century, stationing U.S. soldiers in American backyards was
against the law. The Posse Comitatus Act, passed by Congress in 1878, made
it a felony to deputize the armed services for domestic duty. Thus, since
Reconstruction, not the U.S. Army but state-run National Guard units were
called on to suppress labor strikes, race riots, student protests and other
acts of civil disobedience. Though it no longer exists, this separation of
military and police powers is still touted in high school civics textbooks
as a hallmark of U.S. society and democratic ideals.
Congress began chipping away at Posse Comitatus in 1982, the same year
then-Vice President Bush was put in charge of the War on Drugs -- with a
defense bill that allowed the military to loan equipment and facilities to
civilian law enforcement agencies. A 1989 bill went further, allowing
military personnel to work in the field. And a 1991 act authorized the
services to conduct armed anti-drug reconnaissance missions. The definition
of these missions has been expanded in every defense bill since.
Just two months after Bush waved his bag of crack, the Pentagon created
Joint Task Force Six (JTF-6). Headquartered in a former Army stockade near
El Paso, JTF-6 was initially conceived of as a temporary operation, with
duties confined to the U.S.-Mexican border. As it now approaches its 10th
birthday, JTF-6 is one of the longest running task forces in U.S. military
history. More than 72,000 soldiers have served in JTF-6 operations
scattered across 30 states.
Many JTF-6 missions do not involve combat troops. The Army Corps of
Engineers, for example, has built hundreds of miles of fencing and roads
along the U.S.-Mexico border. Others, such as the mission to Redford, have
placed armed soldiers in American backyards.
JTF-6 cannot launch a mission on its own. The work must be requested by a
civilian law enforcement agency fighting drugs within one of the nation's
21 High Intensity Drug Trafficking Areas. (San Antonio is on the list.) But
the U.S. Border Patrol is JTF-6's main client. The two agencies have
collaborated on an average of 157 missions a year.
The mission to Redford began with a request from the Border Patrol's sector
headquarters in Marfa. Spanning 2,200 square miles of West Texas desert,
Marfa is the most rural and least active of nine sectors along the
U.S.-Mexican border. As a result, Marfa also has the fewest agents. So in
1996, the sector chief requested JTF-6's help. The request was approved by
Operation Alliance -- JTF-6's civilian sister agency -- and the El Paso
task force issued a call for military volunteers.
The 1st Marine Expeditionary Force quickly signed on. Like the Border
Patrol, the California-based 1st Marines were regulars at JTF-6's desert
headquarters. The 1st Marines participated in 119 missions prior to
Redford, with 28 scheduled for 1997 alone. And like the Border Patrol, the
1st Marines were hooked on drug interdiction money. The division burned an
extra $9.1 million worth of JTF-6 green during the four years prior to the
Redford mission. Wrote the ranking general: "Unequivocally, my commanders
depend on, and plan for, this annual infusion."
Friendly Fire
Late one afternoon in February 1997 -- the very same month that JTF-6 and
the 1st Marines began planning the Redford mission -- Border Patrol agents
Johnny Urias and James DeMatteo heard gunshots while patrolling the Redford
riverfront. Urias and DeMatteo were at the landing used by Juan Olivas,
Redford's part-time boatman. Olivas rows passengers across the Rio Grande
for 50 cents a head. If a friend lacks the fare, Olivas has been known to
take groceries in trade. The service isn't legal. Nor is it lucrative. For
most of the year, the river is shallow enough to ford without getting a
knee wet.
The two agents were walking among the cottonwood trees by the river when
Urias remembered a "firecracker kind of pop at a distance." DeMatteo
recalled "three popping sounds coming from out left." Unsure what was
happening, they climbed back into their truck and drove slowly up the dusty
lane to Farm Road 170, the two-lane blacktop that winds through Redford.
Before they reached the village, a beat-up truck approached them from
behind. It flashed its headlights. The agents stopped. So did the old white
pickup. A boy hopped out and ran up to the Border Patrol vehicle. "I'm
sorry that I was shooting," the agents recalled the boy telling them. "I
thought someone was doing something to my goats. I didn't know you were
back there." The tall, lanky teenager was Esequiel Hernandez Jr.
Known as "Skeetch" or "Zeke" to his friends and simply as "Junior" to the
adults in the village, Esequiel was the sixth of eight children of Maria de
la Luz and Esequiel Hernandez Sr. Esequiel Sr. farms a small tract of land
in the oldest part of Redford, called El Polvo. It was named after a
Catholic mission established here in 1684. The Franciscans called it San
Jose Del Polvo, or St. Joseph of the Dust. The name fits. The Hernandez
family draws its blood from this river, and this dust. High mountains let
few raindrops pass into this part of the desert. But where the river floods
there are small strips of muddy soil.
The adobe-and-cinder-block village of Redford stands in the desert above
the precious red soil, every inch of which is planted in alfalfa, melons,
pumpkins or other crops. Esequiel Jr. was a popular kid at Presidio High.
He was the only boy to sign up for the folk dance troupe. He was a straight
kid who didn't smoke, drink or do drugs, according to his peers. His only
brushes with the law were a result of his habit of driving without a
license -- a common West Texas transgression. Esequiel wasn't college
bound. The only visible indication of personal ambition was a large Marine
Corps recruiting poster mounted on the wall above his bed. For the time
being, he played cowboy. He rode horses in parades wearing an embroidered
shirt and large white hat. When he wasn't on horseback, he helped his
father tend the family's 43 goats. It was his chore to walk them to the
river each afternoon. And he usually took with him a World War I-era
.22-caliber rifle his grandfather had given him. The old gun was
mechanically unreliable, but straight shooting. This, too, he hung on the
wall above his bed. As the February sun crept behind the high, hard
mountains to the west, Urias and DeMatteo studied the boy who had followed
them down the dusty lane. No harm intended, they figured. No harm done.
Urias left the boy with a friendly warning. "Use more discretion when
shooting your weapon," he later recalled telling Esequiel. "Especially at
night."
Unready Soldiers
Cpl. Banuelos first set foot in the Redford desert three months later. On
the morning of May 13, 1997, he scouted the stony bluff just downstream
from El Polvo with his commanding officer, Capt. Lance McDaniel. Banuelos
noticed an empty cardboard bullet box that had contained .22 caliber
rounds. Unaware of the Hernandez's habits, they speculated that the box had
been left by drug smugglers. McDaniel picked Banuelos to lead a four-man
team that would surveil the Redford crossing. The 22-year-old corporal's
team, called Team 7, was to watch the crossing at night, and radio reports
of any illegal activity to the Border Patrol. During the day, Banuelos and
his men were to retreat to a "hide site" in an arroyo just down river.
There the soldiers were to conceal themselves from the villagers.
The assignment was a coup for Banuelos, who was not much older than
Hernandez when he joined the Marine Corps. The boy from San Francisco had
matured noticeably during his three years in service, earning an
achievement medal rarely awarded such a junior enlisted man. And now, while
still a corporal, he had been selected to lead an observation team at
Redford. All the other team leaders were sergeants. If the mission went
smoothly, Banuelos would soon be a sergeant, too.
But mission No. JT414-97A, as the soldiers called it, was not going
smoothly. For while McDaniel's senior officers at 1st Division HQ were hot
to take JTF-6's money, their support for the captain's efforts to prepare
for the mission was tepid at best. McDaniel was hamstrung at every turn by
bureaucracy, paperwork, and the fact that 1st Division's command viewed the
mission as little more than a free training exercise.
That's the conclusion of an exhaustive report authored by retired Maj. Gen.
John T. Coyne, from which many of the operational details described in this
story were drawn. The Coyne report highlights how different police work is
from military action, and harshly rebukes the 1st Division for failing to
adequately prepare its soldiers for this policing mission.
In one striking example, McDaniel's men were pulled away from a training
exercise in order to participate in a dress uniform review. The officers'
club mentality was visible in a statement from the man who ordered
McDaniel's men to participate in the formality. Maj. Steven Hogg said he
was comfortable with the order because he "was satisfied that Capt.
McDaniel was hitting all the wickets."
As a result of this type of bureaucratic interference, Capt. McDaniel was
able to conduct only three days of training before his teams departed Camp
Pendleton for Texas. And because mission assignments weren't settled until
the last minute, Team 7 never trained as a unit. Cpl. Roy Torrez Jr.,
Banuelos' second in command, hadn't received any field instruction since
his basic Marine Combat Training after boot camp. Torrez, whose main job in
the Marine Corps was driving a tow truck, was also Team 7 medic. He had
completed a first aid course in order to meet a quota at the garage where
he worked.
Like Torrez, Lance Cpl. Ronald Wieler had received no field training since
basic. Wieler was a radio operator. Most of his preparation consisted of
cutting rags and sewing his own camouflage "ghillie suit." Lance Cpl. James
Blood, the team's junior man, did attend the three days of training. But
Blood was assigned to another team during that time. He didn't even meet
his teammates until the day before McDaniel and Banuelos found the empty
bullet box by the river.
Upon returning from that walk, McDaniel briefed his men at a Marfa base
camp. The two-hour talk addressed safety issues, communication protocols
and the "rules of engagement." The soldiers were handed ROE cards that
listed specifically what they could and could not do. They were told what
to do if they encountered drug smugglers. But they neither discussed nor
rehearsed what to do if they came across a civilian. Staff Sgt. Daren
Dewbre concluded the briefing. Dewbre warned the soldiers that drug gangs
posed an "organized, sophisticated, and dangerous enemy." He told them that
other teams had taken fire on previous missions. He told them that "the
enemy" would employ armed lookouts -- and that some villagers were in
cahoots with the smugglers. His briefing notes read: "Redford is not a
friendly town."
Men With Guns
Redford is one of the most remote towns in the United States. It is also
one of the oldest. And it's among the most often visited by soldiers.
Eight hours west of San Antonio and five hours east of El Paso, Redford is
in many ways more Mexican than American. Spanish is the language of choice.
The most popular shopping center is in Ojinaga, a Mexican border town half
an hour upriver. An American flag flies out front of Redford Elementary
School. But its flagpole erupts from the center of the school's basketball
court, leaving visitors to wonder whether the patriot who erected the pole
was entirely familiar with the rules of the game.
Directly across Farm Road 170 -- which until it was paved in the 1960s was
called Muerte del Burro, or Death of the Donkey -- stands the Madrid
library. In 1979, schoolteacher Lucia Rede Madrid started the small library
in her husband's store. She loaned books to the kids in Redford, and also
to Mexican kids from across the river. By the mid-'80s, her library had
swelled to an estimated 50,000 volumes, overflowing both the store and the
attached stucco home. Lucia's "bridge of books" earned her two presidential
medals, and made her the most famous person in Redford -- until Zeke.
The books in the Madrid library show that Cpl. Banuelos was far from the
first soldier to ride into Redford. First came the Apache. Then came the
Spanish. In 1747, Captain Joseph de Ydoiaga led an expedition of 150 men
and 1,000 horses. Ydoiaga's report led to the construction of a Spanish
fortress, near present day Presidio. Next came the Mexicans, who in 1821
won independence from Spain. And in 1836 the Texans separated from Mexico.
The Mexican-American War brought the U.S. Army in 1846. The United States
won a bloody victory over a Mexico torn apart by civil unrest. The Treaty
of Guadalupe de Hildago cut Mexico in half. The United States took
everything from the Rio Grande to California.
The treaty also divided the village of El Polvo, placing the fields on the
south side of the river in Mexico. And the new border attracted a new breed
of men with guns. A private trading post just upriver on the American side
became a haven for profiteers such as John Burgess, a war veteran who
traded American guns and slaves for Mexican silver. When President Ulysses
S. Grant began paying cash for Indian scalps, Burgess scalped dark-skinned
Mexicans and pawned off the hairpieces. The new Anglo settlers also changed
the name of the dusty village. The English name -- "REDFORD" -- is painted
in block letters on the small silver water tower at the west end of town.
The Army built a fort at Redford called Camp Polvo during the Mexican
Revolution, which spilled across the Rio Grande after 1910. Pancho Villa
campaigned near the border. For years, whichever side was losing would
surrender to the U.S. Army rather than their enemy. When the revolution
ended, the Army left several buildings behind, including an adobe officers'
house, and a small stone cistern.
Three Days in the Desert
Banuelos and his team were dropped off along Farm Road 170 late Saturday
night, May 17. The soldiers leaped out of the Chevy Suburban wearing
camouflage face paint and shaggy burlap "ghillie suits." They carried two
five-gallon water cans, two radios and assorted gear. Each carried his
M-16A2 rifle.
Team 7 walked half a mile to the observation post. The team they were
replacing was dehydrated and nauseous after its three-day tour. The
departing team commander told Banuelos: "Watch out for the goats."
Banuelos, Torrez, Wieler and Blood settled into the stony bluff above the
river. A canopy of stars revealed itself overhead. They saw two vehicles
cross the river that night, and radioed the Border Patrol both times. As
dawn came Sunday, Banuelos moved his men to the arroyo. The day passed
slowly, punctuated by fitful naps.
The goats came in the afternoon. Dozens of them, scrabbling through the
hide site, foraging among the greasewood bushes. Some came so close that
one soldier feared they would gnaw on his leaf-like ghillie suit.
Team 7 moved up to the observation post early that evening, sometime
between 7 and 8 p.m. This was a departure from mission JT414-97A's plan,
which instructed them not to move until after dark. The soldiers reported
more vehicle crossings that night -- pickups, Suburbans and Blazers rolling
back and forth across the river. But the Border Patrol only stopped one or
two.
On Monday the desert began to be very hot. At mid-day, the surface
temperature of the Chihuahuan desert can reach 180 degrees Fahrenheit.
Snakes stay in their burrows to avoid being cooked. The soldiers had no
burrows. They lay on hot stones, wrapped in their burlap suits. Each man
had only three quarts of water per day. All they had to eat were fibrous
goo bars called Meals Ready to Eat, like Slim-Fast shakes without the
liquid. The goats returned in the afternoon. They stuffed their mouths with
desert weeds. They gurgled as they drank deeply from the river.
By that evening, Team 7 had begun to realize that El Polvo was a well-worn
crossing, and that most of what was smuggled across wasn't drugs. Vehicles
of every description arrived laden with tires, cement, furniture, produce
and other contraband. Torrez and Blood griped about how rarely the Border
Patrol responded to their calls. "If they don't care," Blood recalled
asking, "why do we need to be out here?"
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
They didn't need to be there -- at least not in May. A decade's worth of
federal statistics prove it: More than 85 percent of all illegal drugs
entering the United States arrive via official Ports of Entry monitored by
the Customs Service. Most comes concealed within legitimate cargo. Nearly
100 percent of all heroin shipped to the United States last year flowed
through official ports, according to federal estimates. Ninety-nine percent
of the methamphetamine tumbled through those ports. Ninety-seven percent of
the cocaine blew in this way.
Marijuana is the lone exception. Half the weed consumed in this country is
grown here. Much of the rest comes across at places like El Polvo. Last
fall, the Border Patrol caught a motor home stuffed with 2,700 pounds of
marijuana. Its driver claimed he crossed at El Polvo. Large busts like this
happen every fall. That's because marijuana is a crop. Most of it gets
harvested and shipped across the border in the fall and winter. Only
tourists and amateurs bother smuggling in May.
If Congress were serious about employing the armed forces to stop the
northward flow of drugs, it would post search teams at each of the 39
customs checkpoints along the 2,000-mile border. Three and a half million
trucks rolled through in 1996. Customs was able to inspect but a quarter of
them.
The main reason these trucks go uninspected is because truckers -- and the
corporations who hire them -- complain the wait at customs is too long.
These corporations, which finance political life in America, complain to
Congress that more searches would slow down the progress of North American
Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA).
Washington wants it both ways. It wants to stop the flow of drugs and
immigrants, while increasing the flow of goods and services. Putting troops
in places such as Redford is a compromise. It allows Congress to appear
tough on drugs, while not hindering trade.
Congress has strained to expand the military's role along the border ever
since JTF-6 was created. Both the House and Senate versions of the 1989
bill would have given the military the power to arrest civilians. These
provisions were killed as a result of strong opposition from the Pentagon,
which trains soldiers to kill their enemies, not arrest them. Many, many
military scholars warn that training the armed services to do police work
will render them unprepared for actual combat.
***
(Sidebar:) Timothy Dunn chronicles America's longstanding efforts to station
soldiers along the Rio Grande in his book "The Militarization of the
U.S.-Mexico Border" $12.76 from Amazon.com.
The El Paso-based professor explains how "complex international issues such
as undocumented immigration and illegal drug trafficking are reduced to
one-sided, domestic border-control problems, and framed as threats to
national security, which in turn require strong law enforcement, or even
military responses."
Even as Banuelos was struggling to prepare his team for mission JT414-97A,
U.S. Rep. James Traficant, D-Ohio, was pushing a 1997 bill that would have
put 10,000 troops on the U.S.-Mexican border. Traficant reintroduced the
troop plan this year, and tore a page from Dunn's book when he said on the
House floor: "The border is a national security issue, and, by God, the
Congress of the United States better start securing our borders." The House
passed the Ohio congressman's amendment in June, along with proposals for
bigger fences, fancier technology and more agents along the border. The
Senate nixed the Traficant plan, but moved to swell the ranks of the Border
Patrol from 6,200 to more than 20,000 agents.
"It's an easy, simple and politically safe target," says Kevin Zeese, who
heads the nonprofit group Common Sense for Drug Policy. "Shout 'drug war'
as loud as you can and you sound like you are protecting America's youth.")
Part 2: Drug War Masquerade
"Fire Back"
Esequiel Jr. got home from school about 4 p.m. on the day he died. He
thanked the driver of the big yellow bus and walked down the lane to his
family's little rancheria. He studied his driver's handbook, then he helped
his father unload some hay. After that it was time to walk the goats.
Banuelos led his men out of the hide site even earlier that afternoon. It
was three full hours before nightfall. They hadn't even seen the goats yet.
They were hot, tired, hungry, dehydrated and still dressed like shrubs.
They looked forward to being relieved shortly after dark.
As Team 7 crept toward the observation post, Banuelos spotted a man on a
horse on the Mexican side. The corporal put his team in a halt. Just then,
Esequiel and his goats crested the small bluff. The soldiers -- who had
been warned to expect armed lookouts and "unfriendly villagers" -- saw a
young man of Latino descent carrying a .22 rifle.
Banuelos whispered into the radio: "We have an armed individual, about 200
meters from us." A time-stamped recording of the radio traffic showed it
was 6:05 p.m. "He's in front of the old fort. He's headed toward us. He's
armed with a rifle. He appears to be in, uh, herding goats or something."
Hernandez saw something move in the brush at the bottom of the far ravine.
He had warned friends and family members of what he would do if he ever
found the wild dog he believed had taken his goat.
The goatherd may have fired once, as Banuelos and Blood claimed. (One spent
shell was later found in the rifle.) Or he may have fired twice, as Torrez
and Wieler recalled. Or he may not have fired at all, as the lack of
gunpowder residue on his hands later suggested. What is certain is that the
four tired soldiers believed they had been fired at by a drug smuggler.
None was hit. Banuelos ordered the men prone. Face down in the hot gravel,
he told them to "lock and load."
Hernandez stood on his toes. He peered across the desert. Torrez recalled
he was "bobbing and weaving ... like when you look at something in the
distance, you stand on your tippy-toes and try to move your head around to
see."
"We're taking fire," Banuelos radioed at 6:07 p.m.
Capt. McDaniel was working out in a gym at the Marfa compound when he heard
the news. He sprinted to the nearby operations center. He and his fellow
officers immediately began debating what actions were authorized under the
JTF-6 rules of engagement.
Banuelos and his team mates were still carrying the ROE flash cards they
were given a week earlier. The first of six points listed was: "Force may
be used to defend yourself and others present." The second and third points
were: "Do not use force if other defensive measures could be effective" and
"Use only minimum force necessary."
But Banuelos didn't have time to reread his card. Nor was he aware that
McDaniel and the other officers were in the midst of an intense debate
about what he could and could not do. At 6:11 p.m., he radioed the
operations center: "As soon as he readies that rifle back down range, we
are taking him."
Lance Cpl. James Steen was manning the radio in Marfa. He replied: "Roger,
fire back."
McDaniel exploded. He and the other officers in the operations center
believed Steen's authorization to "fire back" was wrong, according to
written statements. Steen was pulled off the radio. Sgt. Dewbre took the
chair. But the order to "fire back" was neither corrected nor withdrawn.
Dewbre radioed at 6:14 p.m.: "Just give us an update."
To keep the boy within his line of sight, Banuelos led his team down
another stony arroyo and up the opposite bank. From the top of the next
plateau, the soldiers could see in all directions. Banuelos told Dewbre:
"We have a visual."
Dewbre replied: "You're to follow the ROE."
Banuelos did not acknowledge Dewbre's order. Nearly four minutes had passed
since the incorrect order to "fire back" was issued. McDaniel and the other
officers discussed whether or not Banuelos had heard Dewbre. But they did
not retransmit the instruction.
Worse Than Drugs
The war that Esequiel Hernandez wandered into is not confined to the
U.S.-Mexican border. The Pentagon spends about $1 billion a year fighting
drugs. JTF-6 has conducted missions in 30 states and the Caribbean
territories. An estimated 4,000 National Guard troops are involved in 1,300
counter-drug operations nationwide. And 89 percent of police departments
now have paramilitary "SWAT" teams, which primarily serve drug warrants.
In spite of all this, the drugs are winning. The availability and potency
of hard drugs such as heroin and cocaine has skyrocketed over the past
decade. At the same time, street prices have fallen. The United Nations
estimates the annual revenue generated by the illegal drug industry at $400
billion. That's 8 percent of the total international trade, or about the
same size as the global automobile industry.
The war has not proved either as easy, simple or politically safe as its
proponents had hoped. Days after he waved the plastic bag of crack on TV,
Bush was embarrassed by revelations that it was not "seized" in Lafayette
Park -- but in fact had been purchased for $2,400 by an undercover agent
who had lured a drug dealer there.
The seller was baffled by the agent's request. On a DEA tape of the phone
call, the 18-year-old dealer asked, "Where the fuck is the White House?"
"We can't even keep drugs out of prison," says Zeese of Common Sense for
Drug Policy. "To think we could keep them out at the borders is absurd."
Common Sense for Drug Policy argues that drug abuse is a social problem
that requires a combination of social, not military, solutions. The
evidence bears them out. Where drug use has fallen, experts attribute the
difference to lifestyle changes, not law enforcement.
Reagan's Secretary of State George Shultz, right-wing economist Milton
Friedman and broadcaster Walter Cronkite all make the same case. They are
among the hundreds of signers of a June 1998 letter urging the United
Nations to abandon the War on Drugs. The signatories hailed from 40
nations, and included federal judges and Nobel laureates from across the
political spectrum.
Published in the New York Times and elsewhere, the letter was blunt: "We
believe that the global war on drugs is now causing more harm than drug
abuse itself. This industry has empowered organized criminals, corrupted
governments at all levels, eroded internal security, stimulated violence,
and distorted both economic markets and moral values," the letter stated.
"These are the consequences not of drug use per se, but of decades of
failed and futile drug war policies."
Death in the Desert
Border Patrol agent Johnny Urias was picking up undocumented immigrants 15
miles away when he heard the 6:07 p.m. radio call: "They're taking fire
from a man with a rifle at position three ... Please assist position
three." Urias and partner Rodolfo Martinez sped back to the Presidio
station. They dropped off their suspects. They picked up M-16 rifles and
protective vests. Two other agents arrived, and did the same. Within
minutes, the four agents were speeding toward Redford, lights and sirens
blaring. Urias radioed Banuelos, who told him that Hernandez was at the old
fort. "He's armed with a rifle, a .22," the corporal said. Banuelos and his
team were atop a plateau about two football fields away from Hernandez.
They knew the Border Patrol was only minutes away. But Banuelos wanted to
be closer. He handed the radio to Torrez, then waved for Wieler and Blood
to follow him into the next ravine. From that moment on, Banuelos was out
of radio contact with both McDaniel and the Border Patrol.
The next arroyo was steeper than the last. Wieler stumbled several times.
He scraped his hands on the sharp, loose gravel. He didn't understand what
Banuelos was doing. He said later that he "would have stayed and let the
Border Patrol handle the situation." Instead, he followed orders. Once atop
the next plateau, the Marines moved toward the abandoned fort. Soon they
were within 130 yards of Hernandez. They scurried forward one by one, in
short rushes. They crouched low among the waist-high greasewood bushes.
Banuelos watched Hernandez through the scope on his M-16 as his men moved.
At 6:27 p.m., Banuelos believed he saw the boy raise his old .22 and aim
toward Blood. (Neither Torrez nor Blood were watching Hernandez. Weiler
initially stated he didn't see Hernandez move, then later testified that he
did.) The corporal, an expert marksman, squeezed the trigger. The bullet
entered Esequiel Hernandez Jr. beneath his right arm. It fragmented and cut
two trails through his chest, destroying every organ in its path. Torrez
looked up just in time to see the boy's feet fly in the air.
Myth of the Frontier
The books in Lucia Madrid's library tell many stories. They tell of the
soldiers who came through Redford, and of the powerful men who sent them.
But these books do not explain the shooting of Esequiel Hernandez. Enrique
Rede Madrid still lives in the white stucco home where his recently
deceased mother built the library. An anthropologist, he has spend much of
his life resisting the military. Way back in 1967, he was the first student
at the University of Texas to return his draft card. A gutsy move for a
young Chicano from La Frontera. He waged a three-year court battle
challenging the constitutionality of the Vietnam War. Today, he translates
books and works at a community college.
Sifting through the artifacts of his life, Madrid pulls out newspaper
clippings and photographs. One picture shows President Bush awarding his
mother her medal of honor. Another shows her reading to a group of village
children. At the center of that photograph is a squirmy little boy, hamming
a grin for the camera. The boy is Esequiel Hernandez Jr.
"Isn't it schizoid?" he asks, fingering his mother's silver and gold
medals. Madrid speaks through a clenched jaw, as if he is holding back
anger. "Two presidential medals and an M-16 bullet in a kid's chest. She
received these medals for educating Esequiel. "America has a schizoid
mentality about the border," Enrique continues. "We address the problem
with the wrong tool. It's a failure of our ability to test reality. ... A
psychiatrist would call it a psychosis of some sort."
Richard Slotkin, a historian who has spent the past 25 years studying the
stories that Americans tell each other, calls it America's oldest and most
powerful story: the myth of the frontier. Slotkin argues that "regeneration
through violence" is the heart of the myth. The United States has pursued
violent regeneration through a series of "savage wars" fought first against
Native Americans, and later against competing settlers such as the
Mexicans. This century, distant enemies such as the Soviet Union filled the
savage shoes. These heroic tales of men with guns have been handed down
through literature, culture and ritual for three centuries.
The repetition of this mythology is easy to spot in dozens of newspaper and
magazine reports on Esequiel's murder. Rather than describing a quiet
little village of alfalfa and pumpkin farmers, many thrilled readers with
exaggerated descriptions of a rough-and-tumble Wild West border town
populated with "drug lords" and "illegal aliens." Likewise, these myths are
at the heart of the many western movies filmed at the Contrabando Creek
movie set, a faux village just downriver from Redford.
"The reporter's role is to see the reality in terms of the established
myth," Slotkin says. "The reporter goes back and tells the tale to a
congressman, who is prepared to believe it because he already knows the
story. It has the power of familiarity. It confirms what we've known all
along." The war on drugs has invoked the myth of savage war to rationalize
its illogical use of violence. "Here the myth of the frontier plays its
classic role," Slotkin says. "We define and confront this crisis -- and the
profound questions it raises about our society -- by deploying the metaphor
of 'war' and locating the root of our problem in the power of a 'savage'
enemy."
Following Orders
Corporal Banuelos was standing over Hernandez's body when the Border Patrol
arrived. Agent Urias recognized the boy he had warned only three months
before. Hernandez had dragged himself 10 yards through hot gravel after he
was shot. From atop the old Army watering hole, Hernandez could have seen
see the adobe home where he was born, the lush green oasis that fed his
family, the cinderblock schoolhouse where he had dreamed of becoming a
soldier, and the village graveyard, where he soon would be buried. A desert
thunderstorm approached. More cops arrived. Texas Rangers. A justice of the
peace. The district attorney. FBI. Marines.
They trampled through the evidence for hours. Then the storm rumbled
through. Hard rain washed over the body, the gun, the scene. Team 7 was
driven back to Marfa, put in a motel room, given a six-pack of beer, and
told to write statements. The story that emerged was that Banuelos was not
"pursuing" Hernandez -- as prohibited by the rules of engagement -- but was
"paralleling" the goatherd out of fear that the boy was running a "flanking
maneuver." Banuelos was frank and forthright about what he had done. He
reportedly concluded one interview by stating: "I capped the fucker." The
Texas Rangers investigated the shooting.
The Justice Department investigated the shooting. JTF-6 investigated the
shooting. And the 1st Marine Division investigated the shooting. All
concluded that Banuelos followed orders. All concluded that he committed no
crime. A county grand jury refused to indict Banuelos on criminal charges.
A federal grand jury refused to indict Banuelos. And a second county grand
jury, given substantially more evidence than the first, also refused to
indict Banuelos.
All concluded that Banuelos followed orders. All concluded that he
committed no crime. Banuelos was under investigation for more than a year.
But the orders that sent him to El Polvo in May, the orders that put him in
the field with an under-prepared team, and the incredible order to "fire
back" -- these were never put on trial. And by agreeing to pay the
Hernandez family a mere $1.9 million, the Navy and the Justice Department
effectively closed the most viable legal route through which the family or
the village could have put those orders on trial.
Human rights activists fear the settlement will clear a political path for
JTF-6 to resume armed border patrols in the near future. And if they take
such missions, future Marines will follow orders just as Banuelos did.
In a response to the scathing Coyne report, Gen. C.W. Fulford Jr. noted
that even the best trained Marines would likely behave much as Team 7 did.
"Indeed," Fulford wrote, "it is probable that a superbly trained team of
infantrymen would have immediately returned fire." Clemente Manuel Banuelos
is no longer a member of the Marine Corps. His promising military career
died the same day Hernandez did. The 23-year-old now struggles to support
his young wife, Luz Contreras, in their modest Southern California home. He
is looking for work as a physical therapist.
Rounding Up The Goats
On the day Esequiel Hernandez Jr. died, his father brought the goats back
from the river. Hernandez Sr. was chopping wood when he saw the crowd of
Border Patrol agents, sheriff deputies and other authorities gather on the
hill across from his adobe home. He drove the old white pickup over to see
what was happening. Not knowing who he was, a deputy sheriff asked whether
Hernandez Sr. might be able to identify the victim. The old man stared
curiously at the soldiers, still dressed in their ghillie suits. The
leather-faced father was then shown the lifeless body of his son. He wept,
and wailed, in Spanish.
The Hernandez family was kept away from the murder scene that night. Pushed
back by sheriff's deputies, sobbing family members shared their grief and
anger within the privacy of the Hernandez rancheria. Later, the old man
went down to the river to round up the goats. Ten-year-old Noel went with
him. After the goats were put away, Noel marched into Esequiel's bedroom
and tore the Marine recruiting poster from his dead brother's wall.
Monte Paulsen (mpaulsen@aminc.com) is national editor of SanAntonio Current.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
'Annals Of Emergency Medicine' Presents New Studies
On Alcohol Intoxicated Drivers, Marijuana Use, And Domestic Violence
(PRNewswire Says A New Study In The September Issue
Of The Peer-Reviewed Medical Journal, The First Population-Based Study
Of The Relation Between Marijuana Use And Injury Incidence,
Found That Marijuana Use Was Not Associated With Outpatient Injury,
But Users Had More 'Personal Problems' And 'Employment Problems' -
Like Most Persecuted Minorities - Another Study In The Same Issue
Shows Alcohol Intoxicated Drivers Are Rarely Prosecuted Or Referred For Help)
From: BulldogUSA@aol.com
Date: Sat, 12 Sep 1998 23:20:06 EDT
To: dpfca@drugsense.org
Subject: DPFCA: Fwd: Annals of Emergency Medicine Presents New Studies on...
Sender: owner-dpfca@drugsense.org
Reply-To: dpfca@drugsense.org
Organization: DrugSense http://www.drugsense.org/dpfca/
From: ChaXH@aol.com
To: sling@whitemtn.com, BulldogUSA@aol.com, hemplobby@olywa.net
Subject: Fwd: Annals of Emergency Medicine Presents New Studies on...
Date: Sat, 12 Sep 1998 21:17:11 EDT
From: AOLNews@aol.com
Date: Thu, 10 Sep 1998 19:58:16 EDT
Annals of Emergency Medicine Presents New Studies on Alcohol Intoxicated
Drivers, Marijuana Use, and Domestic Violence
WASHINGTON, Sept. 10 /PRNewswire/ -- Alcohol intoxicated drivers are rarely
prosecuted or referred for help, according to a new study in the September
issue of Annals of Emergency Medicine. The issue also presents two new
studies -- one showing that marijuana use is not associated with outpatient
injury and another showing how women with assault-related injuries were more
likely to have certain injuries or characteristics than women with
unintentional injuries.
Injured Intoxicated Drivers: Citation, Conviction, Referral, and
Recidivism Rates
The study of 70 drivers injured in motor vehicle crashes in Cleveland with
blood alcohol content (BAC) levels of .10 gm percent or higher found that 23
of the drivers were cited for DUI (32.8 percent) and 15 were successfully
prosecuted and convicted (21 percent). Eight of the 70 drivers who were
admitted with high BAC levels were referred for outpatient alcohol counseling
after discharge. None of the drivers were offered counseling as inpatients.
Thirty-nine percent of cited intoxicated driver- patients were repeat
offenders.
"Driving while intoxicated is the most frequently cited cause of death on the
nation's highways, injuring approximately 500,000 people in alcohol-related
collisions," said Rita K. Cydulka, MD, of the MetroHealth Medical Center/Case
Western Reserve University School of Medicine in Cleveland. "The study found
that citation and prosecution rates are low for legally intoxicated drivers
injured in motor vehicle crashes and that physicians often fail to address the
underlying alcohol problem, even when patients are charged with DUI."
Results of other studies have suggested that alcohol interventions at
discharge can successfully initiate alcoholism treatment, and the National
Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism has stated that trauma centers are
ideally situated to implement programs for alcohol screening, intervention,
and referral.
Marijuana Use and Medically Attended Injury Events
This study - the first population-based study of the relation between
marijuana use and injury incidence -- found that marijuana use was not
associated with outpatient injury within 3 years of study of participants in a
California health maintenance organization. A total of 1,611 study
participants had at least 1 injury-related outpatient visit: 1,057 had 1
event, 338 had 2 events, and 216 had 3 or more events.
Marijuana is the most commonly used illicit substance in the United States,
and the presence of marijuana has been reported in case series of trauma
patients and homicide perpetrators. The study found that both former and
current marijuana use were associated with increased prevalence of personal
problems and current users had an increased prevalence of employment problems.
Previous studies that have evaluated the relation between marijuana use and
injury have been limited to more severe injury and not considered variables
such as psychological distraction, indicators of physical status, or lifestyle
characteristics.
Indicators of Assault-Related Injuries Among Women Presenting to the ED
A study of 8,051 patient records from women who visited two public hospital
emergency departments in New Zealand found that women with assault-related
injuries were approximately two times more likely to present with internal
injuries; fractures to the head, spine, or trunk; or open wounds than women
with unintentional injuries. Women with assault-related injuries were also 12
times more likely to present with injuries to the head. Despite these
associations, the nature and anatomic site of injury were found to have
limited predictive value as indicators of assault. Of the 8,051 records
studied, 260 (9 percent) were identified as victims of assault. Of assault
victims with known assailants, most were injured by a partner or former
partner.
"The results of the study support the growing body of evidence that women are
more likely to be assaulted by an intimate partner and that clinicians must be
aware of, trained, and supported in appropriate ways to respond to intimate-
partner violence," said Janet L. Fanslow, Ph.D., currently with the Centers
for Disease Control and Prevention. "Health care professionals should be
encouraged and supported to undertake routine screening for abuse among all
women present to emergency departments."
Women with assault-related injuries were more likely to be discharged from the
emergency department without referral for follow-up treatment and were more
likely to leave without completing treatment. The study was conducted by the
Injury Prevention Research Centre, University of Auckland, New Zealand.
Case Report: A Novel Source of Carbon Monoxide Poisoning: Explosives
Used in Construction
This article discusses a rare incident of carbon monoxide poisoning caused by
CO migrating through soil after nearby detonation of explosive charges,
causing the death of one employee. Employees working in a newly installed,
unconnected manhole without incident and finished shortly before underground
explosives were detonated 50 feet south of the manhole to break up rock and
soil. A worker entering a manhole 45 minutes after the explosion collapsed
within minutes, as did two coworkers who rescued him. One of the workers
died.
Other Studies
* Randomized Clinical Trial of Melatonin After Night-Shift Work: Efficacy
and Neuropsychologic Effects. This study found no beneficial effect of
melatonin on sleep quality, tiredness, or cognitive function in
emergency physicians after night-shift duty, suggesting that it is of
limited value in recovering from night-shift work in emergency
physicians.
* Editorial: Assault-Related Injury: What Do We Know, and What Should We
Do About It? The editorial summarizes the problems associated with
documenting domestic violence and addresses the emergency physician's
responsibility in cases of assault-related injury.
* Editorial: Marijuana and Injury: Is There a Connection? The editorial
discusses the movement to promote the medicinal use of marijuana and
issues surrounding marijuana research.
* Case Report: Death by "Ecstasy": The Serotonin Syndrome? The case
report discusses the case of a 20-year old women who had ingested
2 tablets of MDMA for recreational purposes.
Annals of Emergency Medicine is the peer-reviewed journal of the American
College of Emergency Physicians, a national medical society representing
almost 20,000 physicians who specialize in emergency medicine. ACEP is
committed to improving the quality of emergency care through continuing
education, research, and public education. Headquartered in Dallas, Texas,
ACEP has 53 chapters representing each state, as well as Puerto Rico and the
District of Columbia, and a Government Services Chapter representing emergency
physicians employed by military branches and other government agencies.
SOURCE American College of Emergency Physicians
CO: American College of Emergency Physicians
ST: District of Columbia
IN: HEA
SU:
09/10/98 19:51 EDT http://www.prnewswire.com
to the 1998 Daily News index for September 10-16