The smell of death lingered in the prison. Balmes Parra, brother of Los Feliciano, was in the High Security Ward. His brothers, rich landowners from Casanare, had been murdered by Héctor Germán Buitrago, alias Martín Llanos, the paramilitary chief of the Llano who also expropriated their property. A survivor, Balmes Parra was locked up for murder and drug trafficking and he was caught up in an ongoing battle with his brothers’ assassin.
Ángel Gaitán had an ally who happened to be a friend of the powerful para chief of Casanare and Ángel tried to fix things to prevent a war. Martín Llanos didn’t follow Carlos Castaño’s guidelines, those of Don Berna, and especially those of Don Vicente Castaño. This infuriated them. It was always the same story: the emissary said the whole problem was that Miguel Arroyave was backing Balmes Parra against the Buitragos. The strangest thing of all was a few days later Ángel Gaitán began to act weird.
“We’re gonna go out to the football field,” he announced smiling,
This was the only green area in the entire prison, but it was in sight of and within easy access of Yards 1 and 2.
“Anyone who doesn’t go is a coward, a marica!” Ángel yelled loudly, while Popeye tried to ask him what was going on.
He continued with the same song and dance all week. Popeye thought it was all part of a plan to murder Ramoncito. The security for all the men leaving the yard was going to be provided by criminals in Yard 2 allied with the paras, ready for an attack.
If anything happened, they had to run northward. The final recommendation: they shouldn’t get close to the yards in the south controlled by the guerrilleros.
The guards authorized the trip out to the field. Everyone went except Miguel Arroyave. This gave Pope a bad feeling. Still, he didn’t pack his revolver. He kept away from Ramón Plazas and stayed close to Ángel Gaitán, who was laughing. That day nothing happened. Two hours later they returned to the ward, dismantled their security, and everything was fine. He even began to think the guerrilleros were a paper tiger since they could’ve shot them then and there, but didn’t. Days later, Ángel started up again.
“Cowards, sons of bitches, faggots, the trip is every eight days to the football field,” Ángel Gaitán announced at the top of his lungs, as if trying to prove his nickname, El Loco.
At that point Popeye did get worried. Something weird was happening. This new distraction in the ward wasn’t normal. It wasn’t Ángel’s style to bother everyone to show his courage by going to the open field, exposing himself to a shot from the enemy band.
He was only able to console himself thinking that the strategy was focused on killing Ramoncito, even though all of them were in danger: El Bochas, Ramón Plazas, and Popeye. Ramoncito deserved to be murdered. Bochas was a tough thug who didn’t wilt at anything. And everybody wanted to eliminate Popeye. Eight days passed and they went out to the field again. Popeye had already figured Ángel out. He clearly saw him as a dog of war, without principles or loyalties. Life had made him that way. And yes, as he said, he had been kidnapped and turned up in a prison in the United States. He had no reason to respect any norms.
The week dragged on and strange things kept happening. Closed-door meetings in Ángel’s cell, lots of secrecy. The mood was very serious. There was a cold war inside the prison, an open war outside, and ongoing murders everywhere.
The day came when they were planning to go back out to the football field. Popeye was tense … Ángel began to yell, “Field, field. Field!”
Miguel Arroyave noticed he was worried and pulled him aside, “Pope, do you trust me?” he asked in an almost paternal tone.
“Yes señor,” he responded without hesitation, looking him in the eye.
Arroyave asked him for his most sacred thing: “Give me your gun and go out to the field. Don’t worry. This isn’t about you.”
His body froze. He didn’t say a word. Respectfully, he took his revolver off his waistband, handed it to him, and left the cell, having already made his move by putting his destiny in the hands of the paramilitary chief. This was the biggest gesture of faith he had ever given to a chief like him in his entire criminal career. He headed toward the “passageway of death” unarmed, knowing that things were bad, very bad, and that later that day one of the players on the field wouldn’t be returning to the yard alive.
Ángel Gaitán called them together with a ball in his hands and went to talk to a guard corporal who would accompany them out to the green area. They all went down, one by one, to play the game of death without knowing it, all except Miguel. On the third floor three prisoners joined them as well as another on the second floor. There were twelve inmates in total. The armored door opened and, unexpectedly, Ángel Gaitán passed the ball to Ramoncito and turned back, saying he had to make an urgent phone call. Pope looked at him and was tempted to turn back himself. Without his revolver he was an open target for the assassins. Luck, though, had already been doled out and now it was too late for him. He wanted to go back inside, but right at that instant the ward’s armored door clang shut behind him. Destiny had already begun to show its hand. They walked through the secure zone protected by the wall Miguel and Ángel had had built months before for everyone’s safety. It was about twenty-three feet tall.
The group walked calmly, the prisoners chattering away. Popeye was alone, lagging behind. He suspected something was afoot, but wasn’t sure exactly what the crime would be. He thought he might be the target. His mind raced through every possibility. He heard the echo of his fellow prisoners’ laughter. He looked at them, but didn’t hear the ball hit the ground. He had a queasy feeling that something bad was going down when they entered the passageway. He saw himself falling to the ground with multiple gunshots wounding his body. In his mind, he said goodbye to his son, “Adiós, Mateito. May the Good Lord protect you!”
He summoned energy from within and trained his mind on more positive thoughts: maybe he would be lucky and get out of this alive … he thought to himself to boost his morale. He moved away from Ramoncito hoping that he’d be the dead man. The words of Miguel Arroyave echoed in his mind: “Pope, do you trust me?”
He had faith in the man. He believed he was earnest and loyal. Why then was he so worried? He reflected on this as he looked all around waiting for the death blow. Had he gone back to the yard with Ángel, his fellow prisoners would never let him live it down and they’d brand him a coward for life. His ego never would have forgiven him. In the underworld it’s better to die bravely than to flee like a coward and he wasn’t going to be the exception. He took a deep breath and kept walking toward the field. He felt a weight hanging around his neck, like a tombstone. If he was the target, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
How sad to die in such a stupid way, he thought as they reached the gate that protected the tunnel to the front door of the building. It comforted him a little to know the armored door on the north side was closed but the passageway to the south was clear.
Nothing is going to happen. Prison life is getting to me, he thought to himself. He tried to look calm and smile a bit. His fellow prisoners looked relaxed.
He kept walking. They still had about ten feet to go before getting to the football field. He thought of other things to motivate himself, taking firm steps forward. When they reached the communal mess, the place where prison food was kept and cooked, he got close to Balmes Parra, trying to keep away from Ramoncito. That way, if they shot him he’d be far from the victim.
Suddenly, the gate to the communal mess opened and four masked men appeared, three with pistols in hand and one with a .38 revolver. Right away they shot Balmes in the chest. He fell heavily to the ground, where a big dark red pool began to spread. In a matter of seconds his fellow prisoners sprinted quickly towards the field. Popeye threw himself on the ground. The guard corporal jumped like an injured lion to defend Balmes. He protected his head and tried to knock the weapons away from the masked men. From his position, Popeye kept watching the nightmare unfold. In a millisecond he saw one of the masked men point his pistol at the corporal to shoot his head off. Without thinking, Popeye got up and yelled at the man, “Listen, you son of a bitch! Are you really gonna kill the corporal?”
The others lowered their weapons and looked at each other, realizing the seriousness of their actions. Popeye had already jumped back down on the ground, waiting for them to shoot him too. He took advantage of the assassins’ momentary confusion to crawl a short distance over towards the guard and pull the man the best he could by the shirt to the side. He got a better grip of his jacket and pulled him off of Balmes, who was already dead. The corporal was limping and leaned his weight on him. He showed him his groin, believing he was injured. Popeye dragged him over to the field, the corporal worried he was wounded in the thigh. The guard in the watchtower at the end of the field aimed his gun at his comrades thinking it was an attack against him. They turned back and went over to the injured man.
He pulled down the corporal’s pants and didn’t see any blood. The corporal kept complaining. The guerrilla yards readied for battle. The guards ran to the prison armory to retrieve heavy weaponry to repel the attack. He looked at the boot on the corporal’s right foot and saw a bullet hole right on his heel, but it wasn’t anything bad. It was just the shock of the ambush.
If they’d hurt the corporal, this would’ve made the guards enter shooting like crazy. They would’ve killed everyone out in the open. That was prison law. Dead prisoners don’t matter. A murdered guard brings an immediate armed response.
“Ay Pope! We thought it was you,” Bochas worriedly said to him. His tone of concern was sincere. They’d always gotten along well. The odor of gunpowder hung in the passageway and the smoke continued to rise. In a matter of minutes, two armed guards rushed in asking “My corporal, are you ok?”
When they saw he was alright, they immediately gave the expected order, “Everyone, to the High Security Ward! Let’s get moving, hurry, hurry!”
No one ran. They all took their time as they passed by the corpse to catch a glimpse of what was left of the man who, minutes earlier, had been laughing along with them, Balmes Parra. They had shattered his head with bullets. Now his body was lying in a puddle of blood. It still smelled of gunpowder. Popeye stayed until everyone else had gone and slowly walked beside the corporal, who was no longer limping. When they were about to reach the tunnel, the corporal took him by the arm and with gratitude said to him, “Popeye, I owe you my life! Thank you, thank you very much!”
With a smile, he said goodbye to the brave man. Not all of the guards in La Modelo were corrupt. There were many honest men like the corporal who risked their lives every day for their institution. They had a sense of belonging to INPEC.
When they went up to the High Security Ward, no one said a word. There was total silence. Only sideways glances were exchanged. Everyone knew it had all been a set-up to kill Balmes Parra, for whom a huge sum of money had been paid. No one dared speak up against the chiefs. It wasn’t in their best interest to speak out. They had the power and had to be obeyed but the impertinent Ramoncito didn’t seem to understand this, as he complained, “What a damn scare! Warn us next time.”
Everyone looked at him, wondering how he could make such a careless statement. He didn’t even notice it. To close the chapter Ángel Gaitán asked them in his own unique insensitive way, “Cowardly sons of bitches, where the hell is the football I lent you?”
The men questioned each other with their looks. The dead man’s body was still warm and the chief was worried about something as unimportant as his football. After such a shootout, no one knew where the damned ball had ended up. Silently, each of them turned and went into his cell. Popeye took advantage of the moment and went straight to Miguel Arroyave, who received him with a smile and right away stretched his hand out to return the revolver, his precious jewel.
“Pope, thank you for trusting me,” was all he said.
There wasn’t anything else to say. Everything was clear. But things didn’t end there. The guards went to High Security and met with the two paramilitary chiefs.
“How could a paramilitary fighter as important as Balmes Parra be killed in the yards controlled by the paramilitares?” the infuriated director demanded.
“We will turn in those responsible. They did it without consulting us!” the chiefs answered authoritatively.
Two hours later various shots rang out. The prison was back on alert. Four bodies were thrown in front of the armored door to the north side of the prison. The masks were stuffed in their pockets. Everything ended there. These were supposedly Balmes Parra’s assassins. In reality, this wasn’t the case. Curiously these four bodies belonged to the four men being held prisoner in solitary confinement by the paramilitares in the prison for having committed extortion in the name of the organization without authorization. Now they were delivered as Balmes’s assassins …No one said anything more about the matter. The director was forced to keep quiet just like the inmates. The law of silence reigned in the prison and life continued for them with their productive criminal businesses in the penitentiary. The economy of the guerrilleros and paramilitares in the prison grew stronger with paid assassinations and authorized escapes. Inside the prison, mysterious deaths continued to occur: a young man with a sudden heart attack, or the typical case of a man hung with his arms and feet tied with a suicide note and everything.
The main paramilitary yard in the north side of the prison was controlled by a man forged in the underworld, a person of absolute trust for the paramilitary commanders.
Cadavid was his name. A young, happy-go-lucky yet seasoned man, a native of the city of Medellin, he knew how to fight with courage and wasn’t afraid of blood. In fact, he liked war. Together with his men, he was spreading terror in the yards.
In the midst of this criminal setting, Popeye had his sentimental moments and thought about his only son, like a balm that allowed him to maintain equilibrium in his mind despite the many horrors that they were exposed to every day. He’d wonder: Where is my Mateo? What must he be doing now? Does he remember me? Or surely he has forgotten me … being so far from this country.
Lying down on his bed, he’d reflect for hours on the circumstances in which this boy had come into this world, in the midst of the war his father was fighting. Blood was spilt daily outside of his cell. For the silent father it already felt normal to live that way, but his secret longing was to survive for his son. I have to stay alive so I can see him one day face to face … he thought countless times.
It consoled him to know his mother was a lion with her cub. This was the best thing about her as a woman. She fought for her son and for that reason she had left Colombia to prevent anything from happening to him. A knock on the door of his cell interrupted his nostalgic reverie. As he left his innermost thoughts behind, he reoriented his focus. In prison there isn’t much room for tenderness. It’s the real world and, as always, Popeye lived on a powder keg. He quickly got up to see who was there. It was Ángel. He always came to see him.
The chiefs of High Security continued with their strange business. At that time they were organizing the escape of two extraditables from Yard 3. One Saturday, a visiting day, the two men left the prison through the front door. A cool two million dollars was on the line. Some guards took a nice cut. They celebrated the escape with whisky in High Security. It wasn’t discovered until twenty days later. Two men from outside the prison covered for the two fugitives. The count was all that mattered to the guards and to the prison. They kept the escape under wraps and the reporters never found out.
At that time, the guards worked grueling shifts that were too long and exhausting. They had to turn the prisoners over to their fellow guards already counted. There was a shift change at 6:00 a.m. and another around 8:00 a.m. the next day; they rushed through everything so they could get some rest. Inside the yards, the law of the survival of the fittest reigned. The prisoners without influence or power had to pay for a cell. If they didn’t they’d soon be dead men, as were rapists and those who broke the rules of their murderers. These men would disappear and be chopped into pieces, tossed in a pillow case, their heads shattered on the floor; all of this thrown in the trash or in the wastewater pipes that passed through the prison.
The penitentiary guards were already used to seeing the prisoners heavily armed. Often two guards were responsible for 800 prisoners. Drugged or drunk prisoners with firearms were a serious matter. Everyone knew the guerrillas had armed the criminals in the high yard, that an attack was imminent, and that the tunnel was well advanced. The bad example also pervaded the guards and one day their base passions exploded. The envy, jealousy, and ambitions of some ended with persecution and betrayal within their own ranks.
A huge bin labeled paint was intercepted entering the guerrilla area. Twenty rifles and ammunition were discovered. The guards allied with the guerrilleros began to pressure the paramilitary infrastructure and the guards loyal to the paramilitares grew upset. Everyone knew a war was heating up between the guards. Don Miguel and his partner always kept an eye on their troops in the yards, waiting for results. Contrary to popular belief, the guerrilleros wisely turned over control of some of the yards to their eternal enemies. It was a master stroke because the management of so many hoodlums and so many problems distracted them from their objectives, instead of improving things for them, which would become clear days later.
The authorities outside were alert, but no one dared conduct searches and seizures and even less prisoner transfers. A lot of money ended up in the right pockets on the part of the chiefs who shielded themselves through corrupt officials. The guards were tense and everyone knew the prison was a time bomb. Journalists had the prison surrounded like hungry beasts after their prey. They knew it was a matter of waiting until the real combat began. They knew about the arsenal entering the prison. They only had to be at the right place at the right time to be fully informed.
The movement of arms and ammunition into the prison became unexpectedly complicated. Plenty of journalists were talking about what was happening and a press scandal terrified the guards. The paramilitares and guerrilleros resorted to the human mules they always used: women. The inmates in both the north and south were audacious. They openly moved around with their weapons in the yards and the members of the two armed groups in conflict wore their military emblems on their arms with small armbands that clearly displayed the initials of their organizations. FARC represented the guerrilleros and AUC the paramilitares. Each group also made its own surveillance rounds and troop formations inside the prisons, chanting slogans of their movement before the distracted look of the guards and common prisoners powerless to do anything given the anarchy in which they were living.
Surveillance was reinforced in the High Security Ward, which was separate from the common yards. They had to be on alert. It was difficult for a ward to be taken, but not impossible. Some of the guards were loyal to them and this would make things easier. They’d need an early warning to repel a surprise attack. It could happen at any moment, even during family visiting hour. The prisoners kept watch twenty-four hours a day with communication radios and cell phones. In the case of an armed takeover, as soon as the enemy entered the building, they’d all be killed. In such a cramped space full of tunnels, it wouldn’t be easy to push back an adversary. The grenade launcher was useless there; it needed a larger area to be effective. The ideal mode of combat was with hand grenades and ammunition.
The guerrilleros prepared for the attack. Its great strength, the dynamite camouflaged in the yard, would be enough to blow up the entrance to their territory in the event of an attack from the other side. The danger for Popeye and El Bochas was if the chiefs Miguel and Ángel gave in to pressure from Carlos Castaño and killed the two men in the midst of such a shootout, effectively legalizing their execution as they were accustomed to doing. That’s why they had to be on the alert and watch each other’s back.
While the disputing groups jockeyed for position and the press continued its denunciations, a group of criminals in Yard 2, under guerrillero control, decided to switch to the other side and cooperated discreetly with key information. The men went for the money the paramilitares were offering for the heads of commanders Yezid Arteta and Róbinson. But these were not the only heads up for sale. The supreme commander of the paramilitares in hiding, Carlos Castaño, informed them his people had intercepted a communiqué from the FARC secretariat indicating that the order was to kill Ángel Gaitán and Miguel Arroyave any way possible. The objective was the heads of the two chiefs of the paramilitary yard in the prison.
In the midst of this war, the two paramilitary chiefs made a serious mistake. They prohibited the sale, traffic, and consumption of cocaine, coca paste, and marijuana in all the yards in the North Ward. All the criminals allied with this organization were upset. The same paramilitares who fought in those yards were also enraged. Drugs were a good source of financing and provided jobs to a lot of people both inside and outside the prison (drug dealers, mules, and addicts) and kept the criminals as well as many paramilitares, who were addicts, happy. This way they were loyal to the cause and fought hard when they had to fight. Don Miguel and Don Ángel made this decision because the debts from this addiction were taking too high a toll: too many murders and too much violence in the yards controlled by their men. At that time, La Modelo Prison had a good cash flow to buy cement and construction materials to fix the cells. There was an excess of labor in the prison. Cement and the other materials were used to make safes in which guns and other weapons were hidden. These safes were electric. They had to be quick both for stashing things and taking them out.
Sometimes, specialized anti-kidnapping police groups would come in to rescue hostages within the prison itself. This only happens in Colombia. When it happened, they had to hide the heavy weapons and ammunition in the safes.