The Fight to Save Juárez (36 page)

By Sunday morning the gun smoke had been swept away by the winter winds that continued to blow steady and cold, and the harsh odor of gunpowder had all but evaporated. Only the stench of death and blood remained inside the house at 1310 Villa del Portal Street. There was blood on the sidewalk and in the street; by now hundreds of footsteps had tracked the victims' blood everywhere—the desperate coming and going of parents, family, and neighbors as they rushed in and out of the house looking for their loved ones, attempting to render aid. That had been followed by the arrival of local and state police, as well as the federal police and the army, and finally the media, who were allowed into the house to document the
grotesque
scene. All had tracked the victims' blood through the house and into the street.

A young man named Julián Contreras, who lived two blocks away and knew many of the Villa del Portal families, walked through the neighborhood that Sunday morning and wrote down the things he heard. They were fragmentary, some from neighbors, others from parents, still others from the kids who'd been inside the house at 1310: “They didn't shoot to kill the girls, they shot at their arms and legs. The guys they shot in the head and chest and the bigger guys they shot repeatedly in the head until they were disfigured”; “One hid behind the television”; “We were awakened by the sound of gunfire”; “This was the happiest street in the neighborhood”; “They won't do anything, it's always the same. They'd already killed my nephew and nothing is ever investigated”; “They killed almost all of my friends”; “Did they kill one of yours, too?” Contreras had documented the voices of a traumatized community.

.   .   .

A strange, haunting silence fell over Villa del Portal, where a heavy military and law enforcement presence sealed the street. For hours after the massacre there was no official comment about what had taken place; local, state, and federal authorities were mute. Those whose loved ones had been taken to local hospitals and clinics, some fourteen in all, kept a lonely vigil, praying that their children would not succumb to their wounds. On Villa del Portal the municipal and state police, as well as the federal police and the army units sent to secure the area, were accused of being cold and indifferent to the families whose lives had been destroyed by the tragedy, treating them as just so many more victims of the city's violence. The meaning of the massacre had yet to fully take shape, but already it was becoming clear that what had taken place at Villas de Salvárcar rested on a different plane of experience, something so outrageous that it would soon shake the conscience of the entire nation, stirring indignation even in the most hardened of hearts.

When the mayor's team arrived at Villas de Salvárcar and at the hospitals where the wounded had been taken, they reported back to Reyes Ferriz that they'd met the families of the victims and their impression was that most of the dead, if not all, were innocent victims. For this reason, Reyes Ferriz was one of the only public officials who resisted raising the specter that at least some of the kids were gang members. The next day the mayor went to the Emergency Response Center to find out what had gone wrong, and he ran into Patricia González, the state attorney general. The two had an exchange in which González warned the mayor against saying that the victims were good kids because, she said, the state police had proof that they had weapons “and other things” that suggested otherwise.

González called a press conference in Juárez that afternoon. Mayor Reyes
Ferriz
and the new head of the state police (notwithstanding the massacre, Victor Valencia had resigned his post that same morning, announcing his candidacy for mayor of Juárez
¹
) joined her. The head of the federal police in Juárez was also there, along with the representative of the PGR (the federal attorney general's office), and a representative of the army. The fact that all of the principals with some responsibility for bringing law and order to the city had been mustered was itself telling. González told the press that, at present, the information was that fourteen people had died on Villa del Portal Street; the wounded, she said, were recovering at various hospitals and clinics, all of which were under the protection of federal forces. González assured the media that the culprits would be tracked down, and that they were already pursuing several lines of investigation regarding what had taken place and why, although the only motive that she mentioned was that perhaps one of the murdered adults had been the target of the
sicarios
. When questioned by the press as to how the convoy had made it to and from the scene of the massacre undetected, the commander of federal forces in Juárez grew defensive, arguing that the
sicarios
no doubt had lookouts that were shadowing the federal forces in the area, including identifying the locations of the federal roadblocks.

Mayor Reyes Ferriz announced a million-peso reward for information leading to the arrest of the authors of the massacre at Villas de Salvárcar. He announced that the city's new Crime Stoppers program was taking anonymous tips, and he also said that the city and state governments would cover the funeral costs for the Villas de Salvárcar victims.

The final toll at Villas de Salvárcar would come to fifteen dead (eleven students and four adults), and as many seriously wounded. Ten died that night on Villa del Portal Street, and five others died at the hospital or in transit in the impromptu caravans of vehicles that had ferried the wounded. Luz María Dávila and her husband lost two sons in the massacre, their only children. Alonso Encina was more fortunate. In addition to Oscar, who'd managed to hide in the closet, his oldest son, Alonso Jr., had also survived, having left the party to walk his girlfriend home just moments before the commando unit arrived.

.   .   .

In Mexico it is common for families to bring the dead home to mourn them at a wake the night before they are interred. In Villas de Salvárcar, families readied their homes to receive the coffins of their loved ones on Tuesday morning, but it wasn't until early evening that vehicles from several funeral homes arrived bearing the six coffins of the students from that block who had been killed in the massacre. It had been raining all day, the steady drizzle reflecting the mood of the city. In addition to Adrián Encina and Marcos and José Luis Piña Dávila, the other boys were Jesús Armando Segovia,
José
Aguilar, and Horacio Alberto Soto. All had grown up together on this modest street and all had been friends.

Not long after the coffins had been set up in the modest living rooms, surrounded by candles, flowers, and framed pictures of the deceased, Governor Reyes Baeza arrived to pay his condolences to the families. The strain between the governor and the mayor was such that by now the governor was not even giving the mayor the customary courtesy of letting him know when he was in the city. The governor arrived in a white armored Suburban, protected by a half-dozen heavily armed bodyguards, who secured each of the victim's homes before the governor entered. He was accompanied by Mara Galindo, in charge of victim's services for the state of Chihuahua, a woman whose reputation had been marred by her mismanagement of her responsibilities during Juárez's infamous femicides in the 1990s.

The governor and his entourage started at the home of Adrián Encina before making their way down the street to the three homes on the same block where family and friends were mourning the other young men. His reception was tepid at best; the families greeted him politely, enduring the intrusion into their bereavement and allowing him to offer his condolences before he moved on, leaving them once again to their sorrow. But in the street there was obvious anger. The collective rage over the massacre had yet to dissipate, and there were many people out, given that all of the homes had visitors. The charged atmosphere was amplified because of the governor's presence and the fact that every time he entered a home, his bodyguards seized control of the entryways and did not allow anyone to enter or leave until the governor exited and made his way to the next house.

The last stop for the governor on Villa del Portal Street was the home of Luz María Dávila, a half-block away. It was still raining; the street and sidewalk were full of puddles. Whether for that reason or for reasons of security, the governor chose to get back into his Suburban and drive rather than walk the thirty or so yards to the Dávila house. The gesture elicited derisive taunts from the people assembled on the street. “Why don't you get your shoes dirty, governor!” some shouted with obvious contempt.

When Reyes Baeza exited his Suburban at the Dávila house he was met with a chorus of similar taunts: “Get out of the car and give us answers, don't be cowards!” and “What we want is justice! You have no shame!” At the entry to the small house there were at least ten placards on poster board expressing outrage and demanding security, answers, and solutions, although by now the rain-smudged ink had rendered some illegible.

Inside, Luz María Dávila and her husband were standing in the living room next to the coffins in which their sons, Marcos and José Luis, lay. The boys' school friends and family surrounded them in the cramped, almost unadorned living room, and for the governor it proved to be another tense
encounter.
Luz María openly chastised him for what she termed the authorities' incapacity and disinterest in solving the crime. She threatened that if progress was not made on the case, she would seek the intervention of American law enforcement, as if this were the ultimate embarrassment for the Mexican authorities. “Because of all that is happening here, I no longer have my children. It may be best for me to seek the assistance of the United States to help us because here I see nothing at all,” she said. She was tearful, but she was clear and unequivocal. In a country where power at the top is absolute, it takes unimaginable courage for a working-class citizen to speak so unflinchingly to that power. In her suffering and loss, Luz María had found a powerful voice, a voice that would soon touch the soul of a nation. The governor had no choice but to listen quietly as he was dressed down by this bereaved mother, against the backdrop of shouts emanating from the street as neighbors and visitors who'd been barred entry by the governor's bodyguards loudly voiced their indignation and demanded that the state deliver justice. Unlike the ink on the poster boards, their voices were not the least bit dimmed by the rain.

Blessing a Villas de Salvárcar victim. Photo copyright © Raymundo Ruiz.

The governor finally exited the Dávila home and boarded his snow-white Suburban, leaving the families to themselves in their living rooms, where votive candles were lit by the score and rosaries chanted throughout the
night.
The rain continued to fall upon the poor neighborhood of Villas de Salvárcar, as if the gods themselves were acknowledging the sorrow of what had taken place there.

The next day, there were funeral masses at different churches. Most of the families went to the Iglesia Jesucristo, Sol de Justicia, where Juárez's Catholic vicar, René Blanco, gave a mass assisted by fifteen of his fellow priests. The entire city was in mourning. Later, at the CBTIS-128 high school, full honors were given to Juan Carlos Medrano and Rodrigo Cadena, who had been star players on Los Jaguares, the school's American football team. Brenda Escamilla, the seventeen-year-old ecology student who'd refused to leave Rodrigo Cadena's side when the
sicarios
had ordered the women to leave the house, was also honored. All three had come to the party from other parts of the city, and this was to have been their last semester before graduating from high school.

The students' caskets were rolled through the school for the last time. Their teammates, in uniform, formed two lines at the entrance, receiving the victims' friends and family members. The football coach gave a tender soliloquy, after which he announced that the two players' jerseys, numbers 12 and 62, were being retired. The coach gave the corresponding jersey and a football to each of the families, as the parents stared vacantly at the caskets containing their beloved children. There was a minute of applause, as is customary in Mexico, a ritual meant to honor the lives that had been extinguished in the senselessness that had taken place at Villas de Salvárcar; the applause was intense and full of emotion. It was followed by a minute of silence, after which the students and families again broke into
porras
(school cheers).

In the afternoon, a silent funeral cortege, guarded by army and police units, left the rain-drenched city and headed out of town. The long trail of cars moved at a slow, mournful pace, traveling the thirty kilometers along the Pan-American Highway until reaching the San Rafael cemetery. There, eight of the student victims were to be buried alongside one another. A bitter wind blew over the flat, wide-open desert terrain, and, as it had all day, the rain fell in a steady downpour, leaving the assembled mourners drenched and cold. The names of the dead were read, then the classmates of the fallen chanted school cheers, followed by applause and, again, a moment of silence in which the only sound was the cruel, gripping wind sweeping across the cemetery. The gravesites were festooned with white balloons. Jesús Armando Segovia, a fifteen-year-old junior high school student, was the first to be lowered into the ground, followed by the rest. The families had pitched in to hire a
conjunto norteño
, which sang sorrowful songs like “You're Leaving, My Angel” and “Eternal Love.” In the end there was nothing left to do but to trudge back through the puddles and thick mud to parked cars for the long ride home and the lonely silence that would forever
wrap
itself around the mourners' lives as they continued to endure the day-to-day horror that defined life in Juárez.