FATAL ERROR: THE PENTAGON'S WAR ON DRUGS TAKES A TOLL ON THE INNOCENT

con't Pt. 2

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

In fact, they didn't need to be there -- at least not in May. A decade's
worth of federal statistics prove it: More than 85% of all illegal drugs
entering the United States arrive via official Ports of Entry monitored by
the Customs Service. Most come concealed within legitimate cargo. Nearly
100% of all heroin shipped to the United States last year flowed through
official ports, according to federal estimates, and 99% of the
methamphetamine tumbled through those same ports.

Ninety-seven percent of the cocaine blew in this way as well. Marijuana is
the lone exception. Half the weed consumed in this country is grown here.
Much of the rest comes across at places like El Polvo. Last fall, the Border
Patrol caught a motor home stuffed with 2,700 pounds of marijuana. Its
driver claimed he crossed at El Polvo. Large busts like this happen every
fall. That's because marijuana is a crop. Most of it gets harvested and
shipped across the border in the fall and winter. Only tourists and amateurs
bother smuggling in May.

If Congress were serious about employing the armed forces to stop the
northward flow of drugs, it would post search teams at each of the 39
customs checkpoints along the 2,000-mile border. Three and a half million
trucks rolled through in 1996. Customs was able to inspect but a quarter of
them.

The main reason these trucks go uninspected is because truckers -- and the
corporations who hire them -- complain the wait at customs is too long.
These corporations, which finance political life in America, complain to
Congress that more searches would slow down the progress of the North
AmericanFree Trade Agreement (NAFTA).

But Washington wants it both ways. It wants to stop the flow of drugs and
immigrants while increasing the flow of goods and services. Putting troops
in places such as Redford is a compromise. It allows Congress to appear
tough on drugs, while not hindering trade. Congress has strained to expand
the military's role along the border ever since JTF-6 was created. Both the
House and Senate versions of the 1989 bill would have given the military the
power to arrest civilians. These provisions were killed as a result of
strong opposition from the Pentagon, which trains soldiers to kill their
enemies, not arrest them. Many, many military scholars warn that training
the armed services to do police work will render them unprepared for actual
combat.

Timothy Dunn chronicles America's longstanding efforts to station soldiers
along the Rio Grande in his book The Militarization of the U.S.-Mexico
Border. The El Paso-based professor explains how "complex international
issues such as undocumented immigration and illegal drug trafficking are
reduced to one-sided, domestic border-control problems, and framed as
threats to national security, which in turn require strong law enforcement,
or even military responses."

Even as Banuelos was struggling to prepare his team for mission JT414-97A,
U.S. Rep. James Traficant, D-Ohio, was pushing a 1997 bill that would have
put 10,000 troops on the U.S.-Mexican border. Traficant reintroduced the
troop plan this year, and tore a page from Dunn's book when he said on the
House floor: "The border is a national security issue, and, by God, the
Congress of the United States better start securing our borders." The House
passed the Ohio congressman's amendment in June, along with proposals for
bigger fences, fancier technology, and more agents along the border. The
Senate nixed the Traficant plan, but moved to swell the ranks of the Border
Patrol from 6,200 to more than 20,000 agents.

"It's an easy, simple, and politically safe target," says Kevin Zeese, who
heads the nonprofit group Common Sense for Drug Policy. "Shout 'drug war' as
loud as you can, and you sound like you are protecting America's youth."

"Fire Back"

Esequiel Jr. got home from school about 4pm on the day he died. He thanked
the driver of the big yellow bus and walked down the lane to his family's
little rancheria. He studied his driver's handbook, then he helped his
father unload some hay. After that it was time to walk the goats.

Banuelos led his men out of the hide site even earlier that afternoon. It
was three full hours before nightfall. They hadn't even seen the goats yet.
They were hot, tired, hungry, dehydrated, and still dressed like shrubs.
They looked forward to being relieved shortly after dark.

As Team 7 crept toward the observation post, Banuelos spotted a man on a
horse on the Mexican side. The corporal put his team in a halt. Just then,
Esequiel and his goats crested the small bluff. The soldiers -- who had been
warned to expect armed lookouts and "unfriendly villagers" -- saw a young
man of Latino descent carrying a .22 rifle.

Banuelos whispered into the radio: "We have an armed individual, about 200
meters from us." A time-stamped recording of the radio traffic showed it was
6:05pm. "He's in front of the old fort. He's headed toward us. He's armed
with a rifle. He appears to be in, uh, herding goats or something."

Hernandez saw something move in the brush at the bottom of the far ravine.
He had warned friends and family members of what he would do if he ever
found the wild dog he believed had taken his goat. The goat-herder may have
fired once, as Banuelos and Blood claimed. (One spent shell was later found
in the rifle.) Or he may have fired twice, as Torrez and Wieler recalled. Or
he may not have fired at all, as the lack of gunpowder residue on his hands
later suggested.

What is certain is that the four tired soldiers believed they had been fired
at by a drug smuggler. None was hit. Banuelos ordered the men prone. Face
down in the hot gravel, he told them to "lock and load."

Hernandez stood on his toes. He peered across the desert. Torrez recalled he
was "bobbing and weaving ... like when you look at something in the
distance, you stand on your tippy-toes and try to move your head around to
see."

"We're taking fire," Banuelos radioed at 6:07pm. Capt. McDaniel was working
out in a gym at the Marfa compound when he heard the news. He sprinted to
the nearby operations center. He and his fellow officers immediately began
debating what actions were authorized under the JTF-6 rules of engagement.

Banuelos and his teammates were still carrying the ROE flash cards they were
given a week earlier. The first of six points listed was: "Force may be used
to defend yourself and others present." The second and third points were:
"Do not use force if other defensive measures could be effective," and "Use
only minimum force necessary."

But Banuelos didn't have time to re-read his card. Nor was he aware that
McDaniel and the other officers were in the midst of an intense debate about
what he could and could not do. At 6:11pm, he radioed the operations center:
"As soon as he readies that rifle back down range, we are taking him."

Lance Cpl. James Steen was manning the radio in Marfa. He replied: "Roger,
fire back." McDaniel exploded. He and the other officers in the operations
center believed that Steen's authorization to "fire back" was wrong,
according to written statements. Steen was pulled off the radio. Sgt. Dewbre
took the chair. But the order to "fire back" was neither corrected nor
withdrawn. Dewbre radioed at 6:14pm: "Just give us an update."

To keep the boy within his line of sight, Banuelos led his team down another
stony arroyo and up the opposite bank. From the top of the next plateau, the
soldiers could see in all directions. Banuelos told Dewbre: "We have a
visual." Dewbre replied: "You're to follow the ROE." Banuelos did not
acknowledge Dewbre's order. Nearly four minutes had passed since the
incorrect order to "fire back" was issued. McDaniel and the other officers
discussed whether or not Banuelos had heard Dewbre. But they did not
re-transmit the instruction.

Worse Than the Drugs

The war that Esequiel Hernandez wandered into is not confined to the
U.S.-Mexican border. The Pentagon spends about $1 billion a year fighting
drugs. JTF-6 has conducted missions in 30 states and the Caribbean
territories. An estimated 4,000 National Guard troops are involved in 1,300
counter-drug operations nationwide. And 89% of police departments now have
paramilitary "SWAT" teams, which primarily serve drug warrants.

In spite of all this, the drugs are winning. The availability and potency of
hard drugs such as heroin and cocaine has skyrocketed over the past decade.
At the same time, street prices have fallen. The United Nations estimates
the annual revenue generated by the illegal drug industry at $400 billion.
That's 8% of the total international trade, or about the same size as the
global automobile industry.

The war has not proved either as easy, simple, or politically safe as its
proponents had hoped. Days after he waved the plastic bag of crack on TV,
Bush was embarrassed by revelations that it was not "seized" in Lafayette
Park -- but in fact had been purchased for $2,400 by an undercover agent who
had lured a drug dealer there. The seller was baffled by the agent's
request; on a DEA tape of the phone call, the 18-year-old dealer asked,
"Where the fuck is the White House?"

"We can't even keep drugs out of prison," says Zeese of Common Sense for
Drug Policy. "To think we could keep them out at the borders is absurd."
Common Sense for Drug Policy argues that drug abuse is a social problem that
requires a combination of social, not military, solutions. The evidence
bears them out. Where drug use has fallen, experts attribute the difference
to lifestyle changes, not law enforcement.

Reagan's Secretary of State George Shultz, right-wing economist Milton
Friedman, and broadcaster Walter Cronkite all make the same case. They are
among the hundreds of signers of a June 1998 letter urging the United
Nations to abandon the War on Drugs. The signatories hailed from 40 nations,
and included federal judges and Nobel laureates from across the political
spectrum. Published in TheNew York Times and elsewhere, the letter was
blunt: "We believe that the global war on drugs is now causing more harm
than drug abuse itself.

"This industry has empowered organized criminals, corrupted governments at
all levels, eroded internal security, stimulated violence, and distorted
both economic markets and moral values," the letter stated. "These are the
consequences not of drug use per se, but of decades of failed and futile
drug war policies."

Death in the Desert

Border Patrol agent Johnny Urias was picking up undocumented immigrants 15
miles away when he heard the 6:07pm radio call: "They're taking fire from a
man with a rifle at position three. ... Please assist position three." Urias
and partner Rodolfo Martinez sped back to the Presidio station. They dropped
off their suspects. They picked up M-16 rifles and protective vests. Two
other agents arrived, and did the same. Within minutes, the four agents
were speeding toward Redford, lights and sirens blaring.

Urias radioed Banuelos, who told him that Hernandez was at the old fort.
"He's armed with a rifle, a .22," the corporal said. Banuelos and his team
were atop a plateau about two football fields away from Hernandez. They knew
the Border Patrol was only minutes away. But Banuelos wanted to be closer.
He handed the radio to Torrez, then waved for Wieler and Blood to follow him
into the next ravine. From that moment on, Banuelos was out of radio contact
with both McDaniel and the Border Patrol.

The next arroyo was steeper than the last. Wieler stumbled several times. He
scraped his hands on the sharp, loose gravel. He didn't understand what
Banuelos was doing. He said later that he "would have stayed and let the
Border Patrol handle the situation." Instead, he followed orders.

Once atop the next plateau, the Marines moved toward the abandoned fort.
Soon they were within 130 yards of Hernandez. They scurried forward one by
one, in short rushes, crouching low among the waist-high greasewood bushes.
Banuelos watched Hernandez through the scope on his M-16 as his men moved.
At 6:27pm, Banuelos believed he saw the boy raise his old .22 and aim toward
Blood. (Neither Torrez nor Blood were watching Hernandez. Weiler initially
stated he didn't see Hernandez move, then later testified that he did.)

The corporal, an expert marksman, squeezed the trigger. The bullet entered
Esequiel Hernandez Jr. beneath his right arm. It fragmented and cut two
trails through his chest, destroying every organ in its path. Torrez looked
up just in time to see the boy's feet fly in the air.

Myth of the Frontier

The books in Lucia Madrid's library tell many stories. They tell of the
soldiers who came through Redford, and of the powerful men who sent them.
But these books do not explain the shooting of Esequiel Hernandez. Enrique
Rede Madrid still lives in the white stucco home where his recently deceased
mother built the library. An anthropologist, he has spent much of his life
resisting the military. Way back in 1967, he was the first student at the
University of Texas to return his draft card -- a gutsy move for a young
Chicano from La Frontera. He waged a three-year court battle challenging the
constitutionality of the Vietnam War. Today, he translates books and works
at a community college.

Sifting through the artifacts of his life, Madrid pulls out newspaper
clippings and photographs. One picture shows President Bush awarding his
mother her medal of honor. Another shows her reading to a group of village
children. At the center of that photograph is a squirmy little boy, hamming
a grin for the camera. The boy is Esequiel Hernandez Jr. "Isn't it
schizoid?" he asks, fingering his mother's silver and gold medals. Madrid
speaks through a clenched jaw, as if he is holding back anger.

"Two presidential medals and an M-16 bullet in a kid's chest. She received
these medals for educating Esequiel. America has a schizoid mentality about
the border," Enrique continues. "We address the problem with the wrong tool.
It's a failure of our ability to test reality. ... A psychiatrist would call
it a psychosis of some sort."

Richard Slotkin, a historian who has spent the past 25 years studying the
stories that Americans tell each other, calls it America's oldest and most
powerful story: the myth of the frontier. Slotkin argues that "regeneration
through violence" is the heart of the myth. The United States has pursued
violent regeneration through a series of "savage wars" fought first against
Native Americans, and later against competing settlers such as the Mexicans.
This century, distant enemies such as the Soviet Union filled the savage
shoes. These heroic tales of men with guns have been handed down through
literature, culture, and ritual for three centuries.

The repetition of this mythology is easy to spot in dozens of newspaper and
magazine reports on Esequiel's murder. Rather than describing a quiet little
village of alfalfa and pumpkin farmers, many thrilled readers with
exaggerated descriptions of a rough-and-tumble Wild West border town
populated with "drug lords" and "illegal aliens." Likewise, these myths are
at the heart of the many Western movies filmed at the Contrabando Creek
movie set, a faux village just downriver from Redford.

"The reporter's role is to see the reality in terms of the established
myth," Slotkin says. "The reporter goes back and tells the tale to a
congressman, who is prepared to believe it because he already knows the
story. It has the power of familiarity. It confirms what we've known all
along."

The war on drugs has invoked the myth of savage war to rationalize its
illogical use of violence. "Here the myth of the frontier plays its classic
role," Slotkin says. "We define and confront this crisis -- and the profound
questions it raises about our society -- by deploying the metaphor of 'war'
and locating the root of our problem in the power of a 'savage' enemy."

Following Orders

Cpl. Banuelos was standing over Hernandez's body when the Border Patrol
arrived. Agent Urias recognized the boy he had warned only three months
before. Hernandez had dragged himself 10 yards through hot gravel after he
was shot. From atop the old Army watering hole, Hernandez could have seen
the adobe home where he was born, the lush green oasis that fed his family,
the cinderblock schoolhouse where he had dreamed of becoming a soldier, and
the village graveyard, where he soon would be buried.

A desert thunderstorm approached. More cops arrived. Texas Rangers. A
justice of the peace. The district attorney. FBI. Marines. They trampled
through the evidence for hours. Then the storm rumbled through. Hard rain
washed over the body, the gun, the scene. Team 7 was driven back to Marfa,
put in a motel room, given a six-pack of beer, and told to write statements.
The story that emerged was that Banuelos was not "pursuing" Hernandez -- as
prohibited by the rules of engagement -- but was "paralleling" the
goat-herder out of fear that the boy was running a "flanking maneuver."

Banuelos was frank and forthright about what he had done. He reportedly
concluded one interview by stating: "I capped the fucker."

The Texas Rangers investigated the shooting. The Justice Department
investigated the shooting. JTF-6 investigated the shooting. And the 1st
Marine Division investigated the shooting. All concluded that Banuelos
followed orders. All concluded that he committed no crime.

A county grand jury refused to indict Banuelos on criminal charges. A
federal grand jury refused to indict him. And a second county grand jury,
given substantially more evidence than the first, also refused to indict
him. All concluded that Banuelos followed orders. All concluded that he
committed no crime. Banuelos was under investigation for more than a year.
But the orders that sent him to El Polvo in May -- the orders that put him
in the field with an under-prepared team, and the incredible order to "fire
back" -- these were never put on trial. And by agreeing to pay the Hernandez
family a mere $1.9 million, the Navy and the Justice Department effectively
closed the most viable legal route through which the family or the village
could have put those orders on trial.

Human rights activists fear that the settlement will clear a political path
for JTF-6 to resume armed border patrols in the near future. And if they
take such missions, future Marines will follow orders just as Banuelos did.
In a response to the scathing Coyne report, Gen. C.W. Fulford Jr. noted that
even the best trained Marines would likely behave much as Team 7 did.
"Indeed," Fulford wrote, "it is probable that a superbly trained team of
infantrymen would have immediately returned fire."

Clemente Manuel Banuelos is no longer a member of the Marine Corps. His
promising military career died the same day Hernandez did. The 23-year-old
now struggles to support his young wife, Luz Contreras, in their modest
Southern California home. He is looking for work as a physical therapist.

Rounding Up the Goats

On the day Esequiel Hernandez Jr. died, his father brought the goats back
from the river. Hernandez Sr. was chopping wood when he saw the crowd of
Border Patrol agents, sheriff deputies, and other authorities gather on the
hill across from his adobe home. He drove the old white pickup over to see
what was happening.

Not knowing who he was, a deputy sheriff asked whether Hernandez might be
able to identify the victim. The old man stared curiously at the soldiers,
still dressed in their ghillie suits. The leather-faced father was then
shown the lifeless body of his son. He wept, and wailed, in Spanish.

The Hernandez family was kept away from the scene that night. Pushed back by
sheriff's deputies, sobbing family members shared their grief and anger
within the privacy of the Hernandez rancheria.

Later, the old man went down to the river to round up the goats.
Ten-year-old Noel went with him. After the goats were put away, Noel marched
into Esequiel's bedroom and tore the Marine recruiting poster from his dead
brother's wall.

Checked-by: Don Beck