STRIFE-TORN TOWN IN JUAREZ VALLEY HAS JUST ONE OFFICER LEFT

GUADALUPE, Mexico -- The only police officer in a long and deadly
stretch of border towns in the Juarez Valley is 28-year-old Erika Gandara.

She works in plainclothes but keeps a semi-automatic rifle, an AR-15,
hidden between cushions in her stark office. A bulletproof vest hangs
near the door. A portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the Mexican
version of the Virgin Mary, adorns one wall. These items are all
Gandara has for company at the station.

Eight officers constituted the police force of Guadalupe. One was shot
dead the week Gandara joined the department as a dispatcher in June
2009. The other seven resigned within a year, driven out by fear,
Gandara said. The last one quit in June, and no potential replacements
have applied, Gandara said.

"I am here out of necessity," she said.

Women have increasingly become the face of police forces in rural
areas outside Juarez. The territory borders a string of small Texas
towns, including San Elizario, Tornillo and Fabens, and stretches all
the way to Presidio.

In the Mexican town of Praxedis Guerrero, also in the Juarez Valley,
the police chief is a 20-year-old college student with a department
staffed by 12 women and two men. Most of them, including the chief,
are unarmed.

The appointment of this young police chief created an international
media frenzy. In contrast, Gandara has received little notice, even
though her town of 9,000 is larger than Praxedis.

It is chilling that inexperienced policewomen are left to safeguard
violent towns, said Maki Haberfeld, a professor at New York's John Jay
College of Criminal Justice. She said cultural perceptions account for
females running these police departments.

"They are operating under the assumption that the killers would be
more likely to kill men than to kill women because of the machismo
culture," Haberfeld said.

Speaking specifically of Gandara's situation, Haberfeld said, "It is
jeopardizing her life."

Gandara did not go through any type of police academy or formal
training. Still, she said, given the corruption in Mexican police
forces, she may not be in the worst position.

"I am better off alone than in bad company," she said.

Police forces that help drug cartels are rampant in her country. Even
though her salary is only about $7,000 a year, Gandara said, she is
not susceptible to bribes.

"If they want to kill me, they can go ahead and do it. I don't want to
be involved in those dirty businesses," she said.

U.S. Border Patrol officials said the Juarez Valley is an attractive
drug corridor for two organized crime operations -- the Juarez and
Sinaloa drug cartels. They are presumably responsible for an epidemic
of arsons, kidnappings and killings.

The turf war in the valley reached a fever pitch in March. Arsonists
destroyed homes and businesses. Cartel members told townspeople to
leave or face death.

Residents said many fled to West Texas towns. Others moved to Juarez,
a city also torn by violence.

The exodus did not bring peace did to the Juarez Valley or even to
some who left it.

Gunmen arrived in June at the Juarez home of the former mayor of
Guadalupe and killed him. The man, Jesus Manuel Lara Rodriguez, had
sought refuge in the city.

In late October, riflemen attacked a bus carrying maquila dora
workers, killing three women and a man, near the town of Guadalupe.

"We are living in a mess, believe me," said a 24-year-old woman named
Mari.

Gunmen killed her husband last year. "People here are scared," she
said, an understatement in a shattered town.

Most houses and shops in Guadalupe are abandoned. A bakery, a liquor
store and two groceries are among the few businesses still open.

Traffic persists, despite the lack of commerce. Late-model trucks kick
up clouds of dust that blind people who still walk the streets.

The only sounds of laughter come from children on the school
playground.

Women stand on the corner near the elementary school, but not for
long. They leave their houses only to pick up their children.

Almost nobody visits the plaza anymore. On a recent day, only a few
construction workers remodeling the town hall rested on public benches.

Gandara responds to terrible crimes and carnage, such as the bus
shooting. In another recent case, a man was stoned to death.

But compared with their counterparts in the United States, municipal
police in Mexico are limited. Gandara, for instance, does not
investigate murders. Instead, she calls state police.

Sometimes, police from the adjacent municipality accompany Gandara to
the more gruesome crimes. At least a dozen soldiers patrol outside and
inside the town hall where she works.

Regularly, however, she travels by herself without the army for an
escort.

"The protection is coming from up there," she said, gesturing toward
the heavens.

People in town know Gandara because she is out and about. Former
police officers taught her how to fire her rifle and pistol. Soldiers
patrolling Guada lupe sometimes mentor her on details of law
enforcement, she said.

Gandara grew up in Guada lupe and attended school until ninth grade.
She is single and without children.

She said she does not know which gangs operate in the area. Gandara
naturally confronts narco traffickers, she said, but cannot
investigate their operations.

Gandara said her job is more difficult than that of Marisol Valles
Garcia, police chief of the adjacent municipality of Praxedis.

"Her ideas have more to do with family values, with social programs,"
she said. "Our job is public safety."

Only 10 miles away from Gandara, Valles held a meeting with her female
officers on a recent day. Valles, like Gandara, has a bulletproof vest
that hangs inside a cage. But Valles has no weapon. She does not know
how to shoot a gun.

Valles said she hopes to restore peace by having female police
officers gain residents' trust.

Valles' position as chief is mostly administrative. The mayor of
Praxedis, Jose Luis Guerrero, said Valles, at age 20, was the most
qualified person for the job.

People in Guadalupe, with their one-member police force, say they are
more vulnerable to attacks and kidnappings. Many continue leaving for
the city. The dangerous road from southeast Juarez to the valley towns
rich in cotton is rarely traveled.

"We don't feel safe, not at all." Mari said. "We are living at God's
mercy."