Killer Export
Thirty-five thousand feet above Texas, a jumbo jet heads south—the pilot has a 15-member security team, many of them the size of football players, all of them trained in self-defense. His cargo? Criminals so dangerous that they’re cuffed and covered in chains. Jonathan Franklin plays a part in a Con Air-esque scene, with one big difference—this is no movie
It’s 4:30 A.M. and huge spotlights illuminate the runway. A Boeing 737, 22 years old, paint peeling, no name and no identification, is ready for loading at the cargo area of the George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston, Texas. The perimeter is guarded by U.S. Federal Agents armed with shotguns, and fortified with a chain link fence topped with razor wire. These are the only visible signs of defense. “You don’t see all the security, that’s the point,” said Greg Palmore, a veteran agent with the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).
Three sleek white buses roll to a stop, the words “HOMELAND SECURITY” written on the side. Steel grates cover the windows; each driver protected by a cage, armored doors, and thick glass, separating him from 42 prisoners.
I step into the bus to scout the scene, and a roar builds from the back. Men’s voices with thick Spanish accents. “Motherfuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucker! Yo! Moooooooootherfucker. I am going to kill yooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!” The prisoners have spotted me. A target. A lone mammal. These men include gang members from the Mexican Mafia and the even more notorious MS-13 (Mara Salvatrucha), a gang known for tattooing their faces and slaughtering their enemies.
“These are the most dangerous gangsters in the United States,” explains Sam Logan, author of This is for the Mara Salvatrucha: Inside the MS-13, America’s Most Violent Gang, an insider account of MS-13 gang life. “What began as an attempt to protect race and community in Los Angeles,” writes Logan as he described the formation of MS-13 in California, “has turned into a brutal transnational gang that has spread to over 30 U.S. states, throughout Mexico, and to at least three Central American countries.”
As I step off the bus, the criminals celebrate as if they had scared me away. I notice a box above the windshield that holds a small medical kit and a sign: “Body Fluids Cleanup Kit.”
Each prisoner in the back of the bus has handcuffs and thick metal chains holding his ankles close together, tight enough that he must take baby steps to avoid falling. Running is impossible. A thick chain weighs around his waist, pulling his hands so that he cannot even scratch his face. Each step is a rattling clank of chains, almost musical—in a Catholic Church kind of way. The men wear cowboy boots, designer sneakers, or beach sandals. On their faces, I see a combination of violence and controlled energy, much like caged tigers.
As the prisoners step off the bus, burly security guards form two rows and search each convict for hidden weapons. Long shadows are projected onto the side of the HOMELAND SECURITY bus, like a shadow puppet-show of prison life. A guard aims a flashlight beam into a prisoner’s mouth. Alongside him, a second prisoner is watching as his shirt is turned inside out. Each inmate has his shoes inspected, investigated, and pulled apart. (“There is a kind of sneaker that has metal in them,” a guard later told me. “The guys could make a knife out of it.”) Next to the prisoners are three rows of clear plastic bags. These are the inmates’ possessions, reduced to a supermarket-sized plastic bag. I look inside one bag and see a Bible, toothbrush, letters, and a red belt buckle with cow horns raised, testament to a macho swagger that has now been diminished to the clank of chains and the shuffle of sneakers with no laces. To prevent inmate suicide, belts and shoelaces are removed for the flight. Their baggy pants flop like limp sails.
These are not the typical hard-working Mexican immigrants. This is the 1% who crossed the line and became criminals—robbing, attacking, and stealing their way to the American Dream.
First, the Mexicans are loaded aboard the airplane. These are not immigrant farmers, house painters, or the typical hardworking Mexican immigrant. This is the 1% who crossed the line and became criminals—robbing, attacking, and stealing their way to the American Dream. An honest Mexican is the nicest guy you will ever meet—and probably a master barbecue chef as well. A Mexican bad boy is just as skilled with a knife, but is so likely to slice your head off, that beheading has emerged as a new crime on the East Coast of the U.S. After a series of beheadings in Maryland, the state passed a law declaring that machetes couldn’t be carried around at night. In Acapulco, at the famous Mexican Oceanside Resort, gangbangers chopped off the heads of some local police officers and mounted them on stakes as a warning to local officials to stay away from cocaine traffickers.
One detainee, months earlier, made a break from here. Despite his restraints, he made it across the runway, past the shotguns, and over the concertina wire. “We caught him in the woods,” says an ICE agent.
One by one, the prisoners are shuffled up the stairs into the airplane. Aboard the plane, the prisoners are directed to stay seated, keep quiet, and obey orders. Instead of passport numbers, the passenger manifest on this flight lists each man’s most recent crime: drug trafficking, indecency with a child, drunk-driving, theft, assault, aggravated assault, and sexual assault . . . it’s a long, ugly list.
“I would rather die of hunger in Mexico than come back here,” said Pablo Morales, a 25-year-old Mexican prisoner, as the plane loitered on the runway. “Look how they have us?” He shakes the chains. “Like a dog!”
“I feel like a slave,” said another prisoner. “The only thing they didn’t do is put a chain around our necks. I know we broke the law,” he pulls his chains tight, “but this is too much.”
Morales complained about the huge number of raids organized by ICE, the U.S. government’s lead immigration police. “There are many more raids now. Roadblocks. On the highway, at work, everyone is getting caught.” What, to Morales, is a sudden surge of arrests is a multi-year plan by the U.S. government to arrest and deport the estimated 500,000 foreign criminals on the loose in the U.S. Known as Operation Community Shield, in 2008, they arrested and deported an estimated 110,000 foreigners wanted for crimes.
Among the U.S. government’s targets is the Mara Salvatrucha gang (MS-13), who are foreign-born and involved in human and drug-smuggling. Like most street gangs, MS-13 members are also caught for such crimes as robbery, sexual abuse, and murder. A well-financed prostitution ring is just one of their enterprises.
As the plane glides off the runway and banks skyward, the prisoners scream like children on a rollercoaster. For many of them, it is the first and only time in their life that they will board an airplane. All the passengers stare out the windows. Some squeeze their eyes shut. Some pray. “Look how little the cars are!” said a man charged with armed assault behind me. He is fascinated by the bird’s-eye view of Houston. “This is much better than the bus.”
“We do not have medication for nausea or headaches,” announces the feminine voice of Johnny, our flight attendant, as he speaks over the cabin loudspeaker. “If you want to vomit, please advise a member of security.”
“The Salvadoreans are the most rowdy. They scream, throw their food around the plane, and cheer like mad when they get home,” said one federal agent. “But we have total control of this.” Still, he asks me to sign a legal release, a document that concludes with “whatever happens aboard CONAIR and whatever happens to you, it ain’t our fault.”
