Gabacho: Drugs Landed Me In Mexican Prison, Theater Saved Me

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

El Centro De Redeaptación Social Hermosillo: Prison One

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

La Mesa Penitentiary, Tijuana, Mexico: Prison Two

Chapter 19

Metropolitan Correctional Center, San Diego, California: Prison Three

Chapter 20

Utah State Prison, Draper, Utah: Prison Four

Chapter 21

GABACHO

Drugs Landed Me In Mexican Prison, Theater Saved Me

RICHARD JEWKES

with Brian Whitney

WildBluePress.com

GABACHO published by:

WILDBLUE PRESS

P.O. Box 102440

Denver, Colorado 80250

Publisher Disclaimer: Any opinions, statements of fact or fiction, descriptions, dialogue, and citations found in this book were provided by the author, and are solely those of the author. The publisher makes no claim as to their veracity or accuracy, and assumes no liability for the content.

Copyright 2019 by Richard Jewkes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

WILDBLUE PRESS is registered at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Offices.

ISBN 978-1-948239-29-5      Trade Paperback

ISBN 978-1-948239-28-8      eBook

Cover Photo Credit: Manuel Borbón Montaño - El Imparcial, Hermosillo, Sonora

Interior Formatting by Elijah Toten

www.totencreative.com

Chapter 1

Driving over the Sonoran Desert is like riding a roller coaster. You feel the rise and fall of the landscape, every twist and turn, every trough and dune, especially when you’re going over 100 miles per hour. That’s the way it was in 1979, before Mexico completed the super highway from Nogales to Mexico City. Roads followed the terrain.

I looked up from the speedometer to see the moon bouncing along the jagged peaks of the Sierra Madres. Then the road fell out from under me and I nearly lost control as I dropped into a deep wash. Damn, I said to myself. Gotta keep my eyes on the road. I looked back to see Jeff sprawled across the backseat with my acoustic guitar nestled between his legs. I shook my head. It was crazy odd that he was able to sleep through all this.

The truck was a mess. Sleeping bags, dirty clothes, and fast food wrappers littered the ‘79 Ford Bronco. A plastic jug we used to pee in splashed a bit as I hit another dune. The Bronco had two gas tanks and we hoped to drive all the way from Mazatlán to Nogales without stopping. But now I was afraid we might have used too much gas driving at this pace. I didn’t want to take any chances until we crossed the US border. You couldn’t have pried my hands from that wheel, not even for a pee. Well…maybe a pee or two, but nothing else.

We weren’t sure anybody was following us but we weren’t sure they weren’t either. We had to get across the border as fast as possible. I thought if we could just make it to Nogales before daylight, we’d be able to cross without being searched. Maybe we could even try to cross at Naco, a small town where the guards might be too sleepy to care about us. On the other hand, the guards at a small-town crossing might be so bored they’d have nothing to do but search every single car. We didn’t know what to do. It was late, I was hammered, Jeff was zonked, so it was my decision, right or wrong, on how to get us the hell out of Mexico with ten kilos of marijuana sitting in the back of the Bronco.

We’d gone to Mexico hoping to buy cocaine and instead ended up with a cardboard box of shitty, low-grade farmer weed. We needed to make some money for all our effort. We’d spent every cent of our college tuition on what was supposed to be a gritty adventure and we couldn’t go back empty-handed. We wouldn’t be able to even pay our rent for the next few months unless we could make some money on that box of crummy weed. But then again, it certainly wasn’t worth the risk of prison. We hadn’t decided what to do at that point. We talked about stopping just before the border to make the final decision. We were just so fucking exhausted.

It was one or two o’clock in the morning and no matter how hard I hit the dunes and troughs, Jeff didn’t stir. We hadn’t slept the night before and had very little sleep the night before that. It had been seventy-two hours since we’d had any real sleep or anything substantial to eat. I’d been driving twelve hours straight, not counting all the driving the night before when we bought the weed, deep in the jungle along the Sinaloa coast. But I wasn’t going to take my hands off the wheel till I crossed the border.

I’d popped a couple of meth tabs to keep awake and smoked some of that dirt-encrusted weed to test it but it just gave me a headache. I hadn’t eaten much of anything. I’d been driving so fast and so hard, my hands were shaking and I was starting to see things. I kept my eyes on the road and hoped not to hit a rabbit or something bigger.

Our decision not to throw that box of marijuana out the window would turn out to be one of those life-defining moments: a reckless, hasty, stupid moment that changes everything about your life up until the day you die. We hadn’t taken time to hide it because we weren’t sure we were going to keep it: the weed didn’t get you very high, it didn’t taste good, it mostly gave you a headache. We’d spent all the cash we had for tuition and rent for the current quarter at the University of Utah, and even used Jeff’s work credit card to buy gas and food.

It all started when we’d concocted a plan to drive way down into Mexico, find some dealers, buy some coke, bring it back, and sell it at school, then pay our tuition and rent for a year with the proceeds. We weren’t dealers and we knew absolutely nothing about international drug smuggling. I was a theatre major; Jeff studied chemistry and did plays on the side. That’s how we met.

We’d arrived in Mazatlán a few days earlier where we found a fairly cheap hotel on the beach. That was our plan – stay on the beach and find guys selling drugs to Americans. We hung out in a couple of the bars by day and walked the beach at night, looking to score.

We tried over and over to sell the Bronco or trade it for drugs, but no one was interested. We were a couple of pretty white guys who had no connections and didn’t speak Spanish, strolling around Mexico looking to buy a shitload of coke. It sounded simple to us, but people wanted nothing to do with us. They thought we were nuts or narcs. There was no way a Mexican drug dealer was going to trade an American car (one that, in their minds, was probably stolen) for drugs. It was a stupid idea. If anything, they’d just kill us and take the damn Bronco.

We started getting anxious and began questioning our whole stupid plan. We had spent every last dime on this adventure and had to get some kind of return. Neither I nor Jeff could speak Spanish beyond ordering a beer or asking, "Where’s the cuarto de baño?"

Finally, after a couple of days of hanging out, we met a street-level dealer named Antonio. He was a guy about our age who hung around the beach, selling weed to guys like us on vacation. Although he spoke a little English, it was with a very thick accent, and mostly day-to-day phrases about partying and selling weed.

We smoked some dope with him and hung out for a bit before we pitched our idea. Can we trade our truck for some cocaine?

He looked at us like we were crazy and said, No, man. No one is going to want your truck. But I can get you cocaine for a good price.

So this was it! We found our connection. He was a guy like us, no big deal. It was going to work out great. Later that night, he took us deep into the jungle to a small farm two or three hours south of Mazatlán. That’s where we met some men who appeared to be cartel guys. They were nothing like Antonio. They were scary. I thought they were going to kill us at one point. Bottom line was we didn’t have enough money to buy their coke and so ended up with a big fucking box of shitty farmer weed.

We left Antonio at the farm house and hightailed it back to the hotel, arriving around dusk. We felt lucky to be alive. But we didn’t feel safe. We were beginning to get really scared. We went up to our room and paced around, talking a mile a minute. We wanted to crash for a bit. We were so damned tired. I gazed out the window at the beach, mulling over what we should do.

Suddenly, there was a cop car driving below our hotel window. We panicked; we thought the drug dealers might have turned us in. Maybe the reason they didn’t kill us was because they were narcs! They were working for the DEA or the Mexican Federales.

We pretty much lost our minds at that point. We grabbed our stuff, ran down to the Bronco, threw it in the back with the box of weed, jumped in, and took off.

Were we set up? Were they going to catch us at the border? Should we just throw out the weed? Jeff rolled a couple of joints. It was useless. We felt nothing, hardly a twinge. We were fucked. We’d spent our tuition, we had no more money. We needed to pay rent as soon as we got back. There was just nothing about the entire half-wit adventure that worked out.

Jeff was starting to get on my nerves. And I on his. I felt like he blamed me for the whole bloody mess. Maybe it was my fault, I don’t know. And to top it off, technically we were driving a stolen vehicle. Even though I was the one who reported it stolen, it was still listed as stolen. Either way, we were screwed.

We were carrying twenty pounds of weed just sitting in the back of the truck in a broken box held together with duct tape. Not even hidden. For a couple of fairly smart guys who’d done pretty well in their lives up to this point, we were about as dumb as one can get. We couldn’t make a decision other than to get out of Mexico. We kept saying to each other, should we toss the box out the window? What good would it do us in Utah? Maybe further down in the box the weed was better. If we could just get enough out of it to recoup a thousand dollars, that would be great.

It had been all my idea. I was edgy and bored and thought I needed a hardy adventure. Now here we were in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, bouncing up and down, following the desert dunes, carrying twenty pounds of weed that could get us locked away for years in a foreign prison.

I felt a jolt and the truck veered off the road onto the shoulder. I nearly lost control, but I got it back, like I always did, and we drove on. Shit! I gotta keep my head, I muttered.

I looked up ahead and saw some faint lights way down the highway. I couldn’t tell what they were. Maybe an accident… some emergency vehicles?

I eased off the gas a bit, then I saw a sign on the right. It said something like, "Inspeccion… Federeales. Alto… By then the lights were just about on us. Holy shit!" I shouted.

I was going way too fast to turn around. There was a barricade across the road and nowhere to go. I turned and yelled at Jeff to wake up, and when I turned back around, we were practically on top of the barricades. I was going so goddamned fast! I slammed on the brakes and veered off the side of the road. The car spun all the way around, 360 degrees, throwing dust and gravel in its wake.

When it came to a stop, I was gripping the wheel and could hardly believe we hadn’t flipped over. I thought for sure I was going to roll the truck and crash into something. When the dust settled, I opened my eyes and looked around. There were a dozen gun-toting men standing around the truck holding handguns, assault rifles, and shotguns. What the fuck… Jeff uttered as he sat up. Jesus fucking Christ, man. What the hell is this?

Chapter 2

A couple of months earlier during a late-night poker game at my and Jeff’s apartment, fueled by Wild Turkey, weed, and a winning poker hand, I blurted out, Let’s just say to hell with it and start our own theatre group!

And that’s how it started. A wisecrack to a group of would-be actors trying to out-swagger each other. We’d been criticizing the university’s theatre department about the kind of plays done there. We wanted to do experimental theatre, maybe even our own stuff. Utah (it’s well known) is very conservative, with a ton of Mormon influence, and so went the University of Utah. I was in the musical theatre department and Jeff was a chemistry major who wanted to be an actor. He only took chemistry to please his parents. There was Al, the playwright, and actors Bob and Travis. We were all pretty slammed and boasting to one another about who was the best at this or that when I made the brazen comment about starting our own theatre. And, oh sure, everyone was on board during the poker game. They jumped right in. Yeah, let’s do it, man. Let’s just say fuck the U and do our own shit. Plays we write ourselves!

As we crowed to each other about our amazing talent and capabilities, the talk got bigger and bigger until I blurted out, I got an idea – let’s all go to Mexico and buy some cocaine, come back, and sell it for a huge profit. I’ll bet we can get it cheap there.

Great idea, Jewkes, let’s become international drug smugglers and make some quick cash, Bob chimed in. Then everybody started creating scenarios about this amazing adventure and how cool it would be. It was a bunch of actors creating their own dramas.

I recollected how the dealer who sold us the weed we were smoking had told me he’d gone to Mexico once and bought a couple of pounds of marijuana. It was a snap; he just put it in the side panels behind his taillights and crossed the border. According to him, he made a ton of cash from it too. I said, We could do the same thing with cocaine, which could make us a lot of money. On the reality of that idea, we sobered up a bit and went back to playing poker.

The next day, I called everybody to check in on the plan and they were like, What …what are you talking about? You outta your mind, Jewkes? Where would we get it? How would we sell it? We’re not drug dealers, we’re actors. We were screwing around last night, weren’t you?

No one thought I was serious. They thought it was a crazy idea. And nobody wanted to do it. Except Jeff. I didn’t know if I was really serious when I said it. Do people always believe everything they say? Or do we often say things which then define us? You make a bold statement and then you have to believe it. Because you said it to people, out loud. You have to commit to it and you have to back it up or you’re an asshole. Turning a lie into the truth. A guy who talks shit but doesn’t back it up with action. I wasn’t going to be that guy. I had to follow it up. Or maybe I really wanted to do it and just needed support. Looking back now, I really don’t know what I was thinking.

Oddly, Jeff agreed to go. He said, Okay, let’s do it, man. We can at least make enough money to pay rent and tuition. He didn’t even question the idea. Merely looked at me and shrugged. Why not? That was it. I had my support. We were going to Mexico to buy drugs.

Neither of us had ever done anything this crazy before. But it was more so for Jeff. I’d had a couple of impetuous moments in high school and even spent a night in jail. But Jeff wasn’t at all rash. He typically made appropriate choices. He wanted to be an actor more than anything and loved doing plays. But he’d committed to getting a chemistry degree so he’d have something to fall back on in case he didn’t make it as an actor. That was Jeff: he planned ahead, made good decisions. He’d been a high school football star, taking his team to the Wisconsin state championship. He was that guy. The guy who went to football practice every summer instead of screwing around with his friends. He was not the guy to go to Mexico and buy drugs. I suppose it made the idea seem plausible to me. If Jeff would do it, it couldn’t be all that crazy.

It took us a couple of months to put a plan together, during which time the idea grew bigger and bolder. We decided we needed to buy a pound of cocaine so we’d have enough money to pay rent and start a theatre group. But we didn’t have near enough money for that. Well, we couldn’t let that stop us, so we had to find more money. Finally, I came up with the idea to buy a car, drive it to Mexico, and trade it for drugs.

I bought a Ford Bronco on a low monthly payment plan, then I reported it stolen. We thought it would be the perfect car to drive into Mexico and trade for a pound of cocaine. I mean, hey… doesn’t every drug dealer want a super-fast, American-made, four-wheel drive SUV?

I put on license plates from a junk car and stashed the Bronco at a storage lot until we were ready to drive away. It was Christmas break, a week or so before winter quarter. We thought we could make it down and back in time for school. Only a couple of people knew about our adventure. Jeff’s girlfriend and my wife knew, of course. They definitely thought we were crazy and tried very hard to talk us out of it. By the time we told them, we’d already stashed the Bronco and were in too deep. There was no turning back. We’d committed to the idea. We had to follow it up with action.

A couple days after Christmas, we got the Bronco out of storage, packed it with food, my acoustic guitar, sleeping bags, and clothes, and took off for Mexico. We had two gas tanks, so we decided to drive straight through to Mazatlán without stopping for hotels or restaurants. We could save money and get there and back fast, before anybody knew we were gone.

On the drive from Salt Lake City to Nogales, we thought seriously about the whole thing. We wondered what everyone would think of us if we turned back now. I was dead certain we would be okay and everything would work out as planned. Jeff, I think, simply followed my lead. He’d never taken a risk like this before. I got suspended in high school and spent a night in jail for disturbing the peace. Jeff was set to graduate with the prospect of a solid career and a beautiful girlfriend who adored him. He had a good plan. He didn’t need a crazy adventure.

I was confused and uncertain. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I had been a straight arrow right up until high school. Born and raised a conservative Mormon, I always followed the rules, got straight As in school, and accolades at church. All my teachers loved me. I had the kind of personality and looks people were attracted to. My family and friends thought I was the guy most likely to succeed. I was class president in junior high and a track star. But the summer between junior high and high school, everything changed. That was the year Sgt. Pepper came out. The Beatles, whom I loved and followed, made a dramatic change in a couple of years. They went from bubblegum pop to psychedelic introspection. And I went with them. I stopped going to church, started reading Dostoyevsky and Hermann Hesse. It was the late ‘60s and the culture was changing rapidly.

The summer before high school, I left the Mormon church for good and began making a shift in everything I believed. But you don’t just sidle away from the Mormon church. It’s like Sunni Islam or Ashkenazi Judaism. If you tell your family you’re not going to be a Mormon any longer, it’s like saying to them, I hate you and I never want to see you again for all eternity. That’s what they hear. Mormons believe they have a special place in Heaven where only they can go. But if you don’t accept the Mormon faith, you won’t get in. When I left the Mormon church, everyone in my entire extended family of several hundred people treated me differently. Some with disdain, most with deep sadness. In their minds, I was lost to the darkness forever.

I pretty much sidestepped my family after that. The endless fights and arguments over religion and my ‘eternal salvation’ left me feeling angry and disillusioned. After high school, I left Salt Lake City and went to Los Angeles for a year or so, where I met a group of actors and film makers. Their style and intellect led me to study theatre upon returning to Salt Lake City. I had little experience in the arts prior to that.

I read Carlos Castaneda and other books on philosophy. I was figuring out that so much of what people had been telling me was wrong. I was sick of doing what my conservative friends and family thought I should do.

I met a girl, thought I loved her, and I was pretty sure she loved me. I dropped out of school for a couple of years, got married, and bought a house. I worked construction, and eventually, I started my own company doing footings and foundations. I was never very good at working for somebody else.

We bought a two-story home in a nice neighborhood. Everybody had a trimmed lawn, bushes down the side, and cute mailboxes with hand-lettered names. It all felt hollow. I was trapped in a life that was just like everyone else’s. Go to work, make money, pay your mortgage, and meet for Saturday barbeques. It was the beginning of the end of my marriage and my life in the middle-class, yuppie world of day jobs, strip malls, and Wendy’s. I missed the arts. I wanted something more.

I asked my wife for a divorce and moved out. She went back to her home in Albuquerque. I went back to the university and started doing plays again. I thought somehow it would be better than being married. I loved Kathryn; I truly did at first. I wanted to get married. But there was nothing to make me want to stay at it. Going back to school was the only thing I could think of doing that would let me avoid reality for a while. Kate didn’t want to split, but she was afraid of what I was becoming. It wasn’t easy on either of us.

I was drinking a lot and smoking weed, sleeping with random women. I couldn’t find peace. I was restless and unsettled. Although school was different from my business life, it still rang hollow. I had no focus and nothing around me made sense. I didn’t even like acting. It just gave me an escape from my mundane life.

If I could have talked with someone, like a mentor or an older person who had similar ideas, things might have turned out differently. I wanted to believe in something, but I couldn’t believe in what I had been taught. I needed a massive explosion to break out of the Mormon, conservative, white-bread community where I had been raised.

And that’s what put us in the Sonoran Desert, with me driving down the road at 110 miles an hour in the dark of night, Jeff crashed out in the back.

Chapter 3

It was hard to figure out why they didn’t kill us the night when we bought the weed from Antonio’s contacts. We hadn’t taken time to mull over what happened or talk about it much. But that experience is what set us off on such a frantic pace for the border.

When Antonio told us no one would trade drugs for our Bronco but he could get us cocaine for a good price, we thought we should try to at least buy enough to pay rent and get back to the States. We had about five hundred dollars in cash left. We’d paid for our hotel room with Jeff’s credit card and only spent our cash on gas, food, and beer.

At this point, it seemed like our only option, so we asked Antonio how much. He asked how much we wanted. I said, An ounce, maybe more. He lit up, sensing some good business. An ounce or more of cocaine was pretty expensive in the US, so It had to be at least fifteen hundred dollars in Mexico.

Antonio took sip of beer, grinned slightly, and said, "Fifteen thousand pesos." That came out to just about the five hundred dollars we had left. We were psyched! We could buy the coke, go back to Utah, and sell a gram for $150: that was 16 grams at $150 each, which equaled $2,400. That would be a super profit! So we told him we would take it. We had a couple of more beers, and then Antonio took off. He said he would come by and meet us later that evening and take us to buy the coke.

We were all set. If we could buy cocaine here in Mexico at that price, we could make a fortune back in Salt Lake. We just had to find a way to get it home safely without getting caught. International smuggling at its best!

Around 7 p.m., we went down to the beach to meet Antonio, who was there waiting. He was a bit anxious. I could sense it. He got in the Bronco and we took off.

We drove south on the main highway for a couple of hours. It got dark quickly. No street lights, just little roads through small towns. Antonio was still nervous. We were nervous. What if this was a set up? What could we do? No one knew where we were. Al and the girls had an inkling we were somewhere in Mexico. Our parents certainly didn’t know anything.

These guys could steal the truck, take our money, chop us into pieces, and bury us in a field. No one would ever know. Even the license plate on the Bronco was fake.

It was late and pitch-black dark. Antonio directed us to drive off the main road and follow a rugged dirt road going through the jungle. We must have been two or three hours south of Mazatlán. We finally came to a little town. There was no way of knowing where we were or even how big the town was.

Antonio seemed to become even more uptight, which made me really nervous. He had us slow down as he looked for a house. Finally, he tapped my shoulder and told me to stop, then he went through a door in a wall. I guess it was a house, but it was so dark I couldn’t tell. We waited, Jeff looked at