Barranquilla, Colombia, April 1969
The lab had been operational for three months now. Through the hard work by Sterling and Gonzalez, two steady streams of base had been arriving for processing into pure cocaine hydrochloride. If one stream became a little weak, enough was available to keep operations at, or near, full capacity. Gonzales had paid the local police to keep the lab under 24-hour protection. Located in the eastern part of the city, slum dwellings—seemingly crushed against each other—surrounded the lab. Amidst the squalor, beauty existed in a few hardy weeds and flowers that needed no care. Some worked at the lab; most knew about it; all kept their mouths shut.
From the lab, a short drive west on Avenida Centenario, then south on Avenida Boyaca, took you to Aeropuerto Ernesto Cortissos, a modest international airfield at the southern edge of the city.
On the south side of the airport, Maria, a young woman in her twenties waited for a black van to pick her up. They drove her to a far end of the parking area where she undressed from the waist up. Handlers placed body packs of cocaine around her front in an artful simulation of late-term pregnancy, even the artistic touch of a slightly protruding belly button. Next, they taped a special bra securely to the undersides of her breasts, and all around the back. Only women with small breasts were selected. The handlers filled the front of the bra with slightly damp cocaine and molded it to produce normal-appearing, large breasts. Then, Maria was vacuumed, given a new maternity outfit, and groomed to look like a middle-class traveler going to Miami to visit relatives for a few days. Her fee was two-hundred dollars, with the promise of three-hundred more after a successful flight – a princely sum in east Barranquilla.
In Miami, two of Marcus Sterling’s men greeted her as a “relative.” From the airport, she was whisked off to his packaging facility. There, the process was reversed. Removing the damp cocaine from her bra and breasts was done with a brush and finally with a special vacuum while she stood on a large black sheet. Maria remained in the facility as a “guest” for a few days, until it was time for her to leave. On the return trip, an armed escort “helped” her with the suitcase, normally containing about a half-million dollars.
If the cash were all hundreds, then the added weight would be only eleven pounds. Sterling and Jones, however, could never convert that much cash into all large bills, so the suitcase was heavy. Bribes in Miami ensured that the suitcase was processed just like all others, with the important exception that it was not somehow lost. All understood that a body floating in the Miami River was the price for betrayal.
Business was good. Tyrone Jones used only a handful of distributors who operated under a no-adulteration rule. He wanted to build a solid base of satisfied consumers and secondary distributors. Although he couldn’t enforce the rule down the line, everybody knew that Jones’ people had the best product. He had not underestimated the demand. Cocaine went out the door as fast as flights to Miami arrived.
Then the flights to Miami stopped coming in.
Zoila was being prepared in the usual way in a corner of the parking lot at Aeropuerto Ernesto Cortissos. A little younger than most, twenty at best, she had long pretty hair, a comely face, and was of indigenous ancestry. She had very small breasts and dark skin, a morenita. The lighter-skinned handlers teased her about her skin color and breast size. As in many countries in Latin America, skin color is a proxy for social class. Nervous from the start, she did not take the teasing well. She was a good Catholic girl who had two children to care for, and a husband who dumped her for another woman. She needed the money.
After landing in Miami, her apprehension soared. She began to sweat. The U.S. Customs line seemed so long to a girl who had never traveled more than twenty kilometers from her home. Finally, she presented her passport and visa to the Customs agent, who was a Latina. At first, she was relieved. The few phrases in English that she had been taught were long forgotten.
“What’s the purpose of your trip?”
“To visit relatives in Miami.” The agent paused and looked up at her. Her accent was uneducated, and yet she had money for new clothes and an expensive outing of only a few days.
“When is your baby due?”
“About six weeks.”
“The father must be proud. What type of work does he do in Barranquilla?”
“He’s looking for a job.” Zoila knew immediately that it was the wrong answer; she was not working.
“So, you’re relatives here paid for the trip?”
“Yes, my uncle; he’s Cuban.”
“What business is he in?”
“I’m not sure.”
“So, your Cuban father married an Indian in Colombia. What tribe?”
“Wayuu.”
“How did your parents meet? Here in Miami or in Colombia? And what business was your father in to take him to the northern jungles?”
Zoila, sweating profusely and scarcely able to answer, felt paralyzed. The agent picked up the phone, speaking in English, said, “I’ve got one for a secondary inspection. She’s pregnant, very young, beyond nervous, and her background, clothes, and reason for coming, don’t seem to add up. Thanks.”
The agent told Zoila to go with the two men who came out of a side door, which she hadn’t noticed. They were big Americans with short hair and grim appearances. The handlers could only watch from behind the line. The raw fear made her knees buckle.
“Are you all right?” one of them asked. His Spanish was excellent. “I’ll have a nurse check you over before we ask a few questions.”
After walking inside, Zoila unleashed a torrent of remorse.
“I didn’t want to do this. I have no husband and two children to feed. They gave me two-hundred dollars, and said I would get three hundred more when I returned. I hate this stuff; it’s ruining lives in my neighborhood.” She tore open her blouse and packs of shaped cocaine fell to the floor. She ripped off her bra and yelled, “Take it!” spilling more unpackaged cocaine.
The stunned agents sat back in their chairs and watched Zoila sob. They were not about to touch her. Fortunately, the nurse arrived and took in the situation.
She led Zoila to a bathroom, cleaned her up a little, and found a blouse for her.
As she calmed down, it became apparent that she was only a classic mule. She did not know the men at the Colombian airport; she supplied one first name heard in conversation – useless. She knew nothing about what would happen to her here, only her return ticket date. The U.S. Customs Service, however, had uncovered some extremely useful information: a method. This discovery explained how nearly pure cocaine was entering east coast cities, especially Baltimore and Washington. Zoila was carrying about 3.3 kilos of cocaine. A retrospective check of records showed similar flights and passengers for about three months – which corresponded with coke’s appearance on the streets. This new information was cabled to all U.S. ports of entry in the southeastern United States.