NEW BRAZILIAN DISCRIMINATION LAW

Brazil enacts racial discrimination law, but some say it's not needed

By Arthur Brice, CNN

July 22, 2010 -- Updated 0219 GMT (1019 HKT)

Brazilians of African descent earn 58 cents for every $1 a white Brazilian makes.

STORY HIGHLIGHTS

• Brazil's problems are social and economic, not racial, some analysts say
• Many Brazilians don't think in racial terms, the analysts say
• Nearly half of all Brazilians are people of color
• The income gap between whites and people of African descent is nearly 2 to 1

RELATED TOPICS

• Brazil
• Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva

(CNN) -- With a few quick strokes of a pen this week, Brazilian President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva signed into law a widely debated measure that aims to end hundreds of years of racial disparity.

Whether the Racial Equality Law will succeed in a nation where about the half the population consists of people of color, but most of the political and economic power resides in white hands, will not be known for years. Some observers say the law will just make matters worse because the inequalities in the nation of more than 201 million people are economic and social, not racial.

"It makes Brazil do what Brazil has never done, which is racialize the debate," said Paulo Sotero, director of the Brazil Institute at the Woodrow Wilson International Institute for Scholars. "The way to face it is not to define who is this or who is that, but to create opportunities."

About 54 percent of Brazilians are white, 39 percent are mixed race and 6 percent are black, according to the CIA World Factbook. But those distinctions are lost on most Brazilians, Sotero and others say.

"I have black ancestors, indigenous ancestors, Portuguese ancestors, and I personally don't give a damn," Sotero said.

That's not to say that huge inequalities don't exist.

The country's Gross Domestic Product -- the value of goods and services it produces -- was $2 trillion in 2009, the 10th largest in the world, according to the CIA World Factbook. But per capita income for the same year was estimated at $10,200, the 105th highest in the world. Simply stated, most of the wealth being produced is not finding its way down to most Brazilians.

It's people of color who bear the brunt of that inequality.

Brazilians of African descent earn 58 cents for every $1 a white Brazilian makes, according to the government's National Household Survey. This in a country where one of every four Brazilians lives below the poverty level.

"The poor generally have darker skin," Sotero said.

But that's not because blacks are considered inherently inferior, but because they haven't had the opportunities, analysts say.

"The country really favors a meritocracy," said Larry Birns, director of the Council on Hemispheric Affairs, a liberal Washington think tank.

"If you had the talent and you had the education, you could succeed," Birns said. "It just so happened that most of the time the whites had the education."

Peter Hakim, president emeritus of the Inter-American Dialogue policy institute, notes that "if people move up the social ladder, they're not viewed by a racial prism."

Much discrimination has been based on economic class, not race.

"It's a class and social issue that sometimes expresses itself as racial," Sotero said.

"I'm not saying there is no racism. Yes, there is," he said. "But in Brazil there is no racial hatred."

Birns recalls that rich people would place ads in newspapers years ago seeking husbands for their daughters. The ads would note that "race need not matter," he said.

"The rich weren't particularly scornful of the blacks," Birns said. "They simply were scornful of those who were poor."

Still, though, people of color have faced barriers -- physical and otherwise.

"Not long ago," Hakim said, "black people were required to use the service entrance to buildings. Now, that's not so."

The Brazilian Senate approved the Racial Equality Statute in June and Lula signed it Tuesday.

Senators removed provisions for racial quotas in universities and businesses, but the law offers tax incentives for enterprises that undertake racial inclusion, the Globo newspaper reported Wednesday. The law also defines what constitutes racial discrimination and inequality and says that anyone who considers himself or herself a black or mulatto is covered.

In addition, the law stipulates that African and Brazilian black history be taught in all elementary and middle schools.

Brazil will hold elections for a new president in October and some observers see adoption of the racial equality law as one of the last pieces of unfinished business before Lula leaves office.

"The law is one of a number of things that Lula has done to face up to various Brazilian dilemmas," Birns said. "He has placed issues on the agenda that previously had difficulty being there."

Enactment of the measure shows how far the country has come, Hakim said.

"Until 10 or 12 years ago," he said, "Brazil was very sensitive about race. Now Brazil has begun to feel a little more relaxed about the whole thing."

And the law is significant, Hakim said, because Brazil now is "willing to admit racial discrimination."

Observers emphasize it would be a mistake to compare the racial situation in Brazil with the United States. For starters, the definition of who is black is significantly different.

"In the United States, a person who has one drop of black blood is considered black," Sotero said, pointing out that President Barack Obama is labeled as black although his mother was white.

"In Brazil, it's just the opposite," he said. "A person who has one drop of white blood is considered not black."

Brazil's initial pool of African natives also was much larger than in the United States. About 900,000 slaves survived the trip from Africa to the United States, Sotero said, while 3.7 million slaves made it to Brazil. The sheer weight of that many slaves made them a larger part of Brazilian society, he said.

Slavery became illegal in the United States in 1865 when Congress passed the 13th Amendment to the Constitution, while Brazil outlawed slavery in 1888.

Sotero sees a major difference in the aftermath in the two countries, though, because much of the racism in the United States was codified into laws that were not overturned until the federal Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965, 100 years after the end of the Civil War.

"There were no JIm Crow laws in Brazil, officially," Sotero said. "There was prejudice, but it was not categorized in law."

Says Hakim, "Brazil has a longer history of the two races living side by side."

Compared with the United States, he said, "the difference between blacks and whites in Brazil was never that dramatic."

As a result, he said, there's a big difference in how African descendants see themselves in each country.

"Blacks in the United States recognize themselves mostly as being black first," he said. "In Brazil, they see themselves as being black and Brazilian.

"In the United States, race tends to be all-determining. It's not the same in Brazil. There's lots of discrimination, but not this all-too-determining factor."

But Brazil's new law could increase racial tensions, Sotero said, because people could start thinking more in those terms.

"It's a very controversial measure because it mandates that people identify themselves as black or white," he said. "Most Brazilians would have difficulties to put themselves in a category."

Or the law could turn out to be meaningless.

"One of the things that could happen with it is nothing," he said. "There are many laws in Brazil that are not fully implemented because there are no resources."

Regardless, Hakim said, passage of the law carries weight.

"Laws always have two sides," he said. "There's the symbolic side. Progress is always slower."

Sotero agrees.

"Now we have to implement the law and see what happens."

TETHER DREAMS-CHAPTER 5 TASTE LIKE CHICKEN

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5

TASTE LIKE CHICKEN

The Salvadorian entered the exercise yard with a bit of swagger and a crooked smile on full display. He was wearing a bright orange Los Angeles County Jail issued jump suit, which draped his emaciated frame like a pup tent. His cocaine induced High told him that he was at the top of his game, as he strolled among the prisoners, with the words L.A. County Jail, printed on the back of the jump suit in large black letters, which could be easily read from the guard tower forty feet away.  

The afternoon exercise period had just begun, when he notice some Latino friends on the other side of the field. They were standing next to the makeshift basketball court; about two hundred yards away, watching two inmates go at it, one on one. He would have to cut across the field, and run the gauntlet in order to reach them, and the yard could be a dangerous place, especially when you were out in the open all alone.

With little trepidation, he marched himself right pass the body builders pumping iron. Actually they were pumping heavy plastic bags filled with water. Each bag hanging from each end of a broken broom stick, weighed 60 pounds. They had been relegated to such contrivances since the Director took away their Pro-Line metal weights. She believed that blown up inmates were getting just too goddamn big to tolerate.

The Salvadorian was thinking about how smart he was, and how he had gotten over on everyone, when he came upon a group of Transvestites, sunning themselves in the open field. There was safety in numbers, but these humongous homos had nothing to fear. Each of them weighed in at nearly 200 pounds. And four of them stood over six feet tall. One of them acknowledged his presence, giving him a nod and a wink. The other He-She’s ignored him completely, and continued chatting away like a bunch of girls on holiday.

He departed with a hesitant wave, and soon he was half way across the field. It was then that he came upon a group of Blacks sitting in a circle, reading the Koran. It took all his will to stem the urge to run right pass them. He overheard them speaking with their Muslims Brothers about the inevitable persecution that they had suffered since 911. He quickened his pace, and almost bolted when he heard the word Infidel, but then it dawned on him that he wasn’t an infidel. He was Salvadorian.

He finally made it safely to the other side, and in one piece. As soon as he reached his own posse, he acknowledged each of them during a brief round of salutations. He was actually happy to see them.

Then suddenly without warning, three of his friends swarmed over him like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They repeatedly stabbed him with jail house shanks in a quick flurry of short thrust. The knives, fashioned from spoons and utility screws, were filed down to a razor’s edge, transformed his bright orange jump suit into a bloody red mess. Several seconds later the attack abruptly ended, with the perpetrators quickly walking away. Leaving their home boy to collapse face down in the dirt, where he soon bled out. He had succumbed to over a hundred wounds, inflicted by his most trusted friends.     

The guards forced the inmates to strip naked after a cursorily search failed to produce the murder weapons. Then they subjected them to a cavity searched, one by one, in front of the entire jail population. Afterwards they were forced to lie back down on the ground, handcuffed and naked. They would remain there for the next six hours, in total silence, even after it began to rain. Not so surprisingly, the murder weapons were never recovered. Apparently, the weapons had simply vanished into the thin air, and the secret of the vanishing act would remain, just that, a secret.

The deputies grabbed five inmates lying closest to the blood splattered corps, re-cuffed them, with their hands behind their backs and ran them off the field naked. Once inside the facility the prisoners were interrogated once again and just as before the whereabouts of the weapons remained unknown.

A review of the surveillance tapes failed to reveal any pertinent new information. The crowed conditions at the facility had already been well documented.

Immediately, before the attack the victim could be seen talking to his friends. Then a number of prisoners shifted their position to the left side of the screen; that effectively blocked the camera’s view of the murder scene. Then they all hit the ground right on cue. The execution was carried out with as much precision as a well orchestrated magic act. Now you see him. Now he’s dead.

The Shot Caller stayed in his cell that entire afternoon, and he had also declined to go into the yard after lunch. The Director knew that he had given the order for the kill, even though he had been locked up in his cell during the entire incident. She could feel it in her bones, but where was the proof. However, she didn’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing.

When Felix was pressed into accepting the position of being named Shot Caller for the Pisans, he didn’t have a clue. How to do his job was as illusive to him as when and where to begin, but fate stepped in and presented him with the perfect opportunity to do so. He alone stood up to the 18^th Street gang, be-it-though unwittingly.

The 18^th Street gang insisted that they be allow to go to the mess hall before the Pisans, even though their tier appeared last on the list, when called to file out for meals. Even though they were called first, when the cell block door opened the Pisans had to wait for the 18^th street gang to file pass, before they could move.

This was a blatant example of disrespect on 18^th Street’s part, showing everybody who was who in the pecking order, and a daily reminder to the Pisans that they were foreigners in a foreign land. Even in jail they had to give way to the Americanos.

During his first call to line up for chow, Felix simply walked out the door when it opened, and proceeded down the hall. He was not aware that they had to wait when their tier was called or how things had been done, but because he was the Shot Caller, his whole tier followed him down to the chow hall. When he was told by 18^th Street that he was out of line and that he had to wait for them to pass by first, it was already too late. Blacks, Whites, Asians, everybody were backing his play, his whole tier stood their ground. It was the first time that everyone joined in to defy 18^th Street, and it felt good.

18^th Street complained loudly, but the guards were having none of it. They knew what was happening, but they were told to stay out of it by their superiors. They wanted to stick it to 18^th Street, and this was the perfect way to do it. From that day forward, the Pisans went to chow when their number was called, with a bit of pride in their step and with their heads held a little higher.

During the intervening months, Felix deftly honed his Shot Caller image with a great deal of common sense, and a ruthlessness to match. He became the most effective Shot Caller to run the Pisans in years, and that was just the beginning.

In spite of the brutal prison like environment of the County Jail, where only the strong survived, Felix had played the warring factions off of each other, to such a degree that everyone finally accepted the fact that he was, in deed, calling the shots.

He would choose when and where the Pisans would make their move, and when they would not. At first 18^th Street tried to force him to do their bidding, but Felix reached out to the other inmate groups with respect and a genuine understanding of their particular plight. If he did not get their direct support at least he did not receive their animosity. And as the Pisans ranks swelled larger each day, so did his power, as more and more migrants were apprehended crossing the border, and ended up in the Los Angeles County Jail.

Each Wednesday, the evening meal always consisted of what the inmates described as mystery meat. No one knew, exactly, what it was, and the color and taste defied description. Due to over crowded conditions at the facility, tensions and violence were at an all time High. It wouldn’t take much to ignite an emotional explosion that would consume any gains that had been made during his consolidation of power. He above all knew that it was just a matter of time, before it would happen. One Wednesday evening, during the meal, one inmate stood up and said “I am not eating this shit.” and threw his plate into the air. The ensuing Mystery Meat Riot, as it has since been called, lasted well into the night, and outside forces had to be called, in order to subdue the rioters.  

Thirty two prisoners were hospitalized, and three guards required medical treatment. Felix realized that violence was counter productive to the welfare of all the inmates, and he made a request to see the Director. He told the guard that he had a solution to relieve the tension at Wednesday’s dinner meals.

The Director immediately granted his request; she would dance with the devil if it meant regaining control over the situation. She knew that Felix was the Shot Caller for the Pisanos, and she was interested in what he had to say.

Felix being a man of few words came right to the point. Chicken Bullion cubs! The Directors eyebrows raised in disbelief, but Felix continued. Put chicken cubs in with the mystery meat’s gravy and your problem will be solved.   

The next Wednesday the items on the menu were the same, except that now the mystery meat was served with light brown gravy that made the meat taste like chicken.

The inmates responded with their overwhelming approval, they didn’t riot. I don’t know what this shit is, but it taste like chicken, became the universal unprompted response, whenever anyone question the veracity of the meat that they were eating. The Director had discreetly cloistered herself inside the kitchen to witness the inmate’s reaction to the presentation of the meal, and when things proceeded without incident, she whispered to her lieutenant, “Tell the Riot Squad to stand down. That Felix is one smart Mexican. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. ”

There was strength in numbers, but also opportunity for infiltration.  Felix surrounded himself with his loyal disciples of the La Santa Muerte from Mexico. They revered him as their supreme leader; ever since his father’s death their fanatic devotion to Felix made him the most empowered Shot Caller in the prison system. They would not hesitate to give life or limb to protect him, nor would they hesitate to carry out his most outlandish whim. No one was beyond his reach, not rival gang members or other inmates, guards or members of the prison staff.

The man, who had been killed in the yard that day, had been found out to be a traitor and even worse, a snitch. Even though he was a Pisano he had been compromised by 18^th Street with a small supply of nose candy.

On instructions from 18^th Street, he had given the jail authorities the names of two guards in the visitor’s room that would turn a blind eye to those receiving drugs from the outside, and allowed them to bring in the contraband unscathed.

He had put the Pisans’ whole operation at risk. 18^th Street had claimed all ventures, dealing with drugs inside the jail, as their own. They forbade any other group to run independent drug operations. To do so would be a direct challenge to their power and status. However, they didn’t want to attack Felix head on. They had received word from the outside, to leave him alone.

Due to his family’s control of the biggest migrant smuggling operation on the West Coast, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that if they could bring people in, then they could also bring drugs in also. It was the same premise that got his brother and father killed, but Felix saw it as an opportunity to control his own destiny. He made contact with his uncles in Los Angeles, but unbeknownst to him they were already involved in the drug smuggling business, thanks to the efforts of his uncle Sebastian.

Nonetheless, the L.A. County Jail was a different world, with its own set of rules, and although 18^th Street would not make a direct move against Felix, not yet anyway, on orders from their bosses on the outside, they would do all that they could to disrupt his operation inside the facility.  

Even though there continued to be sporadic acts of violence at the County Jail, the facility’s in house quarterly comprehensive report, surprisingly, detected a make decline in such incidents. This peculiar anomaly demanded closer scrutiny. However after a series of subtle investigations, undercover snitch debriefing and jailhouse grapevine interceptions, all leads lead to gang related policy actions instigated by the Pisa’s new Shot Caller, Felix Geronimo Gomez. His policy initiatives and orders were having a direct affect on the decline of violence in the County Jail. His actions, as reported by the investigators, resulted in fewer direct confrontations by inmates and staff, and fewer altercations between inmates in general. The pervasive bartering system used throughout the jail was given an overhaul by Felix Geronimo Gomez. The immediate impact resulted in less confrontation and reprisals, and higher profits.

The report was disturbing to say the least. Even a scarecrow knows when there are crows in his field.

The Director ordered a full background check of Felix Geronimo Gomez, which was carried out by the FBI. It revealed, upon extensive cross referencing, the involvement of the Gomez family in the smuggling of illegal migrant workers into the USA. However, because this activity involved cross border transportation of undocumented workers, it was interpreted as a national security threat. The CIA was automatically notified of the quarry by the FBI. This in turn triggered, Heads Up, notification that an anomaly had been discovered in the Los Angeles County Jail System, which, in turn, alerted the Director of Black Operations at the CIA, who in turn sent a memo to the flat screen monitor of the Deputy Director of Drug Interdiction and Redeployment. His title and department was buried in the Black Ops Department of the CIA whose itemized operations budget was Top Secret, and would never appear in the CIA’s Annual Appropriations Budget. The Department’s very existence would be flatly denied if questioned.

Special Agent, Jack Crush was notified, by a hand carried signal that a promising new provisional candidate had been located in the Los Angeles County Jail System, and he was immediately dispatched to the West Coast to interview the prospective candidate.

The government G350 Gulfstream Jet landed at LAX at ten minutes to two in the morning. It was met by two black Ford Broncos, with government license plates, that whisked its sole occupant off into the LA night. Twenty five minutes later they entered the receiving garage at the Los Angeles County Jail Men’s facility in downtown Los Angeles. Special Agent Jack Crush was met by the jail’s Director and taken to the Director’s private office on the fifth floor of the facility.

Ten minutes later, Felix Geronimo Gomez was lead into an interrogation room in hand cuffs and leg irons. The Special Agent asked the accompanying guards to remove the hand cuffs and leg irons, and then leave the room.

Agent Jack Crush told Felix, in fluent Spanish, that there was no need to have him shackled, and that there had been no indication of violence in his files. Felix remained silent, wondering what this was all leading to.

Agent Crush laid it all out for Felix. He told him about his family’s business and their current partners. He alluded to the death of his father and brother, but didn’t press the issue. He told him that his three uncles were running drugs for the Lopez Brothers, and they were forcing the migrant workers to be mules for the drug gangs, and those who refused to be, were systematically killed. He told him that sooner or later 18^th Street was going to kill him. And this, he did believe. He knew that his Disciples would give their lives to protect him, but there were just too many 18^th Street gang members to prevent this from eventually happening.  

Agent Jack Crush gave Felix an option that he found hard to believe. The agent proposed that Felix come to work for the CIA. Felix didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. Crush told Felix that he would make his criminal case go away, and that he would be allowed to stay in the United States, indefinitely. Felix was told that his organizational skills were exceptional, and that he already possessed the means by which he could ascend to the pinnacles of his chosen profession. Not to mention the obvious monetary rewards that he and his family would enjoy.

All he had to do was act in the best interest of the United States and build an empire that would rival any known drug cartel or smuggling organization in the world. Of course all of this would be done with the backing and cooperation of the CIA. Agent Jack Crush explained to Felix that where there was a will there was a way, and if a vacuum was created then it would be filled by something. So in the interest of National Security of the United States the agency was in a position to make Felix the Shot Caller of the Drug World. The CIA wanted to fill that vacuum with their man. Then they would know what was on the other end of the pip line, before it reached America. The name of the game was Control.

Felix didn’t quite understand what the hell Agent Crush was talking about. Agent Crush leaned forward for emphasis, and told Felix that he wanted Felix to be their man in the trenches. He said that they had done it before, but greed is a powerful thing. You must never lose sight of who is actually pulling the strings. Noriega was at the top of his game, until he started to believe that he was running the show. He believed that he was indispensable, after all he had an army, a navy, even an air force, and he was the president of a sovereign country. And he had an ace in the hole. He had the god damn Panama Canal. The old axiom; Absolute Power corrupts absolutely, is more then a phrase, it is a pit fall for those at the top. So we had to send in the 82^nd Air Borne to demonstrate to him the difference between being crowned King for a Day and those who actually placed the crown on his head.

After Hussein went bananas, and began to believe that he was Nebuchadnezzar reincarnated, the Agency decided to go back to the drawing board.

We needed some one with certain proclivities and abilities who would be predisposed to our game plan. We needed someone with proven abilities, performing under less than desirable conditions that could still get the job done. Usually when such a person becomes available, they have already been acquired by corporate or government entities with their own agenda. In other words we need someone like you.  

Felix told Jack Crush that even if this all could be done he wanted to be his own man. Crush replied that everybody had to answer to somebody, and if he felt that strong about it then he could put that on his tomb stone; Here, lies Felix Geronimo Gomez, his own man in his own grave. 18^th Street will make you answer to them sooner or later, one way or another. It is what it is Felix, but we can make it taste like chicken. Felix thought about this for a moment then nodded his head in agreement, and he could not help but smile at the analogy.

Thus began a relationship between the CIA and organized crime that would catapult Felix to the top of a world wide criminal enterprise that was financed, deployed and protected by the United States Government. It would import tons of illegal drug into the US, and be responsible for the murder of dozens of people on three continents, and in the end would, hopefully, be credited with stopping the infiltration of Islamic Jihad militants into the United States Of America, and their Weapons of Mass Destruction.

First things first, he had to get out of jail alive, which was easier said than done. He still had to maintain his credibility as an up and coming crime figure in the eyes of everyone, including the authorities in the facility. The Director of Operations was only told, by Agent Crush, that Felix Geronimo Gomez had a Yankee White security clearance, which put him beyond the reach of any Law Enforcement agency in the United States, and that his protection came first, as with that of the President of the United States.

The CIA had big plans for Felix, and so did 18^th Street. Three undercover agents were placed in the County Jail, solely as protection for The Shot Caller, without his knowledge. The Disciples of La Muerte maintained a constant vigil on the coming and going of anyone coming into contact with Felix.

One afternoon, a squad of deputies showed up at Felix’s cell, to install a wire mesh screen across the bars of his cell, as a precaution against fire bombings. There had been rumors along the grape vine that someone was going to throw a bottle of fermented alcohol into his cell, and burn him alive. The Director had taken to heart Special Agent Jack Crush parting words, Keep Felix Geronimo Gomez alive.

   

 TASTE LIKE CHICKEN

The Salvadorian entered the exercise yard with a bit of a swagger and a crooked smile on full display. He was wearing a bright orange Los Angeles County issued jump suit, two sizes too big. It draped over his emaciated frame like a collapsed tent, as he looked upon the yard full of orange jump suits just like his. The words L.A. County Jail, printed on the back of the jump suit, could be read from the guard tower forty feet away.  

The afternoon exercise period had just begun, when he saw some Latino friends on the other side of the field. They were standing next to the makeshift basketball court about two hundred yards away, watching two inmates go at it, one on one. He would have to cut across the field, and run the gauntlet in order to join them. The yard could be a dangerous place, especially when you were out in the open all alone.

With a little trepidation, he marched himself right pass the body builders, who were pumping heavy plastic bags of water as if they were children’s water balloons. Each bag, hanging from either end of a broken broom stick, weighed 60 pounds. They had been relegated to such contrivances since the Director took away their Pro-Line metal weights. She believed that blown up inmates were getting, just too goddamn big to tolerate.

He was thinking about how smart he was, and how he had gotten over, when he came upon a group of Transvestites, sunning themselves in the open field. There was safety in numbers, but these humongous homos had nothing to fear. Each of them weighed in at nearly 200 pounds. And four of them stood over six feet tall. One of them acknowledged his presence, giving him a nod and a wink. The other He-She’s ignored him completely, and continued chatting away like a bunch of girls on holiday.

He departed with a hesitant wave, and soon he was half way across the field. It was then that he came upon a group of Blacks sitting in a circle, reading the Koran. It took all his will to stem the urge to run right pass them. He overheard them speaking with their Muslims Brothers about the inevitable persecution that they had suffered since 911. He quickened his pace, and almost bolted when he heard the words death to the Infidel, but then it dawned on him that he wasn’t an infidel. He was Salvadorian.

He finally made it safely to the other side, and in one piece. As soon as he reached his own posse, he acknowledged each of them during a brief round of salutations. He was actually happy to see them.

Then suddenly without warning, three of his friends swarmed over him like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They repeatedly stabbed him with jail house shanks in a flurry of short thrust. The knives, fashioned from spoons and utility screws, were filed down to a razor’s edge, transforming his bright orange jump suit into a bloody red mess. Several seconds later the attack abruptly ended, with the perpetrators quickly walking away. Leaving their home boy to collapse face down in the dirt, where he soon bled out. He had succumbed to over a hundred wounds, inflicted by his most trusted friends.     

The three assassins passed off their knives to waiting hands in the crowd, just before one of the guards spotted the down inmate, and fired a warning shot into the dirt. Anyone still standing would be put down with a rubber bullet fired from a 30 odd 6, from the tower above. But everyone knew the drill, so they all lay down, quiet and still, and waited for the Riot Squad to rush in and restore order, to the perfectly pacified crowd, lying quietly in the dirt.

The guards forced the inmates to strip naked after a cursorily search failed to produce the murder weapons. Then they were subjected to a cavity searched, in front of the entire jail population. Afterwards they were forced to lie back down on the ground, handcuffed and naked. They would remain there for the next six hours, in total silence, even after it began to rain. Not so surprisingly, the murder weapons were not recovered. Apparently, the weapons had simply vanished into the thin air, and their whereabouts would remain a secret.

 The deputies grabbed five inmates lying closest to the blood splattered corps, re-cuffed them, with their hands behind their backs and ran them off the field naked. Once inside the facility the prisoners were interrogated once again and just as before the whereabouts of the weapons remained unknown.

A review of the surveillance tapes failed to reveal any pertinent information. The crowed conditions at the facility only added to the difficulty of identifying the killers. Immediately, before the attack the victim could be seen talking to his friends. Then a number of prisoners shifted their position that effectively blocked the camera’s view of the murder scene. Then they all hit the ground right on cue. The execution was carried out with as much precision as a well orchestrated magic act. Now you see him. Now he’s dead.

The Shot Caller stayed in his cell that entire morning, and he had also declined to go into the yard after lunch. The Director knew that he had given the order for the kill, even though he had been locked in his cell during the entire incident. After all, he was the Shot Caller, but where was the proof. However, she didn’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing.

When Felix was pressed into accepting the position of being named Shot Caller for the Pisans, eleven months earlier, he didn’t have a clue. How to do his job was as illusive to him then, as well as when and where to begin, but fate stepped in and presented him with the perfect opportunity to do so. He alone stood up to the 18^th Street gang, be-it-though unwittingly.

The 18^th Street gang insisted that they be allow to go to the mess hall before the Pisans, even though their tier appeared last on the list, when called to file out for meals. Even though they were called first, when the cell block door opened the Pisans had to wait for the 18^th street gang to file pass, before they could move.

This was a blatant example of disrespect on 18^th Street’s part, showing everybody who was who in the pecking order, and a daily reminder to the Pisans that they were foreigners in a foreign land. Even in jail they had to give way to the Americanos.

During his first call to line up for chow, Felix simply walked out the door when it opened, and proceeded down the hall. He was not aware that they had to wait when their tier was called or how things had been done, but because he was the Shot Caller, his whole tier followed him down to the chow hall. When he was told by 18^th Street that he was out of line and that he had to wait for them to pass by first, it was already too late. Blacks, Whites, Asians, everybody were backing his play, his whole tier stood their ground. It was the first time that everyone joined in to defy 18^th Street, and it felt good.

18^th Street complained loudly, but the guards were having none of it. They knew what was happening, but they were told to stay out of it by their superiors. They wanted to stick it to 18^th Street, and this was the perfect way to do it. From that day forward, the Pisans went to chow when their number was called, with a bit of pride in their step and with their heads held a little higher.

During the intervening months, Felix deftly honed his Shot Caller image with a great deal of common sense, and a ruthlessness to match. He became the most effective Shot Caller to run the Pisans in years, and that was just the beginning.

In spite of the brutal prison like environment of the County Jail, where only the strong survived, Felix had played the warring factions off of each other, to such a degree that everyone finally accepted the fact that he was, in deed, calling the shots.

He would choose when and where the Pisans would make their move, and when they would not. At first 18^th Street tried to force him to do their bidding, but Felix reached out to the other inmate groups with respect and a genuine understanding of their particular plight. If he did not get their direct support at least he did not receive their animosity. And as the Pisans ranks swelled larger each day, so did his power, as more and more migrants were apprehended crossing the border, and ended up in the Los Angeles County Jail.

Each Wednesday, the evening meal always consisted of what the inmates described as mystery meat. No one knew, exactly, what it was, and the color and taste defied description. Due to over crowded conditions at the facility, tensions and violence were at an all time High. It wouldn’t take much to ignite an emotional explosion that would consume any gains that had been made during his consolidation of power. He above all knew that it was just a matter of time, before it would happen. One Wednesday evening, during the meal, one inmate stood up and said “I am not eating this shit.” and threw his plate into the air. The ensuing Mystery Meat Riot, as it has since been called, lasted well into the night, and outside forces had to be called, in order to subdue the rioters.  

Thirty two prisoners were hospitalized, and three guards required medical treatment. Felix realized that violence was counter productive to the welfare of all the inmates, and he made a request to see the Director. He told the guard that he had a solution to relieve the tension at Wednesday’s dinner meals.

The Director immediately granted his request; she would dance with the devil if it meant regaining control over the situation. She knew that Felix was the Shot Caller for the Pisanos, and she was interested in what he had to say.

Felix being a man of few words came right to the point. Chicken Bullion cubs! The Directors eyebrows raised in disbelief, but Felix continued. Put chicken cubs in with the mystery meat’s gravy and your problem will be solved.   

The next Wednesday the items on the menu were the same, except that now the mystery meat was served with light brown gravy that made the meat taste like chicken.

The inmates responded with their overwhelming approval, they didn’t riot. I don’t know what this shit is, but it taste like chicken, became the universal unprompted response, whenever anyone question the veracity of the meat that they were eating. The Director had discreetly cloistered herself inside the kitchen to witness the inmate’s reaction to the presentation of the meal, and when things proceeded without incident, she whispered to her lieutenant, “Tell the Riot Squad to stand down. That Felix is one smart Mexican. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. ”

There was strength in numbers, but also opportunity for infiltration.  Felix surrounded himself with his loyal disciples of the La Santa Muerte from Mexico. They revered him as their supreme leader; ever since his father’s death their fanatic devotion to Felix made him the most empowered Shot Caller in the prison system. They would not hesitate to give life or limb to protect him, nor would they hesitate to carry out his most outlandish whim. No one was beyond his reach, not rival gang members or other inmates, guards or members of the prison staff.

The man, who had been killed in the yard that day, had been found out to be a traitor and even worse, a snitch. Even though he was a Pisano he had been compromised by 18^th Street with a small supply of nose candy.

On instructions from 18^th Street, he had given the jail authorities the names of two guards in the visitor’s room that would turn a blind eye to those receiving drugs from the outside, and allowed them to bring in the contraband unscathed.

He had put the Pisans’ whole operation at risk. 18^th Street had claimed all ventures, dealing with drugs inside the jail, as their own. They forbade any other group to run independent drug operations. To do so would be a direct challenge to their power and status. However, they didn’t want to attack Felix head on. They had received word from the outside, to leave him alone.

Due to his family’s control of the biggest migrant smuggling operation on the West Coast, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that if they could bring people in, then they could also bring drugs in also. It was the same premise that got his brother and father killed, but Felix saw it as an opportunity to control his own destiny. He made contact with his uncles in Los Angeles, but unbeknownst to him they were already involved in the drug smuggling business, thanks to the efforts of his uncle Sebastian.

Nonetheless, the L.A. County Jail was a different world, with its own set of rules, and although 18^th Street would not make a direct move against Felix, not yet anyway, on orders from their bosses on the outside, they would do all that they could to disrupt his operation inside the facility.  

Even though there continued to be sporadic acts of violence at the County Jail, the facility’s in house quarterly comprehensive report, surprisingly, detected a make decline in such incidents. This peculiar anomaly demanded closer scrutiny. However after a series of subtle investigations, undercover snitch debriefing and jailhouse grapevine interceptions, all leads lead to gang related policy actions instigated by the Pisa’s new Shot Caller, Felix Geronimo Gomez. His policy initiatives and orders were having a direct affect on the decline of violence in the County Jail. His actions, as reported by the investigators, resulted in fewer direct confrontations by inmates and staff, and fewer altercations between inmates in general. The pervasive bartering system used throughout the jail was given an overhaul by Felix Geronimo Gomez. The immediate impact resulted in less confrontation and reprisals, and higher profits.

The report was disturbing to say the least. Even a scarecrow knows when there are crows in his field.

The Director ordered a full background check of Felix Geronimo Gomez, which was carried out by the FBI. It revealed, upon extensive cross referencing, the involvement of the Gomez family in the smuggling of illegal migrant workers into the USA. However, because this activity involved cross border transportation of undocumented workers, it was interpreted as a national security threat. The CIA was automatically notified of the quarry by the FBI. This in turn triggered, Heads Up, notification that an anomaly had been discovered in the Los Angeles County Jail System, which, in turn, alerted the Director of Black Operations at the CIA, who in turn sent a memo to the flat screen monitor of the Deputy Director of Drug Interdiction and Redeployment. His title and department was buried in the Black Ops Department of the CIA whose itemized operations budget was Top Secret, and would never appear in the CIA’s Annual Appropriations Budget. The Department’s very existence would be flatly denied if questioned.

Special Agent, Jack Crush was notified, by a hand carried signal that a promising new provisional candidate had been located in the Los Angeles County Jail System, and he was immediately dispatched to the West Coast to interview the prospective candidate.

The government G350 Gulfstream Jet landed at LAX at ten minutes to two in the morning. It was met by two black Ford Broncos, with government license plates, that whisked its sole occupant off into the LA night. Twenty five minutes later they entered the receiving garage at the Los Angeles County Jail Men’s facility in downtown Los Angeles. Special Agent Jack Crush was met by the jail’s Director and taken to the Director’s private office on the fifth floor of the facility.

Ten minutes later, Felix Geronimo Gomez was lead into an interrogation room in hand cuffs and leg irons. The Special Agent asked the accompanying guards to remove the hand cuffs and leg irons, and then leave the room.

Agent Jack Crush told Felix, in fluent Spanish, that there was no need to have him shackled, and that there had been no indication of violence in his files. Felix remained silent, wondering what this was all leading to.

Agent Crush laid it all out for Felix. He told him about his family’s business and their current partners. He alluded to the death of his father and brother, but didn’t press the issue. He told him that his three uncles were running drugs for the Lopez Brothers, and they were forcing the migrant workers to be mules for the drug gangs, and those who refused to be, were systematically killed. He told him that sooner or later 18^th Street was going to kill him. And this, he did believe. He knew that his Disciples would give their lives to protect him, but there were just too many 18^th Street gang members to prevent this from eventually happening.  

Agent Jack Crush gave Felix an option that he found hard to believe. The agent proposed that Felix come to work for the CIA. Felix didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. Crush told Felix that he would make his criminal case go away, and that he would be allowed to stay in the United States, indefinitely. Felix was told that his organizational skills were exceptional, and that he already possessed the means by which he could ascend to the pinnacles of his chosen profession. Not to mention the obvious monetary rewards that he and his family would enjoy.

All he had to do was act in the best interest of the United States and build an empire that would rival any known drug cartel or smuggling organization in the world. Of course all of this would be done with the backing and cooperation of the CIA. Agent Jack Crush explained to Felix that where there was a will there was a way, and if a vacuum was created then it would be filled by something. So in the interest of National Security of the United States the agency was in a position to make Felix the Shot Caller of the Drug World. The CIA wanted to fill that vacuum with their man. Then they would know what was on the other end of the pip line, before it reached America. The name of the game was Control.

Felix didn’t quite understand what the hell Agent Crush was talking about. Agent Crush leaned forward for emphasis, and told Felix that he wanted Felix to be their man in the trenches. He said that they had done it before, but greed is a powerful thing. You must never lose sight of who is actually pulling the strings. Noriega was at the top of his game, until he started to believe that he was running the show. He believed that he was indispensable, after all he had an army, a navy, even an air force, and he was the president of a sovereign country. And he had an ace in the hole. He had the god damn Panama Canal. The old axiom; Absolute Power corrupts absolutely, is more then a phrase, it is a pit fall for those at the top. So we had to send in the 82^nd Air Borne to demonstrate to him the difference between being crowned King for a Day and those who actually placed the crown on his head.

After Hussein went bananas, and began to believe that he was Nebuchadnezzar reincarnated, the Agency decided to go back to the drawing board.

We needed some one with certain proclivities and abilities who would be predisposed to our game plan. We needed someone with proven abilities, performing under less than desirable conditions that could still get the job done. Usually when such a person becomes available, they have already been acquired by corporate or government entities with their own agenda. In other words we need someone like you.  

Felix told Jack Crush that even if this all could be done he wanted to be his own man. Crush replied that everybody had to answer to somebody, and if he felt that strong about it then he could put that on his tomb stone; Here, lies Felix Geronimo Gomez, his own man in his own grave. 18^th Street will make you answer to them sooner or later, one way or another. It is what it is Felix, but we can make it taste like chicken. Felix thought about this for a moment then nodded his head in agreement, and he could not help but smile at the analogy.

Thus began a relationship between the CIA and organized crime that would catapult Felix to the top of a world wide criminal enterprise that was financed, deployed and protected by the United States Government. It would import tons of illegal drug into the US, and be responsible for the murder of dozens of people on three continents, and in the end would, hopefully, be credited with stopping the infiltration of Islamic Jihad militants into the United States Of America, and their Weapons of Mass Destruction.

First things first, he had to get out of jail alive, which was easier said than done. He still had to maintain his credibility as an up and coming crime figure in the eyes of everyone, including the authorities in the facility. The Director of Operations was only told, by Agent Crush, that Felix Geronimo Gomez had a Yankee White security clearance, which put him beyond the reach of any Law Enforcement agency in the United States, and that his protection came first, as with that of the President of the United States.

The CIA had big plans for Felix, and so did 18^th Street. Three undercover agents were placed in the County Jail, solely as protection for The Shot Caller, without his knowledge. The Disciples of La Muerte maintained a constant vigil on the coming and going of anyone coming into contact with Felix.

One afternoon, a squad of deputies showed up at Felix’s cell, to install a wire mesh screen across the bars of his cell, as a precaution against fire bombings. There had been rumors along the grape vine that someone was going to throw a bottle of fermented alcohol into his cell, and burn him alive. The Director had taken to heart Special Agent Jack Crush parting words, Keep Felix Geronimo Gomez alive.

TASTE LIKE CHICKEN

The Salvadorian entered the exercise yard with a bit of a swagger and a crooked smile on full display. He was wearing a bright orange Los Angeles County issued jump suit, two sizes too big, and it draped over his emaciated frame, as he looked upon the yard full of orange jump suits just like his. The words L.A. County Jail, printed on the back of the jump suit, could be read from the guard tower forty feet away.  

The afternoon exercise period had just begun, when he saw some Latino friends on the other side of the field. They were standing next to the makeshift basketball court about two hundred yards away, watching two inmates go at it, one on one. He would have to cut across the field, and run the gauntlet in order to join them. The yard could be a dangerous place, especially when you were out in the open all alone.

With a little trepidation, he marched himself right pass the body builders, who were pumping heavy plastic bags of water as if they were children’s water balloons. Each bag, hanging from either end of a broken broom stick, weighed 60 pounds. They had been relegated to such contrivances since the Director took away their Pro-Line metal weights. She believed that blown up inmates were getting, just too goddamn big to tolerate.

He was thinking about how smart he was, and how he had gotten over, when he came upon a group of Transvestites, sunning themselves in the open field. There was safety in numbers, but these humongous homos had nothing to fear. Each of them weighed in at nearly 200 pounds. And four of them stood over six feet tall. One of them acknowledged his presence, giving him a nod and a wink. The other He-She’s ignored him completely, and continued chatting away like a bunch of girls on holiday.

He departed with a hesitant wave, and soon he was half way across the field. It was then that he came upon a group of Blacks sitting in a circle, reading the Koran. It took all his will to stem the urge to run right pass them. He overheard them speaking with their Muslims Brothers about the inevitable persecution that they had suffered since 911. He quickened his pace, and almost bolted when he heard the words death to the Infidel, but then it dawned on him that he wasn’t an infidel. He was Salvadorian.

He finally made it safely to the other side, and in one piece. As soon as he reached his own posse, he acknowledged each of them during a brief round of salutations. He was actually happy to see them.

Then suddenly without warning, three of his friends swarmed over him like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They repeatedly stabbed him with jail house shanks in a flurry of short thrust. The knives, fashioned from spoons and utility screws, were filed down to a razor’s edge, transforming his bright orange jump suit into a bloody red mess. Several seconds later the attack abruptly ended, with the perpetrators quickly walking away. Leaving their home boy to collapse face down in the dirt, where he soon bled out. He had succumbed to over a hundred wounds, inflicted by his most trusted friends.     

The guards forced the inmates to strip naked after a cursorily search failed to produce the murder weapons. Then they were subjected to a cavity searched, in front of the entire jail population. Afterwards they were forced to lie back down on the ground, handcuffed and naked. They would remain there for the next six hours, in total silence, even after it began to rain. Not so surprisingly, the murder weapons were not recovered. Apparently, the weapons had simply vanished into the thin air, and their whereabouts would remain a secret.

 The deputies grabbed five inmates lying closest to the blood splattered corps, re-cuffed them, with their hands behind their backs and ran them off the field naked. Once inside the facility the prisoners were interrogated once again and just as before the whereabouts of the weapons remained unknown.

A review of the surveillance tapes failed to reveal any pertinent information. The crowed conditions at the facility only added to the difficulty of identifying the killers. Immediately, before the attack the victim could be seen talking to his friends. Then a number of prisoners shifted their position that effectively blocked the camera’s view of the murder scene. Then they all hit the ground right on cue. The execution was carried out with as much precision as a well orchestrated magic act. Now you see him. Now he’s dead.

The Shot Caller stayed in his cell that entire morning, and he had also declined to go into the yard after lunch. The Director knew that he had given the order for the kill, even though he had been locked in his cell during the entire incident. After all, he was the Shot Caller, but where was the proof. However, she didn’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing.

When Felix was pressed into accepting the position of being named Shot Caller for the Pisans, eleven months earlier, he didn’t have a clue. How to do his job was as illusive to him then, as well as when and where to begin, but fate stepped in and presented him with the perfect opportunity to do so. He alone stood up to the 18^th Street gang, be-it-though unwittingly.

The 18^th Street gang insisted that they be allow to go to the mess hall before the Pisans, even though their tier appeared last on the list, when called to file out for meals. Even though they were called first, when the cell block door opened the Pisans had to wait for the 18^th street gang to file pass, before they could move.

This was a blatant example of disrespect on 18^th Street’s part, showing everybody who was who in the pecking order, and a daily reminder to the Pisans that they were foreigners in a foreign land. Even in jail they had to give way to the Americanos.

During his first call to line up for chow, Felix simply walked out the door when it opened, and proceeded down the hall. He was not aware that they had to wait when their tier was called or how things had been done, but because he was the Shot Caller, his whole tier followed him down to the chow hall. When he was told by 18^th Street that he was out of line and that he had to wait for them to pass by first, it was already too late. Blacks, Whites, Asians, everybody were backing his play, his whole tier stood their ground. It was the first time that everyone joined in to defy 18^th Street, and it felt good.

18^th Street complained loudly, but the guards were having none of it. They knew what was happening, but they were told to stay out of it by their superiors. They wanted to stick it to 18^th Street, and this was the perfect way to do it. From that day forward, the Pisans went to chow when their number was called, with a bit of pride in their step and with their heads held a little higher.

During the intervening months, Felix deftly honed his Shot Caller image with a great deal of common sense, and a ruthlessness to match. He became the most effective Shot Caller to run the Pisans in years, and that was just the beginning.

In spite of the brutal prison like environment of the County Jail, where only the strong survived, Felix had played the warring factions off of each other, to such a degree that everyone finally accepted the fact that he was, in deed, calling the shots.

He would choose when and where the Pisans would make their move, and when they would not. At first 18^th Street tried to force him to do their bidding, but Felix reached out to the other inmate groups with respect and a genuine understanding of their particular plight. If he did not get their direct support at least he did not receive their animosity. And as the Pisans ranks swelled larger each day, so did his power, as more and more migrants were apprehended crossing the border, and ended up in the Los Angeles County Jail.

Each Wednesday, the evening meal always consisted of what the inmates described as mystery meat. No one knew, exactly, what it was, and the color and taste defied description. Due to over crowded conditions at the facility, tensions and violence were at an all time High. It wouldn’t take much to ignite an emotional explosion that would consume any gains that had been made during his consolidation of power. He above all knew that it was just a matter of time, before it would happen. One Wednesday evening, during the meal, one inmate stood up and said “I am not eating this shit.” and threw his plate into the air. The ensuing Mystery Meat Riot, as it has since been called, lasted well into the night, and outside forces had to be called, in order to subdue the rioters.  

Thirty two prisoners were hospitalized, and three guards required medical treatment. Felix realized that violence was counter productive to the welfare of all the inmates, and he made a request to see the Director. He told the guard that he had a solution to relieve the tension at Wednesday’s dinner meals.

The Director immediately granted his request; she would dance with the devil if it meant regaining control over the situation. She knew that Felix was the Shot Caller for the Pisanos, and she was interested in what he had to say.

Felix being a man of few words came right to the point. Chicken Bullion cubs! The Directors eyebrows raised in disbelief, but Felix continued. Put chicken cubs in with the mystery meat’s gravy and your problem will be solved.   

The next Wednesday the items on the menu were the same, except that now the mystery meat was served with light brown gravy that made the meat taste like chicken.

The inmates responded with their overwhelming approval, they didn’t riot. I don’t know what this shit is, but it taste like chicken, became the universal unprompted response, whenever anyone question the veracity of the meat that they were eating. The Director had discreetly cloistered herself inside the kitchen to witness the inmate’s reaction to the presentation of the meal, and when things proceeded without incident, she whispered to her lieutenant, “Tell the Riot Squad to stand down. That Felix is one smart Mexican. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. ”

There was strength in numbers, but also opportunity for infiltration.  Felix surrounded himself with his loyal disciples of the La Santa Muerte from Mexico. They revered him as their supreme leader; ever since his father’s death their fanatic devotion to Felix made him the most empowered Shot Caller in the prison system. They would not hesitate to give life or limb to protect him, nor would they hesitate to carry out his most outlandish whim. No one was beyond his reach, not rival gang members or other inmates, guards or members of the prison staff.

The man, who had been killed in the yard that day, had been found out to be a traitor and even worse, a snitch. Even though he was a Pisano he had been compromised by 18^th Street with a small supply of nose candy.

On instructions from 18^th Street, he had given the jail authorities the names of two guards in the visitor’s room that would turn a blind eye to those receiving drugs from the outside, and allowed them to bring in the contraband unscathed.

He had put the Pisans’ whole operation at risk. 18^th Street had claimed all ventures, dealing with drugs inside the jail, as their own. They forbade any other group to run independent drug operations. To do so would be a direct challenge to their power and status. However, they didn’t want to attack Felix head on. They had received word from the outside, to leave him alone.

Due to his family’s control of the biggest migrant smuggling operation on the West Coast, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that if they could bring people in, then they could also bring drugs in also. It was the same premise that got his brother and father killed, but Felix saw it as an opportunity to control his own destiny. He made contact with his uncles in Los Angeles, but unbeknownst to him they were already involved in the drug smuggling business, thanks to the efforts of his uncle Sebastian.

Nonetheless, the L.A. County Jail was a different world, with its own set of rules, and although 18^th Street would not make a direct move against Felix, not yet anyway, on orders from their bosses on the outside, they would do all that they could to disrupt his operation inside the facility.  

Even though there continued to be sporadic acts of violence at the County Jail, the facility’s in house quarterly comprehensive report, surprisingly, detected a make decline in such incidents. This peculiar anomaly demanded closer scrutiny. However after a series of subtle investigations, undercover snitch debriefing and jailhouse grapevine interceptions, all leads lead to gang related policy actions instigated by the Pisa’s new Shot Caller, Felix Geronimo Gomez. His policy initiatives and orders were having a direct affect on the decline of violence in the County Jail. His actions, as reported by the investigators, resulted in fewer direct confrontations by inmates and staff, and fewer altercations between inmates in general. The pervasive bartering system used throughout the jail was given an overhaul by Felix Geronimo Gomez. The immediate impact resulted in less confrontation and reprisals, and higher profits.

The report was disturbing to say the least. Even a scarecrow knows when there are crows in his field.

The Director ordered a full background check of Felix Geronimo Gomez, which was carried out by the FBI. It revealed, upon extensive cross referencing, the involvement of the Gomez family in the smuggling of illegal migrant workers into the USA. However, because this activity involved cross border transportation of undocumented workers, it was interpreted as a national security threat. The CIA was automatically notified of the quarry by the FBI. This in turn triggered, Heads Up, notification that an anomaly had been discovered in the Los Angeles County Jail System, which, in turn, alerted the Director of Black Operations at the CIA, who in turn sent a memo to the flat screen monitor of the Deputy Director of Drug Interdiction and Redeployment. His title and department was buried in the Black Ops Department of the CIA whose itemized operations budget was Top Secret, and would never appear in the CIA’s Annual Appropriations Budget. The Department’s very existence would be flatly denied if questioned.

Special Agent, Jack Crush was notified, by a hand carried signal that a promising new provisional candidate had been located in the Los Angeles County Jail System, and he was immediately dispatched to the West Coast to interview the prospective candidate.

The government G350 Gulfstream Jet landed at LAX at ten minutes to two in the morning. It was met by two black Ford Broncos, with government license plates, that whisked its sole occupant off into the LA night. Twenty five minutes later they entered the receiving garage at the Los Angeles County Jail Men’s facility in downtown Los Angeles. Special Agent Jack Crush was met by the jail’s Director and taken to the Director’s private office on the fifth floor of the facility.

Ten minutes later, Felix Geronimo Gomez was lead into an interrogation room in hand cuffs and leg irons. The Special Agent asked the accompanying guards to remove the hand cuffs and leg irons, and then leave the room.

Agent Jack Crush told Felix, in fluent Spanish, that there was no need to have him shackled, and that there had been no indication of violence in his files. Felix remained silent, wondering what this was all leading to.

Agent Crush laid it all out for Felix. He told him about his family’s business and their current partners. He alluded to the death of his father and brother, but didn’t press the issue. He told him that his three uncles were running drugs for the Lopez Brothers, and they were forcing the migrant workers to be mules for the drug gangs, and those who refused to be, were systematically killed. He told him that sooner or later 18^th Street was going to kill him. And this, he did believe. He knew that his Disciples would give their lives to protect him, but there were just too many 18^th Street gang members to prevent this from eventually happening.  

Agent Jack Crush gave Felix an option that he found hard to believe. The agent proposed that Felix come to work for the CIA. Felix didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. Crush told Felix that he would make his criminal case go away, and that he would be allowed to stay in the United States, indefinitely. Felix was told that his organizational skills were exceptional, and that he already possessed the means by which he could ascend to the pinnacles of his chosen profession. Not to mention the obvious monetary rewards that he and his family would enjoy.

All he had to do was act in the best interest of the United States and build an empire that would rival any known drug cartel or smuggling organization in the world. Of course all of this would be done with the backing and cooperation of the CIA. Agent Jack Crush explained to Felix that where there was a will there was a way, and if a vacuum was created then it would be filled by something. So in the interest of National Security of the United States the agency was in a position to make Felix the Shot Caller of the Drug World. The CIA wanted to fill that vacuum with their man. Then they would know what was on the other end of the pip line, before it reached America. The name of the game was Control.

Felix didn’t quite understand what the hell Agent Crush was talking about. Agent Crush leaned forward for emphasis, and told Felix that he wanted Felix to be their man in the trenches. He said that they had done it before, but greed is a powerful thing. You must never lose sight of who is actually pulling the strings. Noriega was at the top of his game, until he started to believe that he was running the show. He believed that he was indispensable, after all he had an army, a navy, even an air force, and he was the president of a sovereign country. And he had an ace in the hole. He had the god damn Panama Canal. The old axiom; Absolute Power corrupts absolutely, is more then a phrase, it is a pit fall for those at the top. So we had to send in the 82^nd Air Borne to demonstrate to him the difference between being crowned King for a Day and those who actually placed the crown on his head.

After Hussein went bananas, and began to believe that he was Nebuchadnezzar reincarnated, the Agency decided to go back to the drawing board.

We needed some one with certain proclivities and abilities who would be predisposed to our game plan. We needed someone with proven abilities, performing under less than desirable conditions that could still get the job done. Usually when such a person becomes available, they have already been acquired by corporate or government entities with their own agenda. In other words we need someone like you.  

Felix told Jack Crush that even if this all could be done he wanted to be his own man. Crush replied that everybody had to answer to somebody, and if he felt that strong about it then he could put that on his tomb stone; Here, lies Felix Geronimo Gomez, his own man in his own grave. 18^th Street will make you answer to them sooner or later, one way or another. It is what it is Felix, but we can make it taste like chicken. Felix thought about this for a moment then nodded his head in agreement, and he could not help but smile at the analogy.

Thus began a relationship between the CIA and organized crime that would catapult Felix to the top of a world wide criminal enterprise that was financed, deployed and protected by the United States Government. It would import tons of illegal drug into the US, and be responsible for the murder of dozens of people on three continents, and in the end would, hopefully, be credited with stopping the infiltration of Islamic Jihad militants into the United States Of America, and their Weapons of Mass Destruction.

First things first, he had to get out of jail alive, which was easier said than done. He still had to maintain his credibility as an up and coming crime figure in the eyes of everyone, including the authorities in the facility. The Director of Operations was only told, by Agent Crush, that Felix Geronimo Gomez had a Yankee White security clearance, which put him beyond the reach of any Law Enforcement agency in the United States, and that his protection came first, as with that of the President of the United States.

The CIA had big plans for Felix, and so did 18^th Street. Three undercover agents were placed in the County Jail, solely as protection for The Shot Caller, without his knowledge. The Disciples of La Muerte maintained a constant vigil on the coming and going of anyone coming into contact with Felix.

One afternoon, a squad of deputies showed up at Felix’s cell, to install a wire mesh screen across the bars of his cell, as a precaution against fire bombings. There had been rumors along the grape vine that someone was going to throw a bottle of fermented alcohol into his cell, and burn him alive. The Director had taken to heart Special Agent Jack Crush parting words, Keep Felix Geronimo Gomez alive.