How a poor, abused child rose to become a cartel kingpin

By Jacques Billeaud, Alicia A. Caldwell, Elliot Spagat and Michael Weissenstein The Associated Press Published Mar 2, 2014 at 12:01AM

It was nighttime in May of 1990, in the heyday of the cocaine boom across America. Twenty Mexican federal police officers and a handful of U.S. Customs agents, acting on a tip, descended on a stucco home on the edge of Agua Prieta, Mexico — a stone’s throw from Arizona. “Policia,” they yelled, guns drawn, before busting down the front door.

The house was empty but looked lived in, with dishes in the kitchen and toys in the backyard. The officers moved quickly to a spacious game room, complete with a bar and a pool table, set atop a 10-by-10-foot concrete panel on the floor.

An informant had told them that what they were looking for was under the pool table. They moved it aside and went to work with a jackhammer. Then, a stroke of luck: One of them turned the knob of a faucet and suddenly the floor panel rose into the air — like a hydraulic lift in an auto shop, or something straight out of a Bond movie.

A metal staircase led down to a stunning discovery: Beneath the house, connecting to a warehouse in the U.S. 300 feet away, was an underground tunnel outfitted with lighting, air vents and tracks on the floor to transport carts full of drugs.

It was, at the time, unheard of, a new level of sophistication in the cross-border war on the Colombian and Mexican cartels that were sending tons of cocaine and marijuana north every year. “A masterpiece,” retired Customs agent Terry Kirkpatrick, who was there that day, recalled of the tunnel that came to be known as “Cocaine Alley.”

But, he added: “None of us … looked at it with the vision that this would be the future of drug smuggling.”

Nor did they know then who was behind it: The one they called “Shorty” because of his 5-foot-6 frame, a man who grew up poor and had no formal education but would rise from a small-time Mexican marijuana producer to lead the world’s most powerful drug cartel.

The tunnel marked the dawn of a new, craftier and more deadly era in the drug war: the beginning of the reign of “El Chapo.”

From small-time to big fish

A week after his capture in the resort city of Mazatlan, Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman sits in a cell in Mexico’s highest-security prison, a sprawling complex surrounded by barbed-wire fences outside of Mexico City where he is held along with other high-profile drug traffickers.

It is a far cry from the life he lived as the head of Mexico’s Sinaloa Cartel, and further still from his beginnings in the mountain village of La Tuna de Badiraguato, Sinaloa, on the country’s Pacific coast. There, Guzman was one of at least six children of a man who supposedly raised cattle but, authorities have said, actually worked in the region’s main industry — growing and smuggling opium and marijuana.

As a boy, Guzman was physically abused by his father, according to Michael Vigil, a former senior U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration official. And yet, with no schooling to point him elsewhere, the young Guzman followed his father into the drug trade and began growing marijuana, operating independently from the man with whom he maintained an icy relationship.

By the late 1970s — when Guzman was still in his 20s — Mexican kingpin Hector Luis Palma Salazar placed him in charge of transporting drugs from Sinaloa to coastal cities on their way north to the U.S., according to “The Last Narco,” a Guzman biography by journalist Malcolm Beith.

Low-key and less enamored of flashy homes and cars than his colleagues, Guzman rose quickly through the ranks. By the early 1980s, he was supervising logistics for Miguel Angel Felix Gallardo, the founder of the Guadalajara cartel. Guzman worked as a Gallardo lieutenant for years, then emerged as one of the dominant figures on the drug-trafficking scene as Gallardo was hunted by the DEA and eventually arrested for the 1985 murder of agent Enrique “Kiki” Camarena.

“He shows up as an all of a sudden, overnight thing,” said Edward Heath, who ran the DEA’s Mexico office during the Camarena killing. “The guy was smart enough to pick up on how things get done.”

Guzman was ruthless as well, said Heath. “If someone did not perform well or you become a threat, he would set ’em up. A lot of people got killed. A lot of people got sent to jail.”

As he consolidated power, Guzman began showing a flair for inventive smuggling. According to U.S. prosecutors and federal indictments, he opened a business disguised as an air taxi service and used two Learjets to ferry drugs. He leased warehouses in Southern California, Chicago, Newark, N.J., and San Antonio to store his product.

Then there were the tunnels. “You could call him the godfather of tunnels along the border,” said Kirkpatrick, the Customs agent at the 1990 discovery.

That passageway was the first of many linked to Guzman. About a half-dozen other tunnels were found in ensuing years in California and Arizona that ran the length of several football fields and were equipped with hydraulic lifts and electric rail cars. One stretched 1,400 feet from Tijuana, Mexico, to a warehouse near San Diego, according to court records.

By the early 1990s, the DEA considered Guzman among Mexico’s top 10 drug traffickers, but the Mexican organizations were a secondary concern to Colombia’s Medellin and Cali cartels, said Robert Bonner, who headed the DEA from 1990 to 1993. The Mexicans were mere “transporters” for the Colombians, he said.

All of that changed when Gallardo’s group started taking payment in cocaine instead of cash, slowly gaining control of the cocaine chain stretching from South America to the United States. Then Medellin’s Pablo Escobar was killed in late 1993, and the Mexicans eventually overtook the Colombians.

Guzman and his cohorts became known as the Sinaloa Cartel, and they waged an increasingly bloody war with a gang of former allies, the Tijuana-based cartel run by the Arellano Felix brothers. The feud made global headlines in May 1993 when gunmen said to be hunting Guzman opened fire on a car carrying a Catholic cardinal, blasting the prelate 14 times at close range.

The slaying jolted Mexican officials out of their longtime tolerance of, and complicity with, Guzman and his allies. They put out a $5 million reward for information. Though Guzman fled to Guatemala, he was arrested less than a month after the cardinal’s killing.

His case filled 14 volumes of evidence on a variety of crimes — among them drug-smuggling, murder and involvement in the cardinal’s killing. In 1995, Guzman was convicted and sent off to a prison in Guadalajara, where many thought he’d never be heard from again.

They would be wrong.

Escape from prison

On Jan. 19, 2001, with 12 years left on a 20-year sentence, Guzman crawled into a laundry cart and was wheeled out of prison by a guard, according to the ex-DEA agent Vigil. Guzman ordered the guard to stop their getaway car at a convenience store and then vanished into the night.

The escape fueled Guzman’s near-mythical status, and he grew ever more powerful.

He solidified his distribution networks in Los Angeles and Chicago, which became the Sinaloa Cartel’s main U.S. hubs. He expanded to Europe and Australia, sending emissaries to develop local contacts who knew whom to bribe and how to set up distribution networks.

To ferry cocaine from Colombia, he began using private airstrips in Guatemala, then moved the drugs over land to the U.S., where authorities say he controlled roughly half the 1,954-mile U.S.-Mexico border. He used a Boeing 747 jet, trucks, cars, boats and rail cars to move his drugs, according to one federal indictment in Chicago. From that city, drugs spread west to Vancouver, British Columbia, and east to Philadelphia and New York.

After the U.S. cracked down on methamphetamine production, Guzman expanded to that market, importing chemicals from Asia and Europe to giant labs in Sinaloa.

Public Enemy No. 1

On Valentine’s Day last year, the Chicago Crime Commission held a news conference to announce a new “Public Enemy No. 1.” It was the first such declaration since 1930, when mob boss Al Capone nabbed the label.

Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman, the commission said that day, was far more menacing than even Capone.

“What Al Capone was to beer and whiskey during Prohibition, Guzman is to narcotics,” said Art Bilek, the commission’s executive vice president. “Of the two, Guzman is by far the greater threat. … And he has more power and financial capability than Capone ever dreamed of.” Capone was captured, convicted and imprisoned within two years of his “Public Enemy” designation. The hope, Bilek had said, was that “the same thing will happen” to Guzman.

The end came quickly and quietly. On Feb. 22, a U.S. wiretap directed Mexican marines to a fourth-floor condominium in Mazatlan. Guzman (whose age authorities have given as either 56 or 59) was found in a bathroom, with his beauty-queen wife and his twin 2½-year-old daughters nearby. No shots were fired.

At least seven U.S. courts have indictments pending against him, and several are pressing for extradition. He faces organized-crime charges in four Mexican states and in Mexico City. He could — barring another escape — spend the rest of his life behind bars.

As for his organization, some predict it will go on. Drug lords come and go all the time, after all, and their empires persist when control is assumed by the next guy in line.

M. Spencer Green / The Associated Press file Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman was deemed Chicago’s Public Enemy No. 1, the first criminal called that since Al Capone.