JAILED SHERIFF TAKES A SHOT AT REDEMPTION

Ex-Lawman Is Welcomed Back To Texas Town After
Serving Two Years For Accepting Bribes

Starr County, Texas--There's an old sheriff in town.
Twenty-one months after going to prison on federal bribery charges,
Eugenio "Gene" Falcon Jr. returned to the impoverished borderlands he
once ruled. It was the eve of Independence Day, but he locked himself
behind the wrought-iron gates of his walled ranch house, ignoring the
speculation swirling around his next move.

"When I see him, I think I'll still call him Sheriff Falcon," said
Beda "Bea" Baxter, a 78-year-old community matriarch, ordering another
beer at Chucho's cantina rather than venture out in the 102-degree
afternoon.

For 17 years, Falcon was not just Starr County's top cop but also its
most popular politician, defender of a Rio Grande outpost best known
for its hellish superlatives. Dusty, clannish and remote, Starr County
has been called a smuggler's paradise, a snake pit of corruption and
"Texas' Little Colombia."

But the county--located in the state's southernmost tip, about 100
miles west of the Gulf of Mexico--is also a bastion of Old World pride
and nobility. Surnames can be traced to the Spanish explorers who
claimed this land 2 1/2 centuries ago, their cowboy traditions and
familial alliances still shaping life in a place that remains 97% Latino.

Contrary to the view from Washington, Starr County's 86 miles of
international riverfront are seen here as terminally porous, the line
of demarcation anything but absolute. While the U.S. government was
declaring war on drugs, Falcon was trying to keep peace with the drug
traffickers. To survive--politically and physically--he had to not
merely enforce the law but coexist with the lawless, to accept that a
ribbon of water was no match for supply and demand.

"If you were to look in every person's closet, I would say that 98% of
the public would have skeletons," Falcon, a ninth-generation Starr
County descendant, told The Times in a lengthy profile last year. "We
all fall short. To what degree? There's different degrees. But,
basically, none of us is pure."

The outside world was not so charitable. To the journalists who
parachuted in--and to the federal agents who regularly confirmed
suspicions with massive indictments and roundups--Falcon looked dirty.
Although Falcon never made more than $38,000 a year as sheriff, he
lived on a 10-acre spread once owned by Starr County's most notorious
narcotraficante. And so, in 1997, shortly after being reelected to his
fifth term, the FBI set a trap.

Falcon thought he was meeting with the proprietor of Linda's Bail
Bonds, Homero Arturo Longoria, who recently had opened an office in
Starr County. Longoria, however, was working for the feds, having
earned more than $109,000 over two decades as a confidential
informant. In exchange for referring inmates to Longoria, Falcon
accepted about a dozen payments totaling $11,050.

Caught on tape, he pleaded guilty and, on Sept. 14, 1998, began
serving a two-year prison sentence.

"It was like a play, produced by the government, and everybody knew
their role," said Jerry Lozano, an ex-journalist and businessman who
until recently was city administrator of Rio Grande City, the Starr
County seat. "Gene was the antihero, a good man from a good family who
gave in to his weaknesses. I don't want to paint him as the victim--he
made a mistake and got caught--but the whole thing was so hollow."

It would be hard to argue, indeed, that Starr County has become a
better or safer or more prosperous place as a result of Falcon's absence.

The palm trees lining the median strip of U.S. 83 still end the moment
the road reaches Starr County. The unpaved colonias still flood in the
winter and melon pickers still risk their lives under a triple-digit
sky in the summer. The unemployment rate has dropped slightly but
still hovers between one-quarter and one-third of the work force.
Per-capita income has inched up--to $8,225--but Starr County still
ranks as one of the poorest counties in America.

And drugs? On March 25, a car chase here led officers to a 7,264-pound
stash of marijuana. On May 3, U.S. Customs inspectors discovered 89
pounds hidden in the tires of a pickup truck at the international
bridge. On May 18, U.S. Border Patrol agents, following a trail of
footprints, came across 1,037 pounds bundled near the river. On June
15, spotting another truck speeding away from the waterfront, agents
seized a 1,188-pound load.

"The problem in Starr County was never Gene Falcon," Lozano said. "It
was a bigger disease--called poverty."

As for Falcon's status in town, little has changed, either. His
five-pointed star is now pinned on the chest of the man who was once
his chief deputy. Falcon is required to report to a parole officer for
the next two years, and he is barred from possessing a firearm. But he
still enjoys a level of respect not often granted to a 47-year-old
convicted felon.

"That ol' Gene--he could run again and win," said Baxter, ordering
another round at Chucho's horseshoe-shaped bar. She reaches into her
purse to pay. "I'd like to make a bet on that."