WICKED

Ana’s stare pierced right through me as soon as our eyes locked. I came out of the judge’s chamber feeling defeated, surrendered. My fate had been sealed. I would spend an eternal doom that couldn’t be shaken, much less saved, by anyone’s soft words.

It was evident by the look on her face that the judgment call warranted only pity, but I didn’t want it. Not from her, not from anybody.

Without saying a word and keeping my head down, I walked passed her.

She, too, remained silent.

The guards took me back to the cell upstairs, and as usual, the guys asked me what the outcome was.

“La Penitenciaria Victoria,” is all I uttered. They looked at one another, each mute and still. Not offering a condoling, uplifting or hopeful phrase since they knew it wouldn’t help my odds against a place like that.

They’re silence confirmed what I already knew. That where I was being sent, was a horrible place with dire consequences.

I told them that I would be transferred that evening after court hours ended.

Without hesitation, and in my “big boy” mode, I began filling the plastic shopping bag that Ana gave me a few weeks back, with my clothes, books and toiletries, and whatever else I owed.

For Tono’s courtesy and care, I gave him some money. It was the least I could do to reward him for his kindness.

By 5:30 that afternoon, the steel door opened and my name was called. I said my good-bye’s and as customary, held out my wrists for the guard to cuff me.

Again, we started our journey through the corridor and down the stairs towards the back door that led to the street.

We were a group of 60 inmates which included the four bastards that robbed me in the other cell. They were all between the ages of 18 to 35, me being one of the oldest.

As soon as the guards opened the back door, a horrendous outpouring of cries was unleashed. The situation turned into chaos with mothers, sisters, brothers, wives, mistresses, fathers, and elders; crying, yelling, shouting profanities at the police-men.

Even though the guards tried to avoid contact with the crowd and prisoners, it was impossible for them to control them all.

Non-the-less, in between shoves and forceful pulls, we were led to an old bus that waited for us.  Each of us was given a “boleto al infierno”, a ticket to hell.

IN THE FLESH

I was “jumped” and left trembling on the filthy cold concrete floor as if I were an animal with only my underwear to cloth me.

“Hey you!” a man screamed from the corner of the room. “Come, sit over here.”

I approached him carefully, but obligingly.

Breathing was challenging due to the cigarette and marijuana smoke that prevailed like a huge cloud over soul-less bodies. Stall smoke stuck to the walls and ceiling, creating a solid greasy grime that contributed to the already foul smell and look of the place.

Most of the inmates wore their underwear. Some because they were assaulted like me, or because they sold their clothes for whatever narcotic they needed. Others were almost naked just to counter-act the heat.

“I’m sure you’re hungry,” the man told me. “Here, have some of this.” He held out a paper bag that concealed another bag full of scrambled eggs.

Even though it didn’t look appetizing, I ate it. It was hard to ignore my hunger.

“I know it isn’t the best, but here you don’t have a choice.”

“Thanks.” I said after swallowing the final mouthful.

“I’m Angelo.”

“I’m…” I thought about giving my fake name, but there was no point to it.

“I’m Tony.” We shook hands and I kept close to him.

“You here for drugs?”

“Yeah…” I replied. “What about you?”

“Murder. I killed someone. My best friend. At least I thought he was my friend. I found him fucking my wife.”

“What about your wife? What happened to her?”

“I killed her, too.”

“Shit!” I exclaimed loudly.

The man produced a plastic bag with water. “Here, have some.”

“How long you’ve been here?”

“Around a month.”

“A month! That’s crazy!”

“I know it’s crazy but if you don’t adapt, you’ll die. I’m waiting to get 30 years.”

“Oh God…” I moaned, thinking of my own fate.

Angelo just looked at me and smiled.

“Listen…” I said. “I need to use the bathroom…where is it?”

“Just follow your nose, it’s over there.” He pointed to the end of the cell. “You won’t miss it.”

“I need toilet paper.”

Angelo laughed as if it were a joke. “That doesn’t exist here. Go take a “shit” in the hole on the ground and just wash your ass with the water next to it.”

I made my way across the crowded cell without shoes, inhaling the horrendous odor that couldn’t escape me while holding in the eggs—and my sanity—so that I wouldn’t vomit.

The floor was flooded with about 5 inches of dirty water, a pool of mixed corporal fluids that covered my feet.

While I “went,” three young men wrestled with each other to reach the trickle of water coming from the wall. I slipped right passed them and washed myself as best as I could.

The experience was just the beginning of unimaginable nightmares. Terrifying events that would encompass my life there.

Devils Allure

I arrived in Cali and two of Mr. Mario’s—my friend—assistants drove me to Ciudad Jardin, one of the high trend areas of the city. Minutes later we were in front of a beautiful estate where he lived. 

He greeted me at the entrance door and showed me into the massive living room where I could observe an assortment of contemporary art that hung from the walls. He was in his fifties and conveyed a distinguished and unparalleled flair. His brother, Geraldo, was just as tasteful and sophisticated, always wearing designer suits and looking well groomed.

“It’s been a long time my friend, where have you been?” Mr. Mario asked.

“I live in Cancun now. I have a family and some businesses there.”

“What brings you back to Colombia?”

I explained my situation in elaborate detail. He was all ears and I knew he believed me. I could see it in his face.

“Who is this man you owe money to?”

“Mr. Montero…”

I identified the man and he immediately had his assistant locate his number. Without hesitation, and much to my surprise, he called him up and dove right into discussion. He told him how things were going to be handled and what was at stake. He also talked about how many businesses we executed together and lied about a debt to put fear in him. He said that I owed him money and that if anything happened to me, he would be held responsible for the payment.

Mr. Mario hung up and with a smirk, looked at me.

“Done…now tell me, what is there to do…? I got you more time but you still have to pay that money.”

“Let me put some ideas together and I’ll contact you in 2 days,” I assured him.

Once again, the devil had lured me in.

The Way Of The 80’s

In the early 80’s, I had established solid connections with some respected members of a cartel organization in Colombia and a few of  them wanted me to “handle” their merchandise in Miami. However, I cared more about making deals with them as opposed to acting as a liaison because this earned me more money.

I was always loyal to my associates paying them first before taking my share. Erick was working as a transporter for Pablo Escobar (Pablo Escobar was a Colombian drug lord and narco-terrorist, an elusive cocaine trafficker and an extremely rich criminal) and I decided to merge some of my merchandise with him. I remember he even had some sort of insurance that guaranteed me payment no matter what happened to the product, if I paid a little extra up front.

Since I had my phony but legitimate import-export business (as a form of concealment), I’d visit the airport several times a week. I was sending all types of merchandise to Colombia. The U.S. duties for imported goods were so strict that I implemented connections with customs in Bogota and other parts of the country—at a very high cost—so that every time I’d send something from my customers in Miami, they would clear it in less than a day. This angle worked to my advantage. I would promote a guaranteed turn around that kept customers happy but most of all, loyal.

My name gained more recognition in the Miami Colombian community when I released a Spanish television commercial that showcased a man behind a desk answering a phone. His tag line was: “I can’t believe the package hasn’t arrived yet, I should have called Airxpress.”

Furthermore, a devastating mud slide that buried the mountainous town of Armero in which more than 20,000 citizens died, gave way to a slew of people who went through me to get canned goods, clothing, money and even medical supplies, to displaced victims of the natural disaster.

Throughout my business dealings in that vast land, I became emotionally attached to its people, culture, and nature. My criminal activities were just a part of who I was. The other facets cared deeply for the poor, hungry, uneducated and homeless. I became rooted in the essence of Colombia’s beauty and magic, and I still regard it as a special place.

Upon hearing the devastation in Armero, I immediately went to W.Q.B.A. radio station and pledged $2,000 dollars towards their relief efforts. I guess the disc-jockey must have announced it because in an instant, Airxpress was swarmed with donations and contributions to their compatriots. People from all walks of life bombarded my shop with household appliances, money, and goods; but they also brought in guns, rifles, and a barrage of pornographic material.

Because the outpouring of sexually explicit items was so over-the-top, daring, and shocking, and because the Colombian consulate sent me a letter stating that they were aware of the disgraceful and “immoral” shipments I was sending to their country, I thought it best to forfeit my help.

The constant vigilance of other people’s shipments became a nuisance and I didn’t want any part of it anymore.

I would find another way to curtail my drug-trafficking enterprises and continue to prevail without end.