Crossings

meaning.

___1___

A shimmering moon cast silvery light over the arid desert country producing deep violet shadows. The small flashlight was unnecessary. The man called La Mula in his native language walked north. The compass pointed unerringly toward his destination. He had been walking for hours with more ahead. The naked land at the border left him exposed and visible beneath the moon’s luminosity but before him, he could discern the land changed. With each mile north, small trees emerged. Soon he would be hidden in dense thickets and rolling country. Vincente who had safely crossed three times told him this. This was Jorge’s first time.

Sweat poured from his brow and dampened dark-colored clothing although the night air was cool. He stopped, his throat dry and found the bottle of water from the pack, drinking deeply. The water was warm and tasted of plastic. With a sleeve, he mopped his brow studying the arid landscape in the dim light. Jorge was afraid – afraid to stop, afraid to proceed, afraid to turn back. He slipped the backpack on a shoulder and resumed walking. No tengo ninguna opción.

Somewhere ahead was an American road where he would be picked up, relieved of his burden, paid and transported to safety in America. Getting into the United States was the sole reason he risked his life for the Martinez brothers.

Besides the small compass, he carried a MAC 11 machine pistol strapped to a hip, a backpack with food and water, a small flashlight, and handcuffed to his left wrist was a metal case painted black. Inside were illegal drugs. He didn’t care about drugs except that they were his passports north.

Jorge hadn’t wanted the gun but was told to protect the metal case with his life. The Indians that owned the land watched and were protective of it. Twice Vincente said he was shot at but fled into trees and safely reached the road. He admonished Jorge to be cautious and bold at the same time. Vincente said, Sea prudente e intrépido, mi amigo. The cartel would not accept the loss of the case. But to take it meant removing the handcuff from his wrist and the easiest way to do that was to cut off his hand. Jorge shuddered at the thought. No debo fallar. Mi familia depende de mí. The words in English rose in his brain. I must not fail. My family depends on me. It is important to learn the gringo’s language. I must practice.

Jorge stopped again to listen and turned around, ears straining for sound, eyes searching for movement. A sound. He heard something. A bird or small animal, perhaps? The night was reserved for them not poor Mexicans wandering across the desert heavily burdened. Once more the sound. Scraping. The clatter of pebbles shifting under foot. Feet. Human or animal, he could not tell. He could run but he was weighted with many things. He crouched. No more sounds met his ears and no shadows moved in the still air. Jorge straightened, relieved, to walk north again.

A slight rise hid a man on horseback. With a word and gentle tug at the reins, the horse ceased it’s stamping but bobbed its big head in reply. The man silently slid from the saddle, dropped behind a rock, watched his prey rise from a crouch. The black, scoped rifle reflected no light as a warning to the crosser. The reticle found his prey, centered on its head. He confirmed the accuracy of his aim, let out a breath, held it and fired. The bullet ran true but the man knew that as he squeezed the trigger. Jorge did not feel it enter his head or leave after exploding much of his skull. The report came a half second later. By then, Jorge was dead.

The rider approached and halted the horse beside the body. I kill them for you, Tom. This was his second kill. Another Mexican drug runner was buried nearby. The Indian shook his head. Maybe with this one dead you will find someone else’s land to cross. The dead man was small and burdened with same things as the last one. His blood spread across the thirsty sand, quickly drunk down. My morning it would be gone.

The horse was well trained but shied at the smell of blood. With the feet of the Mexican tied to a rope, fastened to the saddle horn, he dragged the body a distance away to a depression surrounded on three sides with large rocks. This was a remote part of the reservation with scant forage for sheep or goats. Absent irrigation, crops would not grow. Only the hardy desert plants dotted the landscape. A mile to the North, the land began to rise in elevation where began the vegetation that supported tribal agriculture.

The soil was dry but loose under the horse’s hooves. After dismounting, retrieving a shovel from the saddle, he selected sites to bury the Mexican and his possessions. He had no need for the drugs or the gun but better to separate the body from the case and gun. A search of the Mexican’s clothes, found no identification. The sharp blade of the shovel separated the handcuff at the wrist. He walked a distance away, dug a hole on a gentle slope and dropped in the case, backpack and gun. After backfilling, he rolled a large rock over the site.

The body needed to be buried deep to prevent scavengers from excavating it. Thirty minutes later, he judged the grave sufficient. Standing over the corpse, he separated what remained of the head with three chopping strokes and placed it in a plastic bag with the hand, looping it over the saddle horn. The headless body rolled into the hole. With the body under several feet of soil and rocks strewn over the grave, he walked the horse a farther distance away and buried the head and hand. If the body were discovered it would be unidentifiable. Finding the head alone would also not yield identification since part of the face was removed with the bullet. It was unrecognizable.

The moon had moved. The shadows lengthened and softened. Satisfied no traces of the dead Mexican and his possessions were visible, he remounted the horse, scanned the horizon for movement and saw none. Dawn was perhaps two hours away. He affectionately patted the neck of the horse and rode into the night. Send another and I will kill him, too.

___2___

Two weeks later Santiago sat quietly in the black Cadillac as it rolled to a stop on the deserted road. Its color matched the blackness of his eyes and the night. He spoke little English but understood more than he could speak with confidence. The driver, Hernando Torres, dressed in a black silk suit that rustled when he moved, ran his hands over equally black, lightly oiled hair, patting it with delicate fingers. The young man watched him in the dim dome light and wondered if the gesture were a sign of nervousness. There was much Spanish blood in this one, he thought as he studied the man’s profile. Arrogance, class, wealth and light skin came with Spanish blood in Mexico.

Torres motioned to the Mexican man’s wrist and who offered it for the handcuff. The other bracelet was locked to a metal case.

This is your first time, Santiago. Did you understand all that I told you?

Santiago nodded.

You get out here. A sign marking the entrance to the reservation is fifty feet that way. Wait there until you hear the vehicle approach. Then, flash the flashlight twice but remain hidden. If the headlights also flash twice, present yourself. The driver will lead you through the reservation to the Mexican border.

Santiago climbed from the big Cadillac admiring it. As he began to close the door, Torres said, You must reach your destination in three hours. Do not fail, Santiago. If there is trouble, use the phone I gave you to contact me immediately. Just push the button as I instructed. I will see it and call you. Do you understand?

Santiago nodded again but said nothing. He was frightened of what might happen - of the Apache Indians, the American Border Patrol and other things he could not put into thoughts.

Torres reached across the seat and handed Santiago a sealed envelope. Give this to the one who picks you up.

Santiago closed the door as Torres reached across to ease its final inch. He would be paid when he reached the place in Mexico and the handcuff would be removed. The case he knew, contained money. He had no way to know how much. The lock on the case had numbers. Without the correct numbers, it would not open. He sighed as he bent low in the prickly brush. Better, he did not know. Knowing anything more was a greater risk to his life. The cartel paid well. He needed their money. The money in the case was probably more than his young family would need for many years, perhaps for life in their village but stealing the money meant certain death to him and everyone in his family and anyone who knew him.

He waited. His thighs were burning when headlights of the pickup truck appeared over a rise in the rocky road, skittering on the uneven ground. Santiago blinked the flashlight twice. The vehicle’s headlight responded. As he stepped into the road, the truck stopped. The passenger side door swung open. Santiago climbed in and handed the envelope to the Apache man who stuffed it into his shirt. No words were exchanged.

The slow drive south across the reservation required two hours on roads that scarcely deserved the name. Santiago guessed they were back roads where they would not be seen and he noticed the Indian man drove with parking lights only on that moonless night.

Santiago did not think of things like right and wrong, legal or illegal when it came to what he was doing. The cartels controlled much in Mexico. They provided many jobs to poor people like himself. Working for the cartels was dangerous, everyone knew. Many died at their hands. He understood the risk. But what of the risk that his family would starve or his wife would lose her job as a maquiladora in the big American factory? Life was risks.

Rosa made $7.50 per day calculated in American dollars working ten hours each day. He made more than that carrying money across the border for the cartel in one night than she made in nearly two weeks. Santiago hoped that if he did well, he would be given more jobs. Carrying the drugs into America paid even better, Miguel had explained. Miguel, his friend, had been working for the cartel for six months. They lived in the same, small Mexican town. Miguel was to use a different route across a large farm for his next crossing. Hernando Torres, the man in the silk suit used both ways across the border. Santiago wondered and asked in the cantina drinking tequila with Miguel if one route was safer than the other but Miguel had crossed only the Indian reservation and not the rancho. Miguel confided another courier warned him that a tall Mexican man, the foreman, protected the way across the farm or rancho. He carried a rifle and pistol and guarded the property. At this, Miguel scoffed, held up an arm and flexed the bicep. I carry a powerful gun. He will be afraid to confront me. I will cross and tell him he is a coward. Miguel laughed but Santiago thought crossing the rancho sounded dangerous and insulting the foreman, stupid.

Is this the first time you cross the rancho, Santiago asked.

"Sí. But I am not afraid. I kill him if he shoots at me. I run very fast, he will not hit me."

Does the owner who employs the foreman not care if you cross?

"We do them no harm. Señor Torres says it is very safe. It is large and much land is untended. It is easy to avoid the farmed hectares where the foreman works."

You have been told this?

I must go, Santiago, Miguel had announced with impatience in his voice.

Santiago furtively eyed the Apache driver whose features blended into the dark of the cab softly illuminated by the dashboard lights. He marveled at the different face of the driver from his. How people who occupied the same lands could be so different was a mystery. Apaches had lived on this land for countless centuries. Some lived in Mexico long before the border was created by America and Mexico. They had moved freely north and south. Now, a fence blocked that passage in many areas and English and Spanish were the new languages of the ones who controlled all lands. His people, the Azteca ruled Mexico for centuries before the Spaniards came but their language was lost to him. Spanish was forced on them. Now, he was Mestizo, one of many of mixed Indian and Spanish blood that prevailed in Mexico.

The Apaches all spoke English and were American citizens as he was a citizen of Mexico. But that was not as it had been. Santiago sighed. Much injustice accompanied these two countries. The Azteca fought and lost to Cortez in Mexico City then surrounded by a beautiful lake. The Apaches who bravely warred against the America cavalry had also lost and were now few. Life was not just. He welcomed the cartel’s blood money, feeling it defiance against the government that did nothing for the poor.

The old pickup drove slowly through the night, sometimes west, sometimes east and even north for short distances but always it returned to head south. His back ached with the heavy metal case on his lap. The driver did not look at him. Behind their heads was a big rifle. Santiago guessed the driver had a pistol somewhere or a big knife. For this crossing, he was given no weapon. Miguel boasted of the gun he carried but Santiago did not want to carry one. He was glad that Señor Torres had not demanded. He knew nothing of guns. Little game roamed near their village. Guns were useful to shoot people. The cartels were good at that.

The truck stopped and the Apache man turned off the engine. He glanced at Miguel with a finger pressed to his lips. Total darkness enveloped the vehicle. Inside and outside looked the same. Santiago held his uncuffed hand before his face. He could barely see it. They sat.

Santiago heard nothing but the faint clicking of the engine as it cooled. He heard the driver roll the window down to listen. The sounds of their uneven breathing were all that met his ears. Seconds later, Santiago heard the sound of hooves moving over rocky soil. The Apache’s breathing stopped. He placed on hand on Santiago’s arm. Santiago held his breath. The hoof sound became louder, then stopped. The driver flashed his lights. A horse had stopped in front of the truck before trotting into the night. In the unexpected brightness, Santiago blinked but he was sure no one sat the horse. The Apache let out a breath and restarted the truck. Their journey continued for ten more minutes before the pickup halted. Darkness again surrounded them.

Get out here.

Santiago looked at the Indian thinking of the words in English. Where is Mexico?

Hundred feet across the dry wash ahead. Use the flashlight. You’ll see lights in the distance after a few minutes. Little Mexican town. You’re on your own. Get out. I don’t want to get caught with you in my truck.

Santiago slid from the vehicle. The Apache whispered, Don’t slam the door. I’ll close it.

The truck backed into the darkness. Santiago heard the sound of the tires fade. Before it disappeared, the driver turned on the headlamps. Santiago saw the beams jiggle and juke as the vehicle bounced on the rocky terrain. The Apache driver was now in a hurry.

Several miles to the East on the next night, Miguel Peña sat in the black Cadillac as the sun dropped close to the horizon. The road was quiet between Blue Mesa and Douglas. Torres had selected this location to drop Peña because his surveillance of it from the town of Douglas confirmed that it was not often traversed at night.

"You will get out here. This is your first crossing to Mexico on the rancho."

"Si, Señor Torres. I am ready."

Excellent, Miguel. I know you will not fail me.

"No, Señor. Miguel cleared his throat. I have heard a man, El Capataz, guards the land with guns."

Are you afraid, Miguel?

"No, no, Señor Torres. I fear no man."

Then you will have no problem.

What if I should see this man?

Avoid him. I do not want this crossing endangered. Do you understand, Miguel?

"Si, Señor Torres."

Walk two miles and then cut through the brush to the South. You will be on land that meets the border with Mexico. Walk south until you reach the border. Cross into Mexico. You will be met about a kilometer into our country. More questions?

Peña again shook his head vigorously. No. No questions. He replied in halting English.

In truth, Torres had no real knowledge of the land or the ranch although several crossings had been successfully made in both directions. A satellite map had shown the narrow distance that bordered Mexico but it, along with the short stretch of land on the reservation, had no fence. The ranch land was private and thus not patrolled by the American government. That was its singular appeal.

Torres applied a handcuff to Peña’s wrist and the metal case that contained the money he owed the Martinez brothers for the last shipment. Torres’ practice was to divide the money he owed into several deliveries to protect against loss. But this time, Peña was carrying more than his usual amount to pay for the increased size of the shipments he had ordered.

Torres worked a smile onto his handsome features. You have been a good worker, Miguel. Next crossing, I will see to increasing your pay. Torres slapped Peña on the shoulder, reached again to the backseat and produced a black gun. Protect the money with your life. Now, go.

Peña accepted the gun, a MAC 11, with a long extended magazine. He was given this type of gun before and was comfortable with its operation. It was an illegal, fully automatic firearm.

The second the Cadillac’s door closed under his hand, Torres U-turned and drove in the direction of Douglas. Peña stood for a moment watching the taillights disappear around a bend in the road. One of the lights blinked off and on. He had been an auto mechanic in Tijuana for a short time before the Siren’s call of the cartel brought him to his new career. I could fix that.

From his office in Phoenix the following evening, Torres received the phone call expecting a lover on the line. Instead, the voice of Bernardo Martinez spoke to him in Spanish. The one named Santiago arrived with the money. He was paid. But last night the one coming across the farm did not arrive. We have searched at the border. He did not make it. You owe $150,000, Hernando. You have three days to produce the money. We have had a good business relationship. That is why we have given you the extra time.

Bernardo? You have always received the money.

And you have always received our product. When the two mules disappeared on the Indian reservation, we did not blame you. We replaced the product but when you say you sent the money and it does not arrive, you are responsible.

Bernardo? It was I who set up the safe passage across the Indian lands.

A wise move that benefited you. We have others like you, Hernando.

We are related, cousin.

Bernardo laughed. We do not care. But since you are family, Raphael has contacted an American to meet you. He will lead you to the farm where your man disappeared. Pay him $400 for his work. You will find him waiting by a Jeep in four hours on Ridge Rock Road near the town of Blue Mesa. Find your courier and find the money. Go now, Hernando, time is running out. Tick, tock, cousin.

As Torres drove toward Blue Mesa under an Arizona sky as black as his car, he considered that he knew no one on the big farm. He needed an arrangement that mirrored the one he had established with the Indian. Many Apaches lived on the reservation. Many needed money. Only one owned the farm and might not be tempted.

Torres recalled his first encounter with the tall Indian, John Menendez in Phoenix. Since that meeting, the Indian who performed using the name Jay True Heart had provided safe passage across the reservation. Torres had learned much about him.

Menendez stage name was his invention. His tribal surname resulted from Mexican blood on his father’s side. Menendez was among those rare individuals who could play any instrument. He studied music composition briefly at the University in Tempe before beginning his career.

On stage, he accompanied his mellifluous baritone voice with an arching vibrato on guitar. He added traditional songs performed on a long wooden flute with a haunting sonorous tone. The courting flute was a traditional Apache instrument. His was beautifully made with a distinctive wooden bird saddle and the end carved as a duck head. An Apache drum provided a rhythmic touch to his recitation of traditional Apache stories and their cosmology tale. Copies of his CD’s were sold at every performance. He had been on stage in Britain, Germany and Japan over the years. But his popularity waned and requests for him to perform diminished.

On the reservation, Torres learned Menendez remained a popular figure in his buckskin accouterments not of the Apache tradition. He performed at tribal functions and ceremonies. His naturally affable personality contrasted with the dour faces sported by many of his Apache male counterparts. Women loved him but he did not love them back and perhaps the knowing of that contributed to their open affection. His generosity earned him the friendship of many. Menendez spent or gave away the money he made.

Menendez had booked himself to perform at an exclusive men’s club in Phoenix. It was not a club with women. All the performers were male – he among them. After a set, Torres thought had gone well, with the Indian’s voice strong and clear and fingers flying over the guitar strings, he approached Menendez to join him at his table.

As Menendez sat, Torres directed his young male companion to spend a few minutes at the bar. This he happily did and Menendez noticed was in deep conversation with two men in seconds.

I enjoyed your performance. I understand you come from the Blue Mountain Apache Reservation on the Mexican border.

They are my people. Menendez exaggerated his Apache accent when performing.

Forgive me, Mr. True Heart. Would you care for something to drink?

Mineral water.

San Pellegrino?

Menendez nodded.

After a waiter with a shirt unbuttoned to his navel and pants that fit like a second skin delivered the beverage, Torres revealed his identity. I am Hernando Torres. I own a tequila import business here in Phoenix. I am a naturalized American citizen but maintain strong ties in Mexico. The liquor I import comes from my native country.

Menendez sat quietly.

We have just met but I have need of assistance and will pay generously for it.

What type of assistance?

Torres made eye contact with his former table partner nodding him to remain at the bar. From time to time, I need to get things into and out of northern Mexico. I have people who carry these things.

What kinds of things?

That’s not important but they are not things that could be carried through at border crossings.

Drugs?

Torres waved a dismissive hand and offered a smile. That’s really not important. What I need is discrete and reliable safe passage across the reservation to the Mexican border from the North boundary of your reservation and in the opposite direction. Nothing more.

Menendez hadn’t worked in two months. During the height of his career, he wouldn’t have considered performing in a club such as this or consider such an offer. He was broke. What is this worth to you, Mr. Torres?

We’ll get to that. Are you interested, Mr. True Heart?

Maybe.

For the next thirty minutes, they discussed the logistics of Torres’ need. Menendez asked numerous questions. Torres provided succinct answers. At the end, Torres decided to offer a small amount for the work. Menendez countered far higher. You need to understand, Mr. Torres. Our reservation has a professional police force. The Bureau of Indian Affairs is involved with the management of the reservation. The FBI investigates federal and capital crimes. What you have proposed is illegal. Whatever you are smuggling, my risks and those of the tribal members I recruit are many and the punishment for capture high. You have my price.

Torres leaned back with another smile. Agreed.

The price was lower than he was prepared to pay. For several months, he had been testing the route across the reservation. Two of his couriers disappeared coming north and what they carried lost. He believed Indians watching their lands for intruders killed them. If True Heart could deliver safe passage, Torres would be money ahead.

Torres hadn’t realized that Menendez felt like mana had fallen from heaven. The Great Spirit is watching over me. The entire enterprise rested on one thing – finding men who would transport Torres’ couriers for money, who would keep their mouths shut to everyone and not spend their earnings in ways that aroused suspicion. He would recruit solely from among his family and clan. Even then, careful vetting was essential. Menendez had offered his first smile to Torres at the word: Agreed, followed by a shaking of hands.

After Menendez had returned home late that night, he sat until dawn considering what he had done. The risks were great and a trickle of fear accompanied the perspiration that dampened his shirt.

Little doubt illegal drugs were moving north and money south with Torres’ couriers. I find the right men. We make a few runs and I raise my price. Not many safe routes were available or Torres would not have made such a risky offer to a complete stranger. He is desperate. The rumor was that incidents occurred with drug traffickers on reservation land in past months. He needs me. He smiled before falling asleep in a chair knowing he was probably the single individual on the reservation that could assemble and manage the operation – and not get caught. And that was the beginning.

Torres cleared his mind of Menendez. Until Miguel and the money were recovered, he had no greater task. Menendez would see no more business before that. Despite having demanded more money, he knew Menendez had come to count on his couriers. The performer’s voice had later broken in a show in Tucson. The press coverage had been scathing.

___3___

Torres and the Martinez brothers may have thought theirs was an illegal drug monopoly on that arid patch of borderland but another man thought differently. His life had brought him to one penetratingly clear conclusion. His time was now and his new business would be the manufacture and sale of methamphetamine.

Locating an abandoned trailer or shack on the northern part of the Apache reservation had taken four nights. He knew they existed and remembered the many he broke into years before. As a boy, he explored the area and the adjacent federal land during hunting trips with his father from their home in the small town of Blue Mesa. His father, part Apache but not sufficiently so to qualify to tribal membership, taught him how to move soundlessly through open country without leaving a trace. Then his father left. His mother offered no explanation although he often heard arguments late into the night. One day he had a dad, the next he didn’t. Their lives went on.

Later, as a troubled teen he snuck onto the reservation to hunt but added the excitement of breaking into Apache homes. He stared at and fingered their meager possessions as he rummaged through a trailer or house. They rarely had much to steal. Their Indian objects, not the mundane white man stuff, were interesting and unusual. Many were displayed reverentially. He remembered stories his father had told him about the power of native amulets. Sometimes he thought he felt a force emanating from the baskets, blankets, and myriad beaded and feathered objects. Stealing was not his goal. Sometimes he went not to hunt but to prove he could invade and escape without detection. Sometimes to seek the mystical force he could not define. For several years, he moved stealthily across their land to enter their simple homes, without being seen.

Tribal police searched for him upon complaints from tribal members. The force was too proud and stubbornly independent to seek assistance from the BIA or FBI. As time passed, the Apache police officers began to believe the superstition. He became The Ghost Who Moves Things Around. Everyone knew a ghost could not be captured. Tribal religious leaders were called to exorcise it whenever tribal members found evidence the ghost had entered. In time, all homes were cleansed of the entity because things stopped being discovered in places they had not been put. Fred Alchesay, the tribe’s lead shaman, received full credit.

The ghost had returned but for a different purpose.

He was searching for a remote place to set up operations far from prying eyes. Some Indian families ran sheep in the rugged area. He had skirted their small campfires. Most trailers and shacks were occupied. Finding a sufficiently remote and abandoned structure required some looking. On the fourth night, he found the perfect place. It was an ancient twenty-foot Airstream trailer. Windows were broken, the tires had long ago been taken and the interior was trashed but he only needed four walls and a roof. It didn’t matter if the roof leaked because July in southern Arizona produced little to no rain. Besides, everything he would pack in was waterproof or easily protected.

Getting the equipment to the trailer took another three nights and one more to pack in the raw ingredients. The chemistry was exacting and difficult. The lab equipment was expensive and time consuming to acquire. It had taken all of his profits from selling marijuana since his release from jail to finance the setup.

The man memorized the steps to produce methamphetamine as taught to him by his cellmate. That education took two months. Although he never completed the steps, he was confident in his ability to succeed. The profits from the sale of meth were astronomically greater than marijuana. The best part was that users were quickly addicted to become desperate repeat customers for the remainder of their short lives. The one admonition drilled into his head was: Don’t take your product, Cue Ball. Cue Ball was his prison name because of his shaved head and very white skin. You’ll be dead and broke in six months. Stick to weed or cocaine as your personal drugs of choice. Meth will be your business. Treat it as one.

And that’s what he planned to do. He would cook the meth in the trailer, pack out the product and sell it, not in his hometown, but farther away in Douglas and Nogales. He was well aware that the Mexican cartels had expanded to add Mexican-produced meth to their Columbian cocaine and marijuana exports. More recently, Mexico had become a major grower of poppies and supplier of black tar, the precursor to powdered heroin. The cartels were notoriously ruthless and deadly but he hoped his small, remote operation would go unnoticed.

Obtaining the lab equipment wasn’t difficult. Getting the ephedrine proved more challenging. Small quantities could be purchased as decongestant tablets but sellers had been alerted to its illegal use and limited the sale to small quantities. This entailed traveling many miles to buy the remedy from different retailers. The other option was to find an illegal seller of larger quantities. Gangs in the Los Angeles area were a resource he learned in jail but dealing with them could be dangerous. For his first batches, he decided to rely on the retail sellers. It was the work of a week from Phoenix to the North and Nogales in the South before he accumulated a sufficient quantity of ephedrine. Bulk ephedrine was imported into Mexico from China for Mexican manufacture of methamphetamine and transport north into the United States along well-established cocaine routes. Around San Diego, tunnels perforated the soil across the border like Swiss cheese. The man could not compete with that scale of operation but what he could make and sell would greatly improve his fortunes.

With nervous hands, he donned the protective clothing and respirator. Phosgene and carbonic dichloride gas were lethal byproducts. The main reason for spending so much time to find a remote production location was the problem of toxic vapors vented into the air. In large operations he was told, they even killed adjacent trees and the smell would alert locals. But his was a small operation and not likely to arouse suspicion unless someone happened by. For that he carried a gun at his hip in a holster. One sentence in prison was enough. He did not plan a return visit.

The cooking process took all night. With practice, that time would shorten. After dawn, he loaded his backpack with the methamphetamine and hiked off the reservation to his vehicle left hidden in a mesquite thicket near a road.

That night he would make his first trip to Douglas to sell his product. Through his prison contacts, he lined up a buyer for all he could produce. The buyer was an upstanding citizen - someone fearful of working with or through the Mexican cartels but happy to buy from him. The buyer had friends who were eager to try meth. The man smiled as he reached his pickup, unlocked the doors, tossed the backpack behind and lit a joint. The old truck bounced on the rough terrain to reach the road to the town of Douglas, a few miles north of the Mexican border but without a crossing. The stubble on his balding head matched an equal growth to his face and bristled under a hand that rubbed burning eyes. Despite precautions to avoid breathing in toxic fumes, the respirator leaked a small amount and the protective clothing also not chemical proof. I need better protective gear or I won’t live long enough to enjoy the profits. A cough racked his body as he stared at the joint and flicked it through an open window as the truck settled onto the county road. Seconds later, he noticed headlights appear behind. It’s two o’clock in the fucking morning. Who the fuck is out at this time of the night? He missed the irony of his presence.

Flashing lights danced in the rearview mirror. A touch of siren pulled him to the side of the road as he slammed hands on the steering wheel and hurriedly shoved the pistol under the seat. Of all the fucking luck. If he looks in the backpack, he’s dead.

The sheriff’s deputy approached the passenger side of the pickup. License and registration.

He handed the license. You wanna tell me what I did?

Remain in the car, sir. The deputy disappeared into his cruiser. Minutes passed before he returned. The vehicle is not registered to you.

It’s my girlfriend’s. I borrowed it.

The deputy shone a flashlight over the man and the interior. What is her name and address?

He recited the information correctly.

Do you have any firearms in the vehicle?

No

"Possession of firearms is a violation of