Trial by Fire

8

There was little enthusiasm that morning for much of anything. Even the ceiling fans gave the impression that they had no great drive as they spun lackadaisically at half speed around, and around, and around.

Below them, the monotone drone of the current witness reading his prepared statement reminded Ed Lewis of a faulty fluorescent light, a low, annoying buzz that quickly got on your nerves. The witness, a third-echelon flunky from the office of the CIA director, was as exciting as a white plaster wall, but not nearly as interesting. He was dressed in a dark blue, three-piece suit, a white shirt, and a thin red tie that was decorated with those funny little multicolored shapes that looked like pears and didn't have a name. The thin, narrow face, accented by advanced balding at the temples and round horn-rimmed glasses, was indistinguishable from the faces of four out of five bureaucrats who wandered the streets of the capital. Lewis had no trouble seeing that the witness would be just as comfortable conducting audits for the IRS, handling a divorce trial, or prosecuting a malpractice suit. For a moment, Lewis wished the CIA had had the common decency to send over an attractive female spokesperson to deliver the prepared statement like some of the more astute agencies did. At least a well-attired and groomed woman provided a pleasing distraction from the dull, arduous task of patiently listening to drivel while one waited one's turn to verbally rip the witness to pieces. But, Lewis lamented, no such luck today, as he watched the geek from the CIA drone on, and on, and on.

Like most prepared statements, this one was being delivered with a zeal that matched the ceiling fans' slow and tedious rotations. It was cluttered with redundancies, stuffed with embellishments, and liberally sprinkled with caveats. The prepared statement, in short, was ninety percent grade A, government-inspected horseshit. Still, Ed Lewis listened intently, for he knew that there was no such thing as pure horseshit.

Somewhere hidden in the horde of words the witness was issuing was an idea, a grain of truth, a real and cognitive thought. It was the task of Ed Lewis, and the other members of the House Committee on Intelligence, to capture those few precious thoughts and truths as they whizzed by and beat them to death during the questioning that would follow.

The likelihood of that happening this day, however, was quite remote, and the witness knew that. At least his bosses did, which is why only a relatively low-ranking administrative assistant had been sent to deal with the congressional committee. With the summer recess about to begin, Lewis, by pushing for hearings on-the crisis in Mexico, was fighting the annual drive to finish up or postpone all business that might force the congressmen and their staffs to prolong their stays in D.C. Opposition from every quarter, including an occasional plaintive whimper from his own staff, had threatened to postpone the hearings until the Congress met again in October.

It was only through threats and a few well-chosen comments to the press that Lewis had been able to convince his fellow congressmen on the committee to hold preliminary hearings on the failure of the nation's intelligence community to predict and accurately track recent events in Mexico. In an election year, when the race was close, the last thing an incumbent could do was appear to be negligent in his duties, especially when they were connected to the crisis du jour.

Lulled into inattention by the lackluster delivery of the prepared statement, the assembled congressmen took a few seconds to realize that the CIA man had finished. There was a momentary shifting in seats and reshuffling of papers as people throughout the chamber stirred themselves back into a state of mental awareness. When the chairman of the committee finally roused himself to speak, his voice and comments betrayed his lack of interest and focus. Even his questions were rather perfunctory.

The witness, sitting across from the committee members, stared at them through his large, round, horn-rimmed glasses. With his hands folded on the table, he responded to each of the chairman's questions with stock answers that were as uninformative and evasive as they were predictable.

In some cases, Lewis had great difficulty relating what was given as a response to the question that had been asked. Still, no one seemed to mind. A function was being performed. Like cogs, and wheels, and gears of a great machine, the congressional hearing was grinding on as scheduled.

When the floor was turned over to Lewis to ask his questions, he paused before proceeding. Looking over at his colleagues, and then at the witness, he considered his approach for a moment. On one hand, he could follow suit, asking mundane questions that avoided controversy, thereby ensuring that the hearing would end on time and in a nice, neat, tidy manner. Or he could, as his instincts told him to, go for the throat. By choosing the latter, he would be assured some media coverage, incur the wrath of his fellow committee members who wanted to end this session, and, possibly, just maybe, put some people in the intelligence community on notice that their poor performance in Mexico to date would not escape punishment.

Had Lewis chosen the easy out, he would have surprised both friends and foes. A former officer in the National Guard, he had participated as a battalion executive officer in the Persian Gulf war and had experienced, firsthand, the price of poor intelligence. The people who had paid the price for those failures had been his friends and the soldiers who had entrusted their lives into his care. To allow the intelligence community to do whatever it wanted, without regard to consequences, would be, to Lewis, a betrayal of those he had left behind.

He could not, therefore, do otherwise. Of all his congressional duties, Lewis considered the time spent working as a member of the House Intelligence Committee as being the most important and, potentially, as having the greatest impact. He could not, and would not, fluff off the witness simply for the sake of convening on time. Like a samurai warrior about to do battle with an opponent, Lewis held the papers in front of him in both hands like a weapon, leaned forward, and stared the witness in the eyes.

Stressing the word Mister as a way of reminding everyone present that the witness was without a title, an important distinction in Washington, Lewis began his questioning. "I've read the report submitted by your agency, Mister Napier, with great interest. Are you familiar with its contents?"

The CIA rep leaned forward to the microphone. "Yes, Congressman Lewis, I wrote it."

There was a hint of pride in Napier's response, which bothered Lewis.

Everyone knew Napier had written the report. Napier's comment, as far as Lewis was concerned, was nothing more than a stab at publicly receiving credit for simply doing the mundane job he was being paid to do.

After glancing at the report, then at Napier for a few seconds, creating a pause for effect, Lewis grunted, "Uh-huh." Looking back down at the report for a few more seconds, Lewis gave the impression he was considering his next question, even though he already knew what it and the following questions would be. "This report is quite informative, Mr.

Napier. In it, you describe CIA operations in Mexico, providing dates, details, facts, and figures galore. Were someone to read this in isolation, he, or she, could not help but get the impression that we had the means in place to monitor trends and developments in Mexico that could pose a threat to the United States. And yet, the events of June 28 through June 30 of this year do not bear this out. Comparatively speaking, the people at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, were wide awake and alert. How, sir, do you explain the discrepancy between the means available, as delineated in your report, and the poor results, as demonstrated by recent events?"

Napier was prepared for the question. A smirk lit his face as he leaned back in his seat before answering, unaware that he was being set up.

"Well, Congressman Lewis, as a member of the House Committee on Intelligence, you are well aware of the many requirements placed on the intelligence community of the United States. You are also aware, I am sure, of the budget with which we are expected to execute the multitude of tasks necessary to fulfill those requirements. There is, and again, I am sure you are aware, a discrepancy between many requirements and too few funds. We, therefore, have to make hard choices, prioritizing our efforts based on what we perceive to be the greatest need at any given time."

"Who, Mr. Napier, makes those choices?"

Napier responded with a tone that emphasized his confidence, and a wave of his hand. "The director, of course, based on recommendations from subject-matter experts and area specialists."

Lewis cut in. "Such as yourself?"

Cocking his head back, Napier responded, with pride, "Yes sir, like me."

"Do you, Mr. Napier, provide much input to the director concerning affairs in Mexico?"

"Yes, Congressman, of course. Central America, and Mexico in particular, is my responsibility. Just about everything concerning Mexico comes across my desk for my review, screening, and reworking before going to the director, or higher."

Like a skilled hunter, Lewis continued to close, preparing to snare Napier as his prey, while turning Napier's own arrogance against him.

"Then, I assume, Mr. Napier, that you also advise the director on what requirements should be pursued and how best to allocate funds and resources to meet those requirements?"

"Yes, Congressman, of course. The director, responsible for many areas, normally goes along with our recommendations."

For a moment, Lewis had to suppress the urge to lash out at the pompous bureaucrat seated before him. Instead, in a rather nonchalant manner, Lewis struck. "Then, Mr. Napier, you accept responsibility for the CIA's failure to understand the threat to the Mexican government and the Agency's inability to predict the military coup that brought it down at the end of June."

Lewis's statement struck Napier like a bullet. Sitting upright, his face flushed, Napier stared blankly at Lewis before answering. His response was quick and reactive. "I said nothing of the sort. There was no failure on our part. As my report states, the events of this past June were totally unprecedented, unexpected. The spontaneous action on the part of a handful of military officers could not possibly be predicted."

It was now Lewis's turn to settle back in his chair and snicker. "You would have us believe that this entire crisis was a bolt out of the blue, that these thirteen colonels woke up one day and suddenly decided to overthrow their government?"

Napier was angry. Lewis was trying to make him look like a fool and he didn't like it. He was, however, too rattled to respond rationally, and it showed. "Of course not, Mister Congressman. You just don't pull off an operation like they did without detailed planning and preparation.

Such things take time, as well as motivation."

"And your agency detected none of this detailed planning and preparation?

And, Mister Napier, you just stated that the coup was spontaneous.

Which is it? Deliberate and premeditated or spontaneous?"

Caught between a rock and a hard place of his own creation, Napier slowed down this time before answering. His next response was more controlled. "As I have already pointed out, Congressman Lewis, our efforts were oriented toward gathering information on drug-trafficking operations. I didn't believe… the Agency didn't see any need to question the stability of the Mexican government or the loyalty of the Army."

Shooting forward in his seat, Lewis looked Napier in the eyes. "Then, sir, you failed. You failed to do what the CIA is supposed to do. In the twinkling of an eye, the entire government of a nation that shares a fifteen-hundred-mile border with the United States was eliminated and replaced by a group of men whom we know absolutely nothing about. If that, sir, is not a failure, then what is?"

Napier, at a loss for words, fumbled about in an effort to find a suitable response. Lewis, however, did not give him the chance. He had the floor, Napier was on the ropes, and it was time to go for the kill. Lewis was not interested in hacking up a minor flunky. He was going for bigger things, the entire intelligence community. Napier was just a foot soldier who had been placed in the line of fire and had been shot.

Turning in his seat and facing the chairman of the subcommittee, Lewis addressed him specifically, and the entire chamber in general. "As in the past, the United States finds itself caught off guard and reacting to an international crisis. Instead of being forewarned and prepared, the leadership of this country has no better understanding of events in Mexico today, five weeks after the event, than the average man and woman on the street." Holding Napier's report up in one hand and crumpling it like a piece of scrap paper, Lewis drove on. "I find it totally reprehensible that Jan Fields, a simple reporter for a news network, who just happened to be in Mexico City at the time of the coup, is providing better information, and greater insight into this crisis, than an agency that we annually sink billions of dollars into. Now, I really do not expect anyone to justify this, for in my mind, there is no reasonable justification. What we should be interested in, Mr. Chairman, is what Mr. Napier, and his agency, are going to do to correct this glaring deficiency. That, sir, is what we need to work on. We owe it to the American public and ourselves. To do anything less would be criminal."

Though most of his fellow committee members were not at all pleased with the line of attack that Lewis had taken, no one dared challenge him.

His approach had been sound and his speech was real mom-and-apple-pie stuff, the kind that made good press in an election year. After a moment of reflection, the chairman, realizing that these proceedings were out of his control and were not going to be wrapped up before the summer session ended, called a recess. Lewis had skillfully put them on the offensive and now, in order to save face, and perhaps enhance his reelection efforts, the chairman had to figure out where to go with the attack on the intelligence community.

Anyone who knew Jan Fields and followed her work would have been surprised by Ed Lewis's description of Jan as a simple reporter. Were it not for what some called an illogical love affair with a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army, Jan would have been able to name her price in any national network news slot she chose. Even after she had spent three years in self-imposed exile as a simple correspondent, the current situation in Mexico, and her coverage, had once again catapulted her to the front of the pack. It was a feat that pleased her no end and earned her both the respect and envy of a horde of reporters currently flooding Mexico City in search of a story.

It didn't take the correspondents coming into Mexico City long to figure out that, regardless of how good they were, no one could catch Jan Fields. From day one of the crisis, she had dominated the field as if it were an exclusive. While everyone else reported the coup in traditional terms of sinister assassinations and rising military dictatorship, Jan presented to the American public the story behind the story. Opening with a hard-hitting ten-minute WNN special report that laid out in clear and striking terms the story behind the coup, Jan had captured the attention of the American public and never let go. While other reporters found it a struggle to make even a simple phone call, let alone arrange an interview with a government spokesman, Jan floated through the corridors of power like a summer breeze. To her credit was a series of thirteen interviews, one with each member of the ruling council, a visit to each of Mexico's thirty-one states, and numerous tours and trips to every nook and cranny of Mexico City, from the barrios to the presidential palace. Throughout, there was no doubt that Jan was in her element, in charge, and determined to stay there.

Doing so, however, was not as easy as some would think. For every flashy and intriguing interview Jan did, there were three she would rather have ignored. The story she was covering at that moment, the public execution of criminals for crimes against the state, was a prime example.

Most Americans, including Jan, accepted that there had been a need for change in Mexico. The Council of 13 had proven quite astute at mustering support for their cause in the United States through the use of the media and the large Hispanic-American community. Even the most ardent opponent of the new regime in Mexico had to concede that the Council of 13 was justified in seeking a change. It was some of the methods used by the council that caused a major split in the United States between those who pushed for acceptance and support of the new regime and those who advocated action to restore the old government. No issue caused more debate and concern than the use of summary trials, conducted by military tribunals.

From the beginning, the Council of 13 understood that the success or failure of their efforts rested upon their ability to win popular support.

The revolution had to be a revolution of the people, not just of a select group of individuals, if it were to have meaning and a chance to succeed.

As far as the council was concerned, they were doing nothing more than continuing the Revolution of 1917, bringing it back on course and to the people of Mexico, where it belonged. Molina, Guajardo, Zavala, and the others understood this and believed in it. They had to, in order to justify themselves individually and collectively to the striking down of the government that they had sworn to defend. Convincing the people of Mexico, grown cynical after living under a corrupt and ineffective government for decades, was a different, and more difficult matter. The members of the council, trained in the art of war, naturally sought measures that would be swift, positive, effective, and would touch every citizen. The specter of the failed Soviet coup in August 1991 guided their planning as they worked to ensure that they did not repeat the errors of the Soviet conspirators.

The council approached the problem in a cold and analytical manner.

Conditions in Mexico were bad, and they knew those conditions would grow worse, considerably worse, before the council would be able to show a real and widespread improvement for the nation and its people.

The council, as the PRI had done many times before, was going to have to ask an impoverished people to make new sacrifices in order to save their future. What the council had to demonstrate to the people, in a way that would be of immediate and direct benefit to them, was that it not only was sincere about saving Mexico, but that it had the ability to actually w; effect sweeping changes that would reach all citizens. Unable to provide food, money, or jobs to the people, the Council of 13 attacked two of the major things that had contributed to the people's disillusionment with their own government: corruption and unrestrained crime.

The elimination of corruption at all levels throughout the country using swift and uncompromising justice would have many benefits. By administering it at the local level in every state and town, it would be highly visible and provide every citizen in Mexico the feeling that the revolution was a national undertaking, not simply confined to the capital. The use of public executions would also serve as a warning to anyone who entertained the notion of resisting the will of the council. One could turn off the radio or the television or throw away a newspaper. Executions, on the other hand, were an entirely different matter. Most people in Mexico found it difficult to ignore the crack of rifles and the smell of fresh blood H on hot summer days as the council sought to stamp out corruption and consolidate power.

Corruption was a way of life in Mexico. Everyone, or so it seemed to the poor, from the highest official to the policeman on the street, had a price. To Americans, a country that took its civil servants for granted, the idea of having to pay a policeman a bribe in order to get him to investigate a theft was alien. But in Mexico, it was necessary. If you wanted a telephone, you paid for the installation plus a little extra to the clerk before he processed your request, and then to the man who actually installed the phone. Not to pay simply meant not getting the service you desired. Requests for phones could easily be lost in mountains of paperwork.

Just as easily as the man installing the phone could discover that he was missing a part that could take months to order or was back at the office and he didn't know when he could possibly come back your way.

Jan was familiar with the system. That is why she, and all the foreign correspondents, required a "fixer," a Mexican who knew everyone and everything, including the going rates for bribes. The fixer made the necessary arrangements and was paid a set fee to ensure that matters were expedited. Not to have a fixer was akin to wandering through Wonderland without a map.

It was on the elimination of this corruption that the Council of 13 staked its success or failure. Besides, the restoration of law, order, and discipline through direct and immediate action held a natural attraction to military men that could not be resisted.

The system used to execute this policy was a simple one. Any government official suspected of crime or corruption, regardless of rank or position, could be turned in to a representative of the ruling council by any citizen. The representative was normally an Army or Air Force officer, a captain or major who was familiar with the district or town, and was responsible for supervising the operation of government at the local level. Once a citizen had made a complaint, the officer was duty-bound to investigate.

The investigation, by any measure, was quick. An effort was made to corroborate the accuser's statements by questioning other residents or possible victims of the corrupt official. Once the officer was reasonably sure the charges against the accused official had merit, the officer had the official arrested, and convened a summary trial, usually the following day. Evidence from both parties was heard and considered by the officer before he made his judgment and announced his sentence. Execution of the sentence was swift. By far the most popular was death by firing squad, a technique that ensured there would be few appeals, kept the prison population down, provided the victim with a clear and decisive resolution to his accusation, and served as a warning to other real and potential offenders.

To some Americans, educated that rights of the accused took precedence over justice, surrounded by lawyers who used the letter of the law to drag out litigations, and unable to come to grips with capital punishment, the use of military tribunals and public executions seemed barbaric.

Even the most ardent supporter of the new regime in Mexico felt the need to publicly condemn the use of what was being called drumhead justice.

This issue, more than any other single action by the Council of 13, kept the government of the United States from accepting the council as the legitimate representative of the people of Mexico. This was, after all, an election year in the United States and law and order, a perennial issue, was viewed as the key to success or failure for most officials running for office. Most American politicians found it impossible to run on a platform of law and order while supporting a government that was in the process of meting out drumhead justice. So they opted for the easy solution, public condemnation of the Council of 13. After all, there were few votes to be gained in Mexico.

Although the council had expected the government of the United States to protest the policy of summary trials and executions, the members of the council had hoped that the overall good of the long-term benefits would be seen to justify the means. When it became obvious that they had miscalculated, several members had urged the others to abandon the program as a sop to the government of the United States.

Molina, however, supported by Guajardo, saw no other alternative.

The support of the people was critical. On one hand, the program to eliminate corruption had captured the imagination of the people of Mexico and was doing what it had been intended to do, win their support and prepare them for the long struggle to reform Mexico. On the other hand, the same program was preventing the establishment of an accord between the government of the United States and their fledgling government. US acceptance of a legal representative of Mexico, which would be followed by economic assistance and business opportunities, was just as important to their success as the support of the Mexican people. But it was argued that to publicly buckle under pressure from the United States could kill their cause in the eyes of the Mexican people and other Central and South American governments. As Molina had stated in a public address on the subject, "It is better to be poor, hungry, and master of our own house than to be slaves to the whims of a foreign government."

While such a statement appealed to the machismo pride of the Mexican people, it did not solve the problem of winning recognition by the gov ernment of the United States. To do this, Colonel Molina turned to the media, as he had done before, to place their case directly before the American public. Some members of the council urged Molina to recon sider. Allowing the American press to report on the trials and executions was an unnecessary risk which, if not properly handled, could backfire on them. When challenged to come up with a practical alternative, however, none did, and with great reluctance, they accepted Molina's solution.

Molina assigned to Guajardo the task of seeing that the matter be given the priority and emphasis that it deserved.

Guajardo, while stating that he was not the best choice for the job, nevertheless went about doing as he had been directed. It was no surprise to Molina and the other members of the council when Guajardo recommended that Jan Fields be given free rein to study the program and report on it as she saw fit.

At first, Jan Fields had been reluctant to tackle the assignment. There was in the United States, despite the popularity of gratuitous and graphic violence on television, a great reluctance to broadcast real executions.

She recognized, however, that this story was not only important, but also would be a challenge to shoot and have broadcast. Besides, the opportunity to have the freedom to do what she wanted was too hard to resist.

In the end, the very fact that it was such a great challenge was what had driven her to accept the invitation.

The only real hang-up Jan had concerning the story was the need to work with Colonel Guajardo. Within the crew, Ted referred to Guajardo as Darth Vader, while Joe Bob preferred Attila the Spick. Their new fixer called him "the Dark One." Jan found all those names apt and useful.

Despite the fact that he had been instrumental in putting her and her team in the enviable position of being able to go anywhere and talk to anyone, Jan didn't like working with the man. He had even arranged for the new fixer who now traveled with them, a young and very likable man with an excellent command of English. Everyone suspected the fixer was with Mexican Army counterintelligence. His actions, especially in the presence of senior Army officers, reinforced this suspicion. Still, he, like the association with Guajardo, was useful and, in Mexico, very necessary, especially since "the Purification" had begun.

Stories of members of the former government being arrested, tried, and shot the same day were legion. The program, unofficially dubbed "the Purification," was rumored to be widespread and to touch every level of society. There were no news releases that spoke of the Purification and no statistics available that delineated its scope and effectiveness. It was just there, like a shadow, following everyone. And yet Jan and her crew had noted in the streets and markets as they traveled about the country that the people radiated a degree of happiness and energy she had never seen before in Mexico. When the average Mexican discussed the Purification, he did so enthusiastically and with a smile on his face. Only those who had been connected with the former government or who might have been involved in some form of corruption betrayed a sense of apprehension that bordered on fear. On the surface, it appeared as if the Purification was both popular and effective, a theory Jan intended to prove or disprove.

The problems she faced iff putting together her report on the Purification were monumental. In a nutshell, Jan Fields had to create a piece that covered an emotional and controversial subject in a very detached and objective manner. Even her own crew was split over the issue. Ted, her shooter, was adamantly against what he called the nationalization of vigilante justice. Joe Bob, on the other hand, thought it was great, recommending that they take copious notes in the hope that they might convince the president of the United States to adopt a similar program.

Jan, for her part, kept her own counsel. She had her opinion, but worked to keep it to herself and off camera.

The approach she had taken was typical of Jan Fields. Told she had a free hand to do as she pleased, she took Guajardo at his word. Searching for what appeared to be a typical case, Jan had sat in a district courthouse she had selected from a list of all courts in the Federal District of Mexico and waited for a complaint to be filed against a corrupt official or criminal.

She didn't have long to wait.

Within an hour, an old lady dressed in black hobbled into the courthouse and asked to see the captain of the guard. When Jan and her crew followed her into the captain's office, the old lady almost left before filing her complaint. The captain, a friendly man, slightly overweight and with a broad mustache, convinced her to stay. Hesitantly, she told her story.

It seemed a shopkeeper in the market was routinely overcharging his customers. The old lady, tired of this, complained to a policeman. The policeman, feigning concern, followed her to the shop. There, in her presence, he asked the shopkeeper some questions. For his part, the shopkeeper made a great to-do about the high cost of transportation and produce, showing the policeman a ledger that was supposed to be a record of receipts. The policeman, appearing satisfied with the answer, according to the old woman, turned to her and told the woman that all was in order. Not convinced, the old woman left the shop but did not go home.

Instead, she crossed the street and watched through the window. What she saw confirmed her suspicions and angered her. The policeman, convinced she was gone, was sharing a drink with the shopkeeper, laughing and talking. The old woman, sure they were laughing at her, waited until they parted, shaking hands, before coming down to the district court.

The captain, taking notes and nodding on occasion, listened to the old woman while he tried to ignore Jan and the camera. When she was finished, the captain thanked the old woman and, aware of the importance this case had assumed because of Jan's presence, immediately began his investigation.

Much of the work was done by the captain himself. In this way, there were fewer hands involved, a safeguard against new opportunities for compromise and corruption. After a few phone calls, the captain was able to find out the name of the officer who had been on duty in the area where the shop was, which station he worked out of, and when he would be available. He also called several markets and stores, asking each of them what it cost them to purchase selected items and what they, in turn, charged their customers for the same items. He checked the prices with an officer in the Ministries of Commerce and Agriculture. Finished with these preliminaries, the captain, followed by Jan and her crew, left the courthouse for the shop where the old woman had been.

En route, the captain explained that much of their success in finding true offenders was the speed and surprise that they achieved. Jan at first took this as a warning that she and her crew were to be as circumspect as possible. The captain, however, went on, stating that often the sudden and unexpected appearance of an Army or Air Force officer asking questions resulted in immediate and profuse cooperation. "The longer an investigation lasts," he pointed out, "the more time the accused has to fabricate a story. If you come in quickly, without warning, and armed with a few facts, often the accused will crumple under the initial impact and confess in the hope of clemency."

From her seat in the van, Jan leaned forward with a mike extended to catch the captain's response. "Do they often get clemency for such cooperation, Captain?"

The captain turned and looked out the front window, considering his answer. Then he turned back to Jan. "In truth, Senorita Fields, even if I knew the statistics which you are interested in, I could not tell you. The number of people involved in these cases, the total number of cases that have been handled, the results of the investigations, and the number and types of sentences carried out are all considered to be state secrets. You see, that is part of the shock value of the Purification. When I walk up to a person under investigation and begin to ask questions, that person has no idea what lies in store for him. He has no way of knowing what his odds are. The number of investigations that have failed to turn anything up is not known or publicized. Only those that result in a conviction are.

Therefore, in the accused's mind, the first image that comes to his head is the worst possible result, a firing squad."

Jan looked at the captain. She must have had a perplexed look on her face, for he smiled and continued. "You see, senorita, a man in shock does not think straight. It is difficult to fabricate a credible cover story while the image of a firing squad is dancing before his eyes. Truthful responses are therefore more likely."

She was still pondering the validity of that position when they arrived at the shop. Stepping from the van, the captain adjusted his uniform, took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, stepped off with a purpose, and entered the shop. With the grace of a circus parade, Jan and her crew followed him in, filming as they went.

The shopkeeper was, as the captain predicted, quite befuddled by his sudden appearance. Though Jan was sure he had noticed her and her crew, the shopkeeper's eyes were riveted on the captain. For his part, the captain.ignored the shopkeeper. Instead, he went to the shelves, took from his breast pocket a small notebook in which he had a list of selected items and their prices at other shops, and began to search for those items.

When he found one, he would compare the price, write down the price on the item in the shop, and continue his search for the next item.

The shopkeeper became quite concerned. Within minutes, and without a word being exchanged, he understood what the captain was doing. His nervousness betrayed itself when he offered to help the captain in any way he could. For his part, the captain ignored the shopkeeper except for an occasional cold, unfeeling glance. By the time the captain had completed his search, the shopkeeper was shaking. Still, the captain did not address him directly, brushing him aside as he went to the counter, thumped his notebook down on the wooden surface, and demanded that someone bring him the shop's ledger and receipts for merchandise. In short order, these were produced by a young girl with dark skin and round eyes that betrayed her apprehension.

Using a soft and friendly tone with the girl, the captain asked her to find the entry that listed the cost to the shopkeeper for each item on his list. As she found each item, she would show him. The captain, in turn, would look at the entry, written in the shopkeeper's own hand, and make a mark next to it in the ledger. When he was satisfied he had seen enough, the captain turned to the shopkeeper and addressed him directly for the first time. "Senior, you will come with me now." With that, a soldier who had been standing just inside the shop door came forward, grabbed the shopkeeper's arm, and escorted him to the waiting van.

The subsequent questioning at the courthouse was quick and enlightening.

The shopkeeper, Jan discovered, was not the person the captain was after. He was only a source of information and evidence. This included the names of other shops in that neighborhood involved in jacking up prices above what the government permitted, and the names of policemen who, for a share of the profit, turned a blind eye to the practice.

Finished with the shopkeeper, the captain instructed that he be held until further notice. Leaving the courthouse, the captain, Jan, and her crew next went to the police station where the policeman under investigation was stationed.

Like the shopkeeper, when confronted with the sudden appearance of the captain and the information he had, including the shopkeeper's statement, the policeman broke, providing the names of all his fellow officers who took bribes. Included in his list was the name of his superior, a police lieutenant. Finished with the first officer, the captain asked to see another policeman whose name appeared on the new list of offenders.

The second officer, brought into the interrogation room, was as nervous and skittish as the shopkeeper and the first officer had been. Glancing at Jan and her crew, he didn't know what to expect. The captain, on sure ground now, switched tactics. When the officer was seated at a table opposite the Army captain, the captain leaned over the table and, in a very low voice, informed the police officer that he was under investigation for corruption, namely accepting bribes from local shopkeepers. The officer, wide-eyed, began to protest. The captain, however, cut him short by slapping down his notebook and screaming that if he did not cooperate, things would not go well for him.

During the questioning of the second officer, many things became clear to Jan. The Army captain's statement about the effect of surprise and the image of a firing squad before the accused's eyes made sense. She could tell that the policeman was shaken and unable to think clearly. When the captain began his questioning again, the policeman shot out the first answer that came to his mind without pausing to consider what had been asked before or what might be coming up next. In this way, the captain was able to ask several questions about the police lieutenant's involvement without the policeman realizing it.

It wasn't until the captain had finished asking his questions that Jan realized who was the true target of the investigation. The shopkeeper, the two policemen, and a third who would be brought in later were of no interest to the Army captain. He did not want to bother with what he considered the crust of the problem. He wanted a target that was both worthy of his efforts and would serve as an example to more than a single shopkeeper. In due course, the lieutenant was arrested, presented with the evidence, and confessed his guilt.

The trial, held at the courthouse the next morning, with the captain serving as the judge, was quick. The shopkeeper involved, present as a witness, was fined and released. The police officers on the list, also present as witnesses, were demoted one step in grade, fined, and released.

The police lieutenant was duly found guilty of encouraging his subordinates to accept bribes, which he shared in, from shopkeepers who were overcharging their customers. He was sentenced to death by firing squad, to be carried out the following day before noon. Without further ado, the court was adjourned and the Army captain prepared to work on his next task.

Before she left, the Army captain asked Jan what she thought of the whole affair. Jan didn't quite know how to respond. She, like the accused, found that the speed of the whole affair had left her little time to organize her thoughts. Her first response, that she thought shooting the police lieutenant was rather severe and cruel, resulted in a perplexed look on the captain's face. "Senorita Fields, to have shot all the policemen and shopkeepers involved would have been cruel. Besides, we do not have enough bullets in all of Mexico to shoot everyone who, under the old regime, was corrupt. No, instead, we slapped the underlings and shot the biggest fish we could catch, the more influential and visible, the better.

Now all the shopkeepers and policemen in that precinct, and no doubt the neighboring precincts, know what can happen if they attempt to take advantage of their position. No, senorita, a simple and hard-hitting example of what can happen is best."

Where the investigation and trial had proceeded with a speed that was staggering, the events leading up to the execution of the sentence had been painfully ponderous. Taken from the courthouse, the police lieutenant was held overnight at a prison within the city. That night, with Jan and her crew watching, he was permitted a visit by his wife and children.

In a scene that brought tears even to Joe Bob's eyes, the police lieutenant's wife cried with abandon while his children clung to him, as if this could prevent him from being taken. For his part, the lieutenant stood in stunned silence, overwhelmed by the events of the past two days. Overwhelmed herself with sympathy for the poor wife, Jan chose not to wait for their departure. Instead, she cut the taping and left. The next day, she knew, would be difficult.

She was right. When Jan arrived the next morning, she found the police lieutenant awake. A breakfast served earlier sat next to his bed untouched. Though she suspected that the lieutenant had not slept, he seemed to be fully alert and at peace. In a short interview, he spoke freely, confessing his sins in the same manner that he would to a priest in an effort to absolve himself of his guilt, admitting that it had been wrong for him to encourage his subordinates to neglect their duties and accept bribes. To ignore shopkeepers and tradesmen who exploited the poor, he said, was evil and should be stopped. Alas, he lamented, he was but a weak mortal who, raised in a corrupt system, had done what everyone else was doing. When Jan asked if he thought that the sentence he had received was too harsh, he looked at her for a moment before answering.

"This is, senorita, a revolution, or more correctly, a continuation of that great revolution fought by our grandfathers that has made Mexico the great country that it is today. I am guilty of betraying that revolution and I am prepared to pay the price, like a man, for my sins against the people."

Though Jan suspected that the lieutenant had been coached before she had arrived, there was no denying that he meant what he said when he told her that he would face his death like a man. In the courtyard there were four groups of people. In the center stood a firing squad. Because the accused was a police officer, the firing squad was made up of ten policemen, all from different precincts. The officer in charge was also a policeman, a lieutenant, just like the accused. The significance of all this did not escape Joe Bob, who suspected that Colonel Guajardo had arranged it. The second group was a cluster of police officers of assorted ranks. They were there to witness the execution and learn. The third group was private citizens, including the old woman who had brought the original charges against the shopkeeper, and the shopkeeper himself, to watch justice dispensed. The final group was Jan and her crew. Though Ted preferred to shoot with the camera on his shoulder, he had it mounted on a tripod that morning. Though it would limit his ability to move around, he knew the extra support was necessary, since he didn't like guns and had a tendency to jump every time he heard one fired.

When all was set, the police lieutenant to be executed, accompanied by a priest, was led to a spot in front of a wall opposite the firing squad. Jan watched the preliminaries without comment as Joe Bob adjusted his equipment so that the tape would pick up every word. There was, after all, nothing to be said at this point. Everything was self-explanatory, readily evident.

As in any B movie, the priest said a final prayer, the officer in charge read the charges out loud, and the accused manfully refused a blindfold.

Only this wasn't a B movie. Jan kept telling herself that. This, she knew, was real. The man standing less than fifty feet from her was about to die and there was nothing that she could do to stop it. All she could do was watch, like everyone else in the courtyard. That was, after all, her job, to watch and report what she saw. She didn't make news, she didn't change it. She only watched events in the making. This, she repeated to herself, over and over, was just another event. No different than a tornado, or a fire, or any other story. It was just a story.

Still, as the officer in charge of the firing squad began to issue his orders, Jan felt light-headed. In response to the officer's crisp, clear, and exaggerated orders, the firing squad brought their rifles to bear and took aim. At the last moment, before the crack of the rifles announced that the sentence had been carried out, Jan turned away and hung her head. This was not just a story. And she knew it.

From a small room overlooking the courtyard, Colonel Guajardo watched the execution below. He observed Jan Fields intently as he listened to the commands. When she turned just before the command to fire was given, Guajardo smiled. Before the first trigger was pulled, Guajardo knew that the firing squad had hit its mark. Once again, through a happy combination of luck and subtle manipulation, he had managed to turn a potentially bad situation into a favorable result. Though he didn't know what she would say, Guajardo counted on Jan's story to do what the Council of 13 couldn't do on its own.

Looking up at the clear blue sky, he ignored the report of the rifles.

Without turning to his adjutant, he mused, "It is going to be a beautiful day today. Far too beautiful to spend in the city."

Understanding his colonel's meaning, the adjutant asked, "What shall it be, sir, flying or riding?"

"Riding, I think." Slapping his right hand on his chest, Guajardo looked over to his adjutant. With a smile on his face, he grabbed the adjutant's arm and began to guide him down the corridor. "Come,we will make short work of the paper monsters that threaten to consume us and then we will each find a fine horse that demands to be ridden hard."

In his fifteen years as a member of the border patrol, Ken Tins worthy had never known a man who could get lost more than his best friend, Jay Stevenson, could. Stevenson, himself a veteran of fourteen years with the border patrol, never had mastered the fine art of map reading. For this reason, the duty roster was always arranged so that Stevenson was paired with someone who could read a map or who knew the area.

The current problems in Mexico, however, had screwed up the duty roster, along with everything else for the men working out of the Laredo office. Though the news reports continued to tell of the popularity of the new Mexican government, the increased flow of Mexicans north, into the United States, told Tinsworthy and his fellow border patrolmen that not everyone in Mexico agreed with that assessment. The big difference with many of the Mexicans coming north was that they were coming from a better class of people than in the past. Former government officials, policemen, merchants, lawyers, and even an occasional priest made up the bulk of the new wave headed north. Increased movement of illegal immigrants north meant increased patrols, which, in turn, meant longer hours and the need to put new and partially trained men into the field as soon as possible. Everyone with over ten years service was paired off with a new man. In this way, the system of putting Stevenson with a proficient map reader got screwed up. Too proud to complain, Stevenson had gone out the night before with the new man, named Mikelsen, driving while Stevenson tried to find the easiest and most obvious route to their checkpoints.

When Tinsworthy and the rest of the day shift had been greeted at 7:30 that morning with the news that Stevenson and the new man had still not checked in, no one was surprised. Someone recommended that before anyone got excited, they check with the Louisiana, Arkansas, and Oklahoma highway patrols. They were even betting money on why Stevenson wasn't answering the radio. Half felt he was too embarrassed. The rest claimed that he was too far out of range. Still, when nothing was heard from Stevenson and his partner by nine o'clock in the morning, their supervisor had ordered all patrols to begin to converge on the area where Stevenson and Mikelsen should have been.

Tinsworthy was in the process of checking the high ground overlooking the Rio Grande when his partner spotted a light green and white Border Patrol four-by-four sitting on a knoll in the distance. Since they were the only ones in that area, they knew it had to be Stevenson's.

Turning off the trail, Tinsworthy headed straight for the stationary vehicle while the new man tried unsuccessfully to raise Stevenson on the radio.

At a distance of one hundred meters, Tinsworthy suddenly slowed down. The new man looked at Tinsworthy, then at Stevenson's vehicle, then at Tinsworthy again. Tinsworthy, both hands on the wheel, was staring intently at the other vehicle. The new man, not understanding why they had stopped, tried to figure out what Tinsworthy was staring at.

"What's the matter?"

"Somethin's not right here." Stopping his vehicle fifty meters short of the stationary four-by-four, Tinsworthy took his hands off the wheel, unsnapped the strap of his holster with his right hand. He opened the door with his left and began to get out, all the while watching the vehicle on the knoll. "You stay here and cover me."

The new man, spooked, looked back at the vehicle and the knoll, then to Tinsworthy. "Cover you? Cover you from what?"

Tinsworthy had no time to explain. How could you explain a feeling to a new man? How could you tell him that the cold chill down your back told you something was terribly wrong? Instead, he just repeated his instructions, never once taking his eyes off of the knoll. "You just do as I tell you. Cover me and be ready to call in for help." Without waiting for a response, Tinsworthy began to inch his way up the knoll.

Despite the heat, Tinsworthy felt as if a cold hand had been placed on his back. With his right hand on the butt of his pistol, he slowly moved forward. Though he continued to face the stationary vehicle on the knoll, his eyes scanned to the left and right, watching for movement. Halfway up the knoll, he noticed that there was someone in the driver's seat, his head bare and resting on the steering wheel as if he were asleep. Pausing, Tinsworthy took a long look at the vehicle's driver, then looked about, turning until he could see his own vehicle and partner behind him. The new man, standing behind the passenger door of their vehicle, had the window down and the shotgun resting on the door. Tightening his grasp on his own pistol, Tinsworthy continued to advance.

At a distance of ten meters, he stopped when he saw a jagged line of bullet holes in the door. Drawing his revolver, he closed on the vehicle, holding his pistol with both hands pointed up and over his right shoulder.

He heard the sound of the flies before he saw them buzzing about and landing on the head of the man in the driver's seat. When he reached the vehicle, he took a quick glance inside, then around the entire area. Seeing nothing that looked suspicious, Tinsworthy moved closer to examine the body draped over the steering wheel. It was Mikelsen. Tinsworthy reached into the cab, feeling Mikelsen's neck for a pulse with his left hand while still keeping his pistol at the ready. Though the stench of blood exposed to the summer heat for hours and of human waste released when the bowel muscles lost tension told Tinsworthy that Mikelsen was dead, he still felt for a pulse. As he did so, he wondered why there appeared to be no blood, though he could smell it. It wasn't until he finished trying to find a pulse and walked around to the passenger side that he saw it.

The passenger's door was open. Seeing that the radio was on, Tins worthy reached in to grab the hand mike. As he did so, he examined Mikelsen's body from that side. At his feet, down on the floor, Mikelsen's cowboy boots were awash in his own blood. The seals of the door and the hump where the transmission was had caught Mikelsen's blood as he had bled to death.

Drawing in a deep breath, Tinsworthy took the hand mike and called the base station, requesting backup and an ambulance. The dispatcher, taken aback by Tinsworthy's request, paused before putting their supervisor on. In a solemn voice, the supervisor asked what Tinsworthy had.

"Not good, boss. Mikelsen's dead. Looks like they were hit with automatic fire while they were sitting on a knoll watching the river. I haven't found Stevenson yet. The passenger door was open and there's no bloodstains on his side of their vehicle. I'm going to go find him."

"Negative, not until you get some backup. Stay with your partner. We have the chopper en route now."

"Can't do that, boss. Jay might need my help."

"Ken, I repeat, stay where you are. Do you hear me?"

Tinsworthy didn't answer. Dropping the hand mike on the seat, he turned and began to search for his friend. When he found him after what seemed like an eternity, he wished he had listened to his supervisor.

In a gully, down by the riverbank, Ken Tinsworthy found Jay Stevenson's body. The first thing he heard was the snarling of two wild dogs fighting. Drawn to the commotion, he saw the two dogs alternating between chewing on Jay's body and snarling at each other. Without thinking, Stevenson lowered his gun and fired twice, dropping one of the dogs, scaring off the second, and causing his partner, who had lost sight of him, to panic and report on the radio that they were under fire.

Moving down into the gully, Tinsworthy looked down at his friend's corpse. He didn't need to read the name plate to recognize that the body at his feet belonged to his best friend. The sight of Jay Stevenson, his feet and hands bound and his head blown off at point-blank range, was too much for Tinsworthy. Dropping to his knees, Ken Tinsworthy looked up at the clear blue sky and began to cry for his friend. As he cried, he first asked God why he had let such a terrible thing happen. Then he began swearing to revenge his friend's death, crying out loud through his tears,

"God help the fucking spick that killed Jay. God help him."