Where Eagles Dare: Interview With an International Fugitive

Upon a chance run-in with a wanted member of the Mexican Mafia, Chuck Hagen sets up a rare interview, in Mexico, on a mountain, in a cave.

A belligerent cliff overlooks the vibrant Mexican city of Guanajuato. The blazing sun penetrates the crisp morning air, piercing the skin, melting the heart. Overhead, an eagle stalks, suspending with bated breath for a morsel of stumbling flesh. A German Shepherd scopes the immediate area with learned precision, leading us to a cave slicing the exposed cliff face. Below, a motorbike cop skirts the downward spiral of gravel leading back to the city. Our relief is palpable.

Within the cave, a tattooed Mexican-American squats shirtless. He wrestles the German Shepherd with machismo. "I love animals man, but I hate people," he says with dead ceremony. Preoccupied with the dog, he offers no further explanation.

No one knows we're here.

"You see these eyes, man?" I squint, but am unable to penetrate the opaque. Not that I need to; I bore witness upon this intense glare in a chance meeting two days earlier—savage black saucers cutting an awareness only horror can muster. His pupils are branded on my skull. "These eyes have seen shit you wouldn't believe, man.” The resonance in the cave is tight, and seals his words with an authoritative intensity.

The Mexican-American in question requests, nay, demands, that as far as this interview is concerned, his name is Sin Nombre (no name). Who am I to argue?

Sin Nombre is a member of the notorious Mexican Mafia. The deep scar mapping the longitude of his chest suggests a legacy of brutality. "Oh that? That was just a machete attack."

Beneath the wound, a prison tattoo of the number thirteen peacocks proud. Representing Mexico, 13 is a metric of significance in that nation’s gang culture as it rebrands the letter M, the thirteenth letter of the alphabet. "Every Mexican gang member gets the 13, man. It's the final initiation. If you don't earn it, or you don't want it, you're out."

For a prospective to earn the 13, he must show loyalty by participating in one of the following: a brawl, a drive-by shooting, or a slaying. "If you want in, you got to show cajones. They don't just take anyone, man."

Until now, Sin Nombre was never afforded the opportunity to visit his ancestral homeland. His maiden pilgrimage, however, isn’t for the tequila and mamacitas. Sin Nombre is an international fugitive.

One year before our rendezvous, Sin Nombre, with the aid of several connections, slipped the clutches of U.S. law enforcement. Protected by the nurture of darkness, the four-day quest for freedom begat an odyssey across the Sierra Madre and into a netherworld of clandestine tunnels beneath the US/Mexico border. Frail, dehydrated, tenderised, he ultimately surfaced in a field in Nogales, Mexico.

Authorities on both sides of the border are still searching for Sin Nombre. A successful apprehension would symbolise a minor victory for law enforcement, whose officers have witnessed decades of gang violence on the streets of Los Angeles. The way Sin Nombre sees it, he was just following orders:

“I had to do it. There’s no other way to survive those streets, man. The ones that can move away, do. The rest of us stay and fight for our families and neighbourhoods. It’s the only world I’m comfortable in.”

Knowing that to refuse an order in the gang world is a breach punishable by death, Sin Nombre was left with little option. Three days later, two brothers lay dead in front of their family home.

To understand the fugitive’s current predicament, it is necessary to venture upon a torrid journey past, to the height of U.S. involvement in WWII.

1941, and opportunistic Mexican immigrants flood California to assist with the war effort and, in turn, receive U.S. citizenship. These men are colloquially known as Zoot-Suiters—youths dressed in high-waisted, baggy, and tightly cuffed suits, often accessorised with fedora hats and French-style shoes. Los Angeles is saturated with new immigrants, and fast becomes a hotbed of racial tension. Drunken brawls and violent sexual assaults ensue. In particular, U.S. marines take offence at the foreigners’ arrogance and sense of style, considering the clothing far too extravagant, and the behaviour as bombastic. Spontaneous public attacks become the new normal as young Mexicans are jumped, beaten, and pinned by drunken sailors who take turns raping the wives, girlfriends and sisters of their victims.

Sin Nombre's grandmother was raped. In the aftermath, she was dragged by the hair from a crowded bar onto the street, assaulted by four marines, beaten by local police, and jailed for 48 hours for ‘her own protection’. It’s fair to say Sin Nombre is not a fan of the L.A.P.D.

1964, and a young Latino is visiting his father in prison. Sentenced to eighteen years for murder, racketeering and drug dealing, the father orders his son to ‘rough up’ the son of a fellow inmate who had recently made an attempt on his life. Given no recourse, the boy obeys his father’s command, and in doing so is initiated into gang culture. Meet Sin Nombre’s father.

In keeping with tradition, Sin Nombre senior initiated his son into gang culture at age thirteen. Against the explicit wishes of Sin Nombre's mother, his father pulled him out of school and commenced teaching him the way of the street. This is not an uncommon practice.

“It’s a part of survival, man. We don’t have no jobs, no money, so we join a gang. It’s a brotherhood. Somewhere to belong.”

Sin Nombre's father is currently in prison, doing a short stint on an assault rap.

By 2016, La Eme became splintered, expending energy fighting amongst themselves. Out of necessity, smaller crews now operate under the La Eme umbrella, causing inmate shot-callers to relinquish certain privileges of power. Sin Nombre, squinting beyond the evolving sun, laments:

“Crews just do what they want now. They pretend to obey command, but then rebel if there’s something in it for them. Loyalty still exists, but it’s dying out.”

I'm amazed at the composure Sin Nombre displays when imparting these poignant vignettes. On the surface, he seems genuine, urbane and passionate. However, a darkness lingers — not a sadness, but the measure of a dead soul.

We step outside for some light. Sin Nombre demands I erase our recorded interview from my dictaphone relic. As a compromise, I invite him to personally delete the file once transcription is complete. He agrees, and signs the verbal contract with a death stare.

Gazing across the tapestry of Guanajuato City, Sin Nombre continues regaling, "See this tattoo, man?" He points a crooked finger to a banner stretched across his malnourished stomach. The proud title of Mafia Mexicana heralds an Olde English declaration of belonging — once.

“This tattoo, this is my death warrant. If I go back to prison, either here or back home, I’m dead.”

Listed as one of the most dangerous organisations on the planet, La Eme is the catalyst for Sin Nombre’s current situation. Operating for a decade as a loyal foot soldier, intimidator, murderer, the gangster has hit a wall. His time is up.

“Gang members aren’t meant to run. Now that I have, I’m seen as a threat. I know too much. I’ll never talk, but it don’t make no difference to them. They will kill me regardless.”

One saving grace is the fact that Sin Nombre has many powerful allies. The Sinaloa Cartel, made infamous by the sub-mythic El Chapo, has his back due to his father’s friendship with a high-ranking member. As a favour, Mexico’s most powerful corporation provides the fugitive with safe houses, false identities, and cash. Should Sin Nombre be apprehended and extradited, he does have a another source of protection. The Aryan Brotherhood, utilised by La Eme as muscle for hire, remain an unlikely ally with his local crew. The white supremacists are brutal in their craft, and feared by the underworld.

“I’ve done a lot for those guys over the years. Even did time for one of their stupid bodega raids. Guilt by association. They owe me.”

The lead up to Sin Nombre's subterranean journey began in 2016 when a rival gang, keen to muscle in on claimed turf, came off second best in a street brawl in the East L.A. barrio of El Sereno. Sin Nombre sliced a chavala (rookie) across the face with a machete, rendering him partially blind in one eye. The retaliation came when a drive-by shooting was executed on Sin Nombre's family home. Scattergun bullets rearranged the drywall. Fifty-four shell casings were recovered, head injuries for his three-year-old nephew the collateral damage.

2017, composed, Sin Nombre visits the brothers thought to be responsible for the shooting. His nephew had since died.

“We parked our car down the street and waited for the motherfuckers to come outside. We weren’t going to risk killing an innocent child. Once they were on their porch, I walked towards them and sprayed them. Those putos didn’t stand a chance.”

Sin Nombre remains unapologetic. "Those cuños had it coming, man. Fuck ‘em." He spits on an unsuspecting rock with contempt. "They shouldn't have started us. They just shouldn't have started us." Dipping his head between his knees, a realisation shudders his dusty torso. “Those two bullets were my resignation notice.”

Early 2018, and Sin Nombre bides his time in relative comfort, hopping from one safe house to another. But through months of interrogation of tight-lipped community members, the LAPD finally finds their snitch. Time to move. Enter the Sinaloa Cartel.

Fending off scorpions and rattlesnakes, Sin Nombre, two foot soldiers, and a border coyote trudged by night towards the Mexican frontier. Arriving adjacent to The Gate (an unofficial crossing between Nogales, Arizona and Nogales, Sonora) proved difficult as food and water rations ran low. Once at the border, crossing proved a cinch. Requiring medical attention, Sin Nombre was taken to a makeshift cartel hospital in the desert city of Hermosillo.

“They took me to a barn outside the city. Real ‘Breaking Bad’ shit, man. Inside the barn was a fucking hospital!”

Sin Nombre laughs with gusto, recouping a percentage of joy lost over the past eighteen months.

“I suffered from dehydration and heat exhaustion. I was dizzy from insect bites, weak from not eating, sunburnt, and with crazy blisters on my feet. I’m a fucking city kid, man! Crossing the desert is more dangerous than El Sereno ever was!”

Placed on an intravenous drip, fed, and supplied with pain killers, Sin Nombre soon recovered, departing Hermosillo in tact. Healthy, cashed-up, armed, and with a fresh identity, he spent the next months criss-crossing northern Mexico before heading south to the fabled Quixotian city of Guanajuato. Under no illusion, he understands capture may be moments away. Mexican authorities, eager to snatch the fugitive ahead of their northern counterparts, lurk ardently. Sin Nombre produces a clean .45 sidearm from his backpack. "I ain't had to use this yet, man. I hope I never have to.”

My next question strikes me as idiotic the moment it pukes from my mouth: How are you going to get out of this?

“There is no way out. I’ve thought about faking my death, but I couldn’t do that to my family. I just have to keep moving. Maybe they’ll forget about me one day.”

The setting sun taunts our time constraints from western skies. Sin Nombre, German Shepherd by his side, ignites a blunt. The city below suggests life will continue. Feet dangling over the cliff’s edge, we sit as strangers in symbiosis; I require his tale of adversity to submit a worthwhile article, he requires my foreign ears to unload upon. Sealing the bond, a plume of sweet weed drifts above the garish Guanajuato colour scheme. Sin Nombre exhales an impending doom, stands, slaps my shoulder and says, “It really is a beautiful world, isn’t it?”

Amen, brother. Amen.