the country’s leadership against its dirt-poor population. One of Mexico’s richest states in natural resources—supplying 60 percent of the nation’s hydroelectric power, 47 percent of its natural gas, and 22 percent of its oil—Chiapas’s citizens ranked along with the states of Oaxaca and Guerrero as its poorest. A third of households were without electricity; half the population did not have access to clean drinking water.
Kelly had been recruited a year ago to head the startup Mexico Initiative. His first official act was to hire Laura Flores as his research chief.
Their backgrounds were decidedly different. She was the youngest of three daughters of a prominent and well-to-do Mexico City family. Her father managed one of four television stations in Mexico City owned by Televisa, the omnipotent communications empire whose creator was considered the wealthiest businessman in Latin America. He’d given more than fifty million dollars to the PRI for the next election, and had been rewarded with government licenses to operate sixty-two new stations throughout Mexico. Already, his channels in Mexico City boasted a 97 percent share of the audience.Their programming reflected the PRI’s bidding. They were one and the same.
Laura and her sisters attended private universities in Mexico before she enrolled at New York University over her father’s vehement objections, a man she loved deeply but whose philosophies ran counter to her developing social convictions. Although she never openly expressed such sentiments to him, she freely discussed them in the city’s cantinas, sipping Herradura tequila, smoking pot, and with her contumacious friends condemning the government.
She’d intended to return home after receiving her graduate degree in sociology from NYU, but she met Ramon Kelly. They became good friends, and occasional lovers. When Kelly moved to Washington to launch the Initiative, Laura had just started a job as a translator at the UN. She didn’t hesitate to throw that job aside and head south. The Mexico Initiative, as Kelly described it, would be well funded and had the potential to make a real difference in U.S. policy toward Mexico.
“We have powerful people behind us,” Kelly told her on the phone the night he offered the job.
“Who?”
“When you get here, Laura. Not on the phone.”
“But—”
“We’ll have plenty of time to discuss it after you’re here. In the meantime, pack your things and get moving. We have a lot of work to do.”
“Ah, Senorita Flores, welcome, welcome.”
Jose Chapas led her to the living room of the three-bedroom duplex, where two dozen people milled about,drinks in hand, served by a white-jacketed bartender in the kitchen. “A drink?” he asked.
Laura knew that there wouldn’t be any tequila or margaritas at the party. Those were reserved for gringos in the city’s prodigal Mexican restaurants. Washington’s Mexican population preferred top-shelf whiskey, fine cognacs, and vintage wines.
“White wine, please.”
Chapas worked at the Mexican-American Trade Alliance as special assistant to its managing director, Venustiano Valle. That’s what he’d told her when they met a month ago in the Cha-Cha Lounge on trendy U Street, where they fell into easy conversation, sipping wine and taking their turn at the hookah pipe, its smoke cooled as it passed through an urn of water. Laura thought it might be illegal; Jose assured her it was just smoke, no illegal substances involved. He laughed when she inhaled and started coughing.
“I don’t smoke,” she said.
“All Mexicans smoke,” he said.
Which was almost true, with exceptions—like herself.
They dated occasionally after that initial meeting, a few dinners, a movie, and a night of dancing at Polly Esther’s that culminated in his apartment in Crystal City, across the Potomac in nearby Virginia.
Laura liked Jose Chapas, although she suspected that his feelings for her were progressing beyond
Kelly had been recruited a year ago to head the startup Mexico Initiative. His first official act was to hire Laura Flores as his research chief.
Their backgrounds were decidedly different. She was the youngest of three daughters of a prominent and well-to-do Mexico City family. Her father managed one of four television stations in Mexico City owned by Televisa, the omnipotent communications empire whose creator was considered the wealthiest businessman in Latin America. He’d given more than fifty million dollars to the PRI for the next election, and had been rewarded with government licenses to operate sixty-two new stations throughout Mexico. Already, his channels in Mexico City boasted a 97 percent share of the audience.Their programming reflected the PRI’s bidding. They were one and the same.
Laura and her sisters attended private universities in Mexico before she enrolled at New York University over her father’s vehement objections, a man she loved deeply but whose philosophies ran counter to her developing social convictions. Although she never openly expressed such sentiments to him, she freely discussed them in the city’s cantinas, sipping Herradura tequila, smoking pot, and with her contumacious friends condemning the government.
She’d intended to return home after receiving her graduate degree in sociology from NYU, but she met Ramon Kelly. They became good friends, and occasional lovers. When Kelly moved to Washington to launch the Initiative, Laura had just started a job as a translator at the UN. She didn’t hesitate to throw that job aside and head south. The Mexico Initiative, as Kelly described it, would be well funded and had the potential to make a real difference in U.S. policy toward Mexico.
“We have powerful people behind us,” Kelly told her on the phone the night he offered the job.
“Who?”
“When you get here, Laura. Not on the phone.”
“But—”
“We’ll have plenty of time to discuss it after you’re here. In the meantime, pack your things and get moving. We have a lot of work to do.”
“Ah, Senorita Flores, welcome, welcome.”
Jose Chapas led her to the living room of the three-bedroom duplex, where two dozen people milled about,drinks in hand, served by a white-jacketed bartender in the kitchen. “A drink?” he asked.
Laura knew that there wouldn’t be any tequila or margaritas at the party. Those were reserved for gringos in the city’s prodigal Mexican restaurants. Washington’s Mexican population preferred top-shelf whiskey, fine cognacs, and vintage wines.
“White wine, please.”
Chapas worked at the Mexican-American Trade Alliance as special assistant to its managing director, Venustiano Valle. That’s what he’d told her when they met a month ago in the Cha-Cha Lounge on trendy U Street, where they fell into easy conversation, sipping wine and taking their turn at the hookah pipe, its smoke cooled as it passed through an urn of water. Laura thought it might be illegal; Jose assured her it was just smoke, no illegal substances involved. He laughed when she inhaled and started coughing.
“I don’t smoke,” she said.
“All Mexicans smoke,” he said.
Which was almost true, with exceptions—like herself.
They dated occasionally after that initial meeting, a few dinners, a movie, and a night of dancing at Polly Esther’s that culminated in his apartment in Crystal City, across the Potomac in nearby Virginia.
Laura liked Jose Chapas, although she suspected that his feelings for her were progressing beyond
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