against him with a giggle and whispered, “We might as well just move my office
into the prison, we spend so much time here. This is a human rights apocalypse.”
The deputy warden led them down a hallway. The noise got louder. In the watch commander’s office, two guards studied a bank
of video monitors. A third stood by a sliding gate with a shotgun across his chest. The chunky, shaven-headed watch commander
slumped behind a desk, blowing listlessly into an empty paper cup. He glanced at them, unimpressed. He nodded at the guard
with the shotgun, who unlocked the gate.
The prison yard was reached through a cage filled with relatives, lawyers and other visitors, the red stamps on their hands
distinguishing them from the inmates, who were also in civilian dress, on the other side of the chain-link fence. Méndez’s
expeditionary force advanced to a second gate. They were met by a lanky inmate in a San Diego Padres cap and a leather coat.
Méndez recognized him as a former state police detective whom the Diogenes Group had arrested along with the Colonel.
“Rico, you probably remember Licenciado Méndez,” Aguirresaid without a trace of irony, as if they had run into each other in a supermarket. “Shall we?”
Four grim-faced prison guards led the way. Whenever Méndez entered the yard, he felt as if he were stepping into a hallucination.
It resembled the plaza of a bustling and thuggish village. A basketball court was surrounded by two-story blocks of housing
called
carracas
with spiral staircases leading to outdoor catwalks. The walls were painted in green, orange and maroon and decorated by murals
of historical figures, religious images, zoot-suited pachucos, Aztec monarchs, Border Patrol helicopters swooping over figures
running through canyons. Most of the buildings were occupied on the ground floors by ramshackle businesses with hand-painted
signs: restaurants, grocery stores, a barbershop.
Years earlier, the prison administration had found itself overwhelmed by an excess inmate population of migrants from all
over Mexico. Politics had made the federal government disinclined to lend a hand; the opposition party was strong in Baja,
so the mess at the prison had been a perennial weapon for the ruling party of that era. The authorities decided to let the
inmates fend for themselves. The inmates created their own businesses and mafias, built their own homes—townhouses that sold
for forty thousand dollars, cubicles that sold for two hundred. A microsociety blossomed within the walls. At night, the guards
only dared to venture into the internal “streets” the way the police entered the toughest
colonias
of the city outside: in platoons and girded for combat.
It took longer than Méndez had hoped to get to the Colonel. The Saturday crowd was thick with strolling families, timid backcountry
migrants, tattered heroin addicts who prowled and scratched and hustled. The phalanx of VIPs caused a commotion. A human whirlpool
encircled the human rights commissioner. The inmates shouted her name or simply “Doctora.” They jostled close to shake her
hand, appeal for help, steal a moment of her time.
Méndez realized that Aguirre was not going to brush them off. She was unruffled by the size and noise of the swarm. She inched
forward, the shawl draped over her willowy long-backed frame. She hoisted and inspected a toddler with a respiratory disease.
She nodded gravely at the semicoherent patter of a bleary-eyed convict on crutches who wore multiple vests, a watch cap and
an Artful Dodger overcoat that looked as if he slept in it. Aguirre was doing her job.
Athos stayed by Méndez, AK-47 at the ready, eyeing the crowd, the balconies and rooftops. Porthos shadowed Aguirre, shoving
away inmates violently but surreptitiously, his hands low so the human rights commissioner wouldn’t notice. The crowd ebbed
and swirled. A group of women shouldered forward. They had an
into the prison, we spend so much time here. This is a human rights apocalypse.”
The deputy warden led them down a hallway. The noise got louder. In the watch commander’s office, two guards studied a bank
of video monitors. A third stood by a sliding gate with a shotgun across his chest. The chunky, shaven-headed watch commander
slumped behind a desk, blowing listlessly into an empty paper cup. He glanced at them, unimpressed. He nodded at the guard
with the shotgun, who unlocked the gate.
The prison yard was reached through a cage filled with relatives, lawyers and other visitors, the red stamps on their hands
distinguishing them from the inmates, who were also in civilian dress, on the other side of the chain-link fence. Méndez’s
expeditionary force advanced to a second gate. They were met by a lanky inmate in a San Diego Padres cap and a leather coat.
Méndez recognized him as a former state police detective whom the Diogenes Group had arrested along with the Colonel.
“Rico, you probably remember Licenciado Méndez,” Aguirresaid without a trace of irony, as if they had run into each other in a supermarket. “Shall we?”
Four grim-faced prison guards led the way. Whenever Méndez entered the yard, he felt as if he were stepping into a hallucination.
It resembled the plaza of a bustling and thuggish village. A basketball court was surrounded by two-story blocks of housing
called
carracas
with spiral staircases leading to outdoor catwalks. The walls were painted in green, orange and maroon and decorated by murals
of historical figures, religious images, zoot-suited pachucos, Aztec monarchs, Border Patrol helicopters swooping over figures
running through canyons. Most of the buildings were occupied on the ground floors by ramshackle businesses with hand-painted
signs: restaurants, grocery stores, a barbershop.
Years earlier, the prison administration had found itself overwhelmed by an excess inmate population of migrants from all
over Mexico. Politics had made the federal government disinclined to lend a hand; the opposition party was strong in Baja,
so the mess at the prison had been a perennial weapon for the ruling party of that era. The authorities decided to let the
inmates fend for themselves. The inmates created their own businesses and mafias, built their own homes—townhouses that sold
for forty thousand dollars, cubicles that sold for two hundred. A microsociety blossomed within the walls. At night, the guards
only dared to venture into the internal “streets” the way the police entered the toughest
colonias
of the city outside: in platoons and girded for combat.
It took longer than Méndez had hoped to get to the Colonel. The Saturday crowd was thick with strolling families, timid backcountry
migrants, tattered heroin addicts who prowled and scratched and hustled. The phalanx of VIPs caused a commotion. A human whirlpool
encircled the human rights commissioner. The inmates shouted her name or simply “Doctora.” They jostled close to shake her
hand, appeal for help, steal a moment of her time.
Méndez realized that Aguirre was not going to brush them off. She was unruffled by the size and noise of the swarm. She inched
forward, the shawl draped over her willowy long-backed frame. She hoisted and inspected a toddler with a respiratory disease.
She nodded gravely at the semicoherent patter of a bleary-eyed convict on crutches who wore multiple vests, a watch cap and
an Artful Dodger overcoat that looked as if he slept in it. Aguirre was doing her job.
Athos stayed by Méndez, AK-47 at the ready, eyeing the crowd, the balconies and rooftops. Porthos shadowed Aguirre, shoving
away inmates violently but surreptitiously, his hands low so the human rights commissioner wouldn’t notice. The crowd ebbed
and swirled. A group of women shouldered forward. They had an
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