LAWSON COULD SEE THE RED SSS LOGO FOR SOUTHWEST STALLION STATION emblazoned on the side of a white barn as they approached the farm. It was mid-March 2010, and translucent green leaves had begun to bud from the skeletal branches of the pecan and hackberry trees that lined the long driveway. He could live here in a heartbeat, he thought.
Twenty years earlier, Southwest Stallion Station, in the small farming town of Elgin, thirty miles east of Austin, had been a premium stud farm, responsible for the breeding of some of quarter horse racing’s most celebrated champions.
As the years passed, though, some of the luster had faded. A devastating drought and the Great Recession had done further damage. Lawson noticed that the paddocks looked half empty, and the parched yellow grass had given way to dust. But with thirteen hundred acres of prime Central Texas real estate, it was still a jewel of a farm.
During their four-hour drive from Laredo, Lawson had peppered Hodge with questions from behind the wheel about Tyler Graham, collecting what information he could to be prepared for their meeting. Graham’s grandfather Charles “Doc” Graham was a tough, persuasive character, a product of the Great Depression who had started with a fledgling veterinary clinic outside Austin and shrewdly invested in a cattle feedlot and several other successful businesses. These included Heritage Place in Oklahoma City, one of the preeminent auction houses for racehorses in the country and the place where his grandson Tyler had made the record-setting bid that had caught the FBI’s attention. Doc’s passion was quarter horse racing. He’d been influential in getting the Texas Legislature to revive betting at racetracks in the 1980s. The move had reinvigorated the Texas racing industry. But then legalized casino gambling dealt another devastating blow in the 1990s. Now every state that bordered Texas had casinos at its racetracks and Texas was once again nursing a dying racing industry. A stubborn bloc of conservatives and Baptists in the Texas Legislature made sure that any effort to legalize gambling died before it ever reached the governor’s desk.
Lawson had been to the Kentucky Derby several times to watch Thoroughbreds race, but even though he grew up riding quarter horses, he’d never seen them race. He knew the horses were famous for being lightning-fast sprinters, while Thoroughbreds were bred for endurance. There was nothing more American, more western, than quarter horse racing. Bred from small, sturdy Spanish horses and larger-boned breeds brought over by English settlers, quarter horses were as common as cacti on the American frontier. Every rancher had a dependable quarter horse—wide-chested and short-legged but smart and agile—a horse that could work all day herding cattle, then race on the weekends at a makeshift track on the edge of town. In quarter horse racing, even an ordinary ranch horse (and its owner) had a chance at becoming a champion. Thoroughbred racing was for the elite.
Tyler Graham was just breaking into the racing business in his own right. He had followed in his grandfather’s footsteps and graduated from Texas A&M University, one of the best agriculture schools in the country. He’d majored in animal sciences and minored in economics so that he’d have the business sense to capitalize on his grandfather’s legacy. Lawson thought about what a risky venture it was, trying to make a living in agriculture: drought, a dwindling water supply, high feed prices, and marginal profits made the whole enterprise more a labor of love than a solid business prospect. Most in Graham’s situation chose an easier path and parceled off their valuable land to developers who’d turn their horse farms into suburban tract developments with names like Cowboy Acres and Heritage Ranch. Keeping his grandfather’s legacy intact was a heavy responsibility for a twenty-six-year-old fresh out of college.
On the way to the ranch, Hodge told Lawson more about his first meeting with Graham, who had mentioned a racehorse called Tempting Dash. The horse had become something of a legend already in the world of quarter horse racing, having won two prestigious races in Texas over the winter. Graham had been working for months on the owner to recruit the champion to breed at their stud farm. He’d even agreed to bid on the owner’s behalf at the January auction at Heritage Place. The owner’s name, he’d told Hodge, was José Treviño.
It didn’t take Hodge long to figure out that José was Miguel Treviño’s older brother. The McAllen agent along with Hodge that day had been especially blunt with Graham about who the Zetas were and what they were capable of. Hodge could tell that Graham had no idea who he was dealing with. Their visit had shaken him, and it had ended on a strained note. Now they would have to do some delicate footwork to convince him to help further their investigation. Graham had a choice: he could help them get José and his brothers, or risk going down with them. Everything would depend on whether Lawson could strike up a rapport with him and convince him to work with the FBI, Hodge said. So, no pressure then, thought Lawson, who was starting to sweat under his plaid shirt.
His jaw tensed as they pulled up to the farm’s office in their unmarked car and Hodge called Graham’s secretary on his cell. They didn’t want the workers at the farm to know who they were and risk news about a visit from the FBI spreading. They got out of the car and went to look at a horse in a nearby stall. Lawson had worn his jeans and boots but not a cowboy hat—he didn’t want Graham thinking he was trying too hard. He might sniff him out as something less than a real horseman. For any of the workers who might be watching, they pretended to be prospective buyers. Graham, in a baseball cap advertising the family farm, stepped out of his office and strode over to them, shaking their hands firmly. “Let’s go inside,” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward the open door of his office.
Inside, Graham appeared unruffled by the two FBI agents standing in his entryway. The rustic wood-paneled walls of the office were crammed with glossy portraits of champion horses, including that of the legendary stallion Three Oh’s, who had jump-started Doc’s career as a horse breeder in 1970 and put Southwest Stallion Station on the map. Racing trophies lined the walls and framed newspaper articles highlighted the work of Graham and his grandfather at the farm and on the racetrack.
Graham gestured for Lawson and Hodge to take a seat on a worn leather couch. He plopped down on the couch opposite them. His callused hands and scuffed boots showed that he worked hard for everything he’d inherited, but Lawson could tell by his nonchalant attitude that he’d grown up with privilege. He was used to things going his way, or bending them to his will, like his grandfather. Lawson and Graham were close to the same age. He tried to imagine what it would be like to have all of his responsibility running the farm plus a handful of other businesses.
They sized up one another as Hodge introduced Lawson, then began quizzing Graham again about Dashin Follies and the other three horses he’d purchased at the auction in Oklahoma City. They worried that this would be their last shot before Graham called in his lawyers. They needed him to understand he could be in real danger mixing with the Treviños and they wanted him to know the FBI could help. They didn’t have enough on him to strong-arm him into cooperating. So Lawson needed to find common ground with him and draw him out.
“I hear Tempting Dash is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of horse,” he said. “And I understand the farm needs him and you took that chance to build up the family business again. But now you’re involved with the wrong people. To move forward we need to know you’re on board with us.”
At the mention of Tempting Dash, Graham stiffened. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said.
“I know,” Lawson said, “but you’re heading down that road.” He explained again who Miguel Treviño was—and his reputation for violence. He didn’t want to scare Graham off, but he wanted him scared enough that he would agree to help them in exchange for their protection.
Graham nodded, a dazed look coming over him. “I’m going to show you something,” he said. He stood up and walked over to a framed photograph hanging on the wall. “This is Tempting Dash,” he said. Lawson and Hodge also stood up and approached the photo to get a closer look. It was a winner’s circle photo taken at the Lone Star Park racetrack in Grand Prairie. “That’s José Treviño.” Graham pointed at a man in a tan baseball cap and brown Carhartt jacket standing next to a copper-colored horse in front of the neon scoreboard. The man was looking at the horse and away from the camera, so his face could not be seen.
A month before the picture was taken, Graham explained, Tempting Dash’s owner had been a Mexican horse agent named Ramiro Villarreal. Graham pointed to Villarreal in the photo, standing at the very edge of the crowd opposite José and the horse. Graham had known Villarreal for years, he said. He was well known as a top bidder who spent millions at Heritage Place and other horse auctions. He was also a mainstay at the racetracks. “He sold Tempting Dash for next to nothing to José Treviño,” Graham said. Tempting Dash had qualified for the Texas Classic Futurity at Lone Star Park just weeks after he’d dominated the Dash for Cash and broken the track record in October. Why would Villarreal sell him just weeks before the November futurity? José had paid $25,000 for a horse that had just won $445,000. “It’s bullshit,” Graham said.
Lawson knew he was getting somewhere. Graham explained that his friend Eusevio “Chevo” Huitron, Tempting Dash’s trainer, had introduced him to José at Lone Star Park before the November Texas Classic Futurity. Chevo had described the horse’s Mexican owners as having an endless cash flow. They loved to race but didn’t know anything about breeding. They’d need help, he said, handling such a valuable asset.
By January, the horse had already won two prestigious races, set a new speed record, and been awarded racehorse of the year at Heritage Place. Graham needed the champion to help revive his grandfather’s stud farm. A horse like Tempting Dash would draw new clients to the Southwest Stallion Station along with profit and prestige. So Graham quickly got to work taking José and Chevo out for meals and drinks, trying to win José over before his competitors beat him to it. He’d even dropped $12,000 on a deer hunt in South Texas for José, his eldest son, and Chevo’s son so that José would look more favorably upon the idea of sending his horse, Tempting Dash, to be bred at Graham’s farm.
Lawson scrutinized the winner’s circle photo more closely. Two teenagers stood next to a giant white banner with black letters that read “Texas Classic Futurity Winner 2009.” The girl had a beaming smile; she’d formed her fingers to make a 4 and a 0 for the picture. The boy standing next to her in a red plaid shirt was flashing a 4 and a 2 with his fingers. Behind them stood Tyler Graham in a pink button-down shirt, a faint smile on his face. Lawson was brand-new to the FBI and the border; he didn’t know much about the Zetas. But he knew that the nicknames for Miguel and Omar Treviño were “40” and “42.” It wasn’t exactly subtle. Maybe they thought no one was paying attention.
Graham said he’d had a feeling something was off about José Treviño. But he hadn’t known the full extent of it until the first visit from Hodge and the McAllen agent, which had rattled him even if he tried not to show it now. “So how can I help?” he asked with an air of resignation.
Lawson was encouraged. Graham was opening a door for them. He offered him the deal: keep doing business with José Treviño and they would have his back. Graham would keep them apprised of José’s movements, who he did business with, and whether there was any contact with his brother Miguel. “Just keep living life as normal,” Lawson assured him. “But we’ll talk regularly.”
Graham didn’t say a word. He was mulling it over. He’d be sharing information with the FBI about one of the leaders of the most feared cartel in Mexico. It was a terrible deal. He was in over his head any way he looked at it. Go through with it and he could end up dead, but if he didn’t he’d risk getting crosswise with the FBI. He’d just spent months lobbying José for Tempting Dash, and José had finally agreed to send him the champion. He already had the other horses from the auction at his farm. One of them, Dashin Follies, was one of the highest-valued broodmares in the business. He didn’t want to let go of Tempting Dash either. He nodded. “Okay,” he said.
They shook hands. That dazed look had come over Graham’s face again, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. But he gave up little of whatever inner turmoil he was feeling as he ushered them outside.
“We’ll talk again soon,” Lawson said. Graham stood in the doorway of his office. He nodded, then shut the door behind him. He’d be tough to beat at poker, thought Lawson.
ON THE DRIVE BACK to Laredo, Lawson remembered his first week at the FBI. His boss, David Villarreal, had told them that the best way to go after cartel leaders was through their relatives in the States. At the time, Lawson had barely listened. Stuck in a cubicle all day, he’d never have the chance, he thought. But suddenly they had a real lead. From intel reports, Lawson knew Miguel had a large family on both sides of the border.
Over the decades, a lot of cops and federal agents had crossed paths with the Treviños, but they’d never been able to touch Miguel or Omar. There was the Dallas drug bust in 1994 of Juan Francisco, known as Kiko. He was the oldest sibling and considered the family patriarch. He was put away for twenty years for running a marijuana smuggling operation between Nuevo Laredo and Dallas. Both Miguel and José were in Dallas working as couriers for their brother, witnesses would later testify in court. But the two were never indicted. It was a close call, though. In court, Juan Francisco had blamed José for his downfall, saying he had been the real mastermind behind the smuggling operation. Apparently not enough evidence was ever found to put José in jail. Since then he’d remained under the radar in Dallas, working as a brickmason and staying out of trouble. After Juan Francisco’s arrest, Miguel had fled to Mexico. During the trial, Omar’s name had never come up as part of the smuggling operation. He was already in Nuevo Laredo, where he’d soon join Miguel in his rapid rise through the criminal underworld.
Hodge was pleased with the way Lawson had handled Graham. As Lawson’s training agent, he felt it was important he help him recruit his first source. Graham was a promising lead. He was already inside José Treviño’s circle of trust. On paper, José had a clean record and appeared to be an average working-class guy. But he was also the elder brother of two drug lords. And he’d just dropped $1.2 million on four horses, with Graham serving as his front man at the Oklahoma auction. And now they had this other horse, Tempting Dash, a champion racer, which José had apparently bought for next to nothing. It had Miguel Treviño’s fingerprints all over it, but now they would have to prove it. That would be the tough part.
On the ride home, Hodge was even more nervous than usual. He was worried about the havoc they’d unleash if they went after José to get to Miguel. They were talking about trying to take down a man who considered murder his vocation. He also had his spies in Laredo. At one time, Miguel had even had his own cell of assassins carrying out hits for him on the U.S. side of the river. Miguel’s gunmen were just teenagers recruited from the poor barrios in Laredo and Nuevo Laredo who’d been enticed by the cash, kilos of cocaine, and luxury cars. But the teen sicarios were merciless, though often reckless, sometimes killing the wrong people by mistake. They’d killed one man on his doorstep only to find out later that Miguel had wanted his brother dead. In the span of two years they’d killed at least six people in Laredo. They’d shot one man in front of his wife and kids in the parking lot of a Torta-Mex fast-food restaurant. The police had finally dismantled the cell in 2006 and put Miguel’s teen hit men in jail. Hodge also reminded Lawson that Miguel’s sisters lived in Laredo not far from his gated community. He was convinced that sooner or later he’d cross paths with one of the Treviño clan while he was out eating with his wife and kids.
Lawson knew it was a possibility. But he doubted they would run into Miguel or Omar. Most of the other agents thought the brothers wouldn’t risk crossing the river now that they were on U.S. law enforcement’s most wanted list. North of the Rio Grande, the Zetas couldn’t rely on the same impunity they’d bought in Mexico. But this also meant the agents would need help from Mexican law enforcement and the military if they ever hoped to arrest the Treviños on their home turf. Counting on cooperation in Mexico could be dicey since the cartels had infiltrated every level of the military and police. They never knew whom they could fully trust, and who was taking orders from the Zetas or another cartel. The road forward would be a perilous one, and even federal agents had to think twice before they took their next step. Hodge had a wife and kids. Lawson, who had grown up part of an extended tribe of half-siblings, had always been wary of marriage. Now he was glad of it. He had no one to worry about but himself.