Ed Vul­liamy

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The Line Be­comes a River: Dis­patches from the Bor­der by Fran­cisco Cantú

The Line Be­comes a River: Dis­patches from the Bor­der by Fran­cisco Cantú. River­head, 250 pp., $26.00

On the first page of The Line Be­comes a River: Dis­patches from the Bor­der, Fran­cisco Cantú uses the phrase “bro­ken earth” to de­scribe the parched ground be­neath his feet. It’s an ap­pro­pri­ate ex­pres­sion with which to open his ac­count of polic­ing the US–Mex­ico bor­der­land—an area that the writer Glo­ria An­zaldúa has de­scribed as “una herida abierta,” an open wound, “where the Third World grates against the first and bleeds.”1

Cantú is from a mostly Mex­i­can fam­ily. He was born in Ari­zona to a mother who worked as a park ranger and feels a deep con­nec­tion to the land­scape, fauna, and charisma of fron­tier coun­try. In 2008, against his mother’s coun­sel, he de­cided to serve the state in a dif­fer­ent way: by join­ing the Bor­der Pa­trol. He told her he was tired of read­ing books about the bor­der and wanted to have a part in its story. Dur­ing his train­ing, he writes, he was shown lurid scenes of tor­ture and ex­e­cu­tion by Mex­i­can narco car­tels, and told, “This is what you’re up against.”

It be­comes clear early on that the Bor­der Pa­trol agents are not re­ally af­ter ma­jor drug traf­fick­ers. Cantú’s su­per­vi­sor warns him, “You don’t want to bring in any bod­ies with your dope if you can help it. Sus­pects mean you have a smug­gling case on your hands, and that’s a hell of a lot of pa­per­work.” As a re­sult, as Cantú later tells a friend, “We mostly ar­rested the lit­tle peo­ple—smug­glers, scouts, mules, coy­otes . . . . Mostly I ar­rested mi­grants, I con­fessed. Peo­ple look­ing for a bet­ter life.” Cantú comes across no se­ri­ous nar­cos and only one young man who wants to sell heroin in sin­gle doses to make a buck. By and large Cantú and his col­leagues ar­rest peo­ple who, as they tell him, just “want to work” in Amer­ica.

The Line Be­comes a River is the story of the four years Cantú spent pa­trolling. The first of the book’s three parts re­counts his daily ex­pe­ri­ences on the beat. Cantú’s fel­low agents in­dulge in “sense­less acts of de­file­ment” and recre­ational vul­gar­ity:

[Agent] Hart gig­gled and shouted to us as he pissed on a pile of ran­sacked [mi­grants’] be­long­ings . . . . It’s true that we slash their bot­tles and drain their wa­ter into the dry earth, that we dump their back­packs and pile their food and clothes to be crushed and pissed on and stepped over, strewn across the desert and set ablaze.

There is a mo­tive here: “The idea is that when they come out from their hid­ing places, when they re­group and re­turn to find their stockpiles ran­sacked and stripped, they’ll re­al­ize their sit­u­a­tion, that they’re fucked, that it’s hope­less.”

Other abuses are less pur­pose­ful: Cantú’s col­leagues set cacti ablaze in the dry desert for the hell of it; they laugh at sto­ries about the self-mu­ti­la­tion of sex­ual or­gans two of them en­coun­tered dur­ing pre­vi­ous lives as a prison guard and a sol­dier in Iraq. A re­viewer for Mex­ico City’s Ex­cel­sior wrote that Cantú’s book ex­posed “ex-sol­diers play­ing at war but with eas­ier tar­gets: un­armed men, women and chil­dren.”2 The ac­tion takes place on land that Cantú and the other agents share with a na­tive tribal po­lice. Though Cantú does not say so, this can only be the To­hono O’odham reser­va­tion, which spans the bor­der: the O’odham is the only Na­tive Amer­i­can na­tion in the US to have Mex­i­can cit­i­zens on its tribal coun­cil. The Bor­der Pa­trol is charged with cut­ting its an­cient ter­rain in two. I know this place. I wrote my book Amex­ica while Cantú was in the Bor­der Pa­trol, criss-cross­ing the fron­tier in 2008 and 2009 to re­search Mex­ico’s narco war. Per­haps Cantú was one of the agents who con­stantly peered through my car win­dow in the maze of check­points that line the bor­der.

Read­ing Cantú’s ac­count re­minded me of the scathing words I heard from the tribal ac­tivist Mike Flores, with whom, one sus­pects, Cantú’s mother might sym­pa­thize: “They come from Texas, South Carolina, and they don’t know jack shit about this land,” he told me be­side a fence be­tween the US and Mex­ico that cuts across his an­ces­tral land. “They act the tough guy, but if you put any of ’em out on the land un­der the sun with­out their toys, they’d be dead in two days.” As are so many of their quarry.

Cantú is part of this, but apart from it. He is from the “bro­ken earth,” not Texas or South Carolina; he is ed­u­cated; there is a heavy-hearted soft­ness in his deal­ings with those he ar­rests and whose lan­guage he speaks—no­tably a Mex­i­can cou­ple cow­er­ing in a church, whom he turns in even though the woman is preg­nant. That scene pre­pares us for the book’s more med­i­ta­tive sec­ond sec­tion, dur­ing which Cantú be­comes in­creas­ingly aware of the suf­fer­ing his work causes for the peo­ple he ap­pre­hends.

Cantú ar­rests a woman who was aban­doned by smug­glers af­ter her foot was in­jured. At the wheel of his ve­hi­cle, he feels “a strange and fa­mil­iar sense of free­dom, an old close­ness with the desert,” but looks at her in his rearview mir­ror, in the caged de­ten­tion area, as she sur­veys the same scene with “no sense of free­dom.” He has night­mares and finds it hard to look his mother in the eye; one night, he writes, “I stared into the mir­ror, try­ing to rec­og­nize my­self.”

Part Three opens with Cantú, no longer an agent, work­ing in a cof­fee shop along­side a new friend, José, who re­turns to Mex­ico to visit his dy­ing mother af­ter twenty years in the United States and gets ar­rested for cross­ing back with­out proper pa­pers. Cantú does all he can to help José’s wife and sons as his friend en­ters the bru­tal labyrinth of crim­i­nal and civil im­mi­gra­tion law to which Cantú had con­demned so many but had never en­coun­tered di­rectly. He finds him­self “fi­nally see­ing the thing that crushes” and “driven to make good for the lives I had sent back across the line.” José’s case to re­main with his fam­ily is de­nied, and he is de­ported. Af­ter José makes an­other at­tempt to cross back and re­unite with his fam­ily, his wife Lupe is shaken down for $1,000 by a stranger who prom­ises to re­turn her hus­band (it never hap­pens). This is a cruel de­vel­op­ment along the bor­der: whether or not this stranger was con­nected to them, narco car­tels and crim­i­nal syn­di­cates have be­come in­creas­ingly in­volved in hu­man traf­fick­ing. Cantú notes that in one of the worst mas­sacres on the Mex­i­can side of the line, at San Fer­nando, Ta­mauli­pas, the vic­tims were not drug traf­fick­ers but mi­grants, mostly from Cen­tral Amer­ica, who were thought not to have paid suf­fi­cient cuota to their car­tel smug­glers.

Cantú be­comes im­mersed in Mex­ico’s ex­treme vi­o­lence: he reads up on the se­rial ab­duc­tion, vi­o­la­tion, tor­ture, and mur­der of women in and around Ci­u­dad Juárez; mu­ti­la­tions by the narco car­tels in­tended to con­vey spe­cific mes­sages to their en­e­mies and the pop­u­lace; and “dis­ap­pear­ances” re­port­edly at the hands of the Mex­i­can army. By this time, Cantú is work­ing for the Bor­der Pa­trol’s El Paso sec­tor in Texas, where the line ac­tu­ally does be­come a river: El Paso sits across the Rio Grande from Juárez, which was, be­tween 2009 and 2011, the most dan­ger­ous city in the world. Yet Cantú re­calls that when he took a trip to Juárez in his youth, his mother twisted her an­kle and fell, and some­thing hap­pened more char­ac­ter­is­tic of its cit­i­zens than vi­o­lence. A man alighted from his truck to help, and when Cantú thanked him, he replied, “It’s noth­ing. In Juárez we take care of one an­other.”

This may seem weird in a city of blood­let­ting, but it’s true, and im­por­tant. I re­ported in Juárez dur­ing the so-called femi­cidio—mur­der of women—and later through­out its worst tribu­la­tions with narco vi­o­lence, while Cantú was across the river serv­ing as an agent. I re­turn fre­quently; it was where I spent last New Year’s. Only one firework was set off; the streets in a once-fa­mous party town were empty by ten at night; and twenty-four peo­ple were mur­dered dur­ing the first two days of 2018, the worst start to any year since 2009–2011, when vi­o­lence there peaked. But still, friendly strangers look you in the eye and en­joy an un­nec­es­sary chat, es­pe­cially about soc­cer. At the bor­der, the darker the shad­ows fall, the brighter its col­ors seem to shine. Cantú’s book has al­ready ac­quired a con­tro­ver­sial his­tory. Pub­lish­ers Weekly re­ports that he thought it “might draw ire from his for­mer em­ployer and con­ser­va­tives. He never imag­ined, though, that it would draw a back­lash from the group that now seems to be rail­ing against the ti­tle: lib­er­als.”3 The New York Times found Cantú “un­will­ing to look too closely at his com­plic­ity in de­spi­ca­ble be­hav­ior.”4 At San Fran­cisco’s Green Ap­ple Books, a read­ing was in­ter­rupted by peo­ple tak­ing turns to speak about atroc­i­ties com­mit­ted by the Bor­der Pa­trol. At BookPeo­ple in Austin, Cantú was heck­led, “You profit off the mur­der of in­no­cent peo­ple!,” and he was called a “traitor.” He tweeted: “To be clear: dur­ing my years as a BP agent, I was com­plicit in per­pet­u­at­ing in­sti­tu­tional vi­o­lence and flawed, deadly pol­icy. My book is about ac­knowl­edg­ing that.” More ex­tended dis­cus­sions of the book have taken place on Fron­tera List, an open fo­rum run by Molly Mol­loy, a li­brar­ian at New Mex­ico State Univer­sity at Las Cruces who is quoted in Cantú’s book. The fo­rum col­lates ar­ti­cles and other ma­te­rial use­ful to peo­ple for whom the bor­der is a mat­ter of pas­sion and pro­fes­sion. In a post re­spond­ing to the book’s hos­tile

re­cep­tion among lib­er­als, Mol­loy ar­gued, “It’s very im­por­tant to learn the truths about this agency that Cantú was able to see from the in­side.”

Mol­loy is right: the law gives some pro­tec­tions to whistle­blow­ers who tes­tify to the hor­rors of in­sti­tu­tions that once em­ployed them—who bring what they know to light—and per­haps there should be some equiv­a­lent al­lowance for mem­oir. Cantú’s ac­count is a re­fresh­ing coun­ter­point to the glut of narco-thrillers and ac­tion-movie fan­tasies about US agents tak­ing out drug deal­ers in Mex­ico. His dis­il­lu­sion with the agency he joined is to­tal, his dis­may at the sys­tem of bor­der con­trol is sin­cerely felt, and his book is a valu­able con­tri­bu­tion to the lit­er­a­ture on what has be­come an in­creas­ingly scald­ing is­sue in the Trump pres­i­dency. Cantú’s story has deep roots too in Amer­i­can and Mex­i­can his­tory: death, de­ten­tion, and de­por­ta­tion on the bor­der.

The ter­rain from which Cantú writes is sav­age and breath­tak­ingly beau­ti­ful: a vast desert that con­fronts you with bound­less dis­tances, fallen branches, and shed snake­skins brit­tle as parch­ment. This is where the Mex­ica, bet­ter known as Aztecs, came from (their lore called their home Aztlán). Astride what is now the bor­der, Apaches and Co­manches fought with Span­ish- and English-speak­ing Euro­peans; this is where Pan­cho Villa rose and Zorro rode, and where the largest num­ber of fight­ers de­fected to an en­emy in US mil­i­tary his­tory—Ir­ish­men to Mex­ico in 1847, dur­ing the Mex­i­can-Amer­i­can War. The fron­tier was gouged, as Cantú re­counts, a year later by the Treaty of Guadalupe Hi­dalgo, which gave the United States what is now Cal­i­for­nia, Ne­vada, and Utah, most of Ari­zona, and half of New Mex­ico, es­tab­lish­ing the western sec­tion of the bor­der in ap­prox­i­mately the form that ex­ists to­day. The fron­tier is both por­ous and harsh; there is as much that binds as di­vides the lands north and south of the line. Ev­ery day, a mil­lion peo­ple cross the bor­der legally, to work, visit fam­ily, or shop. For those who have pa­pers, it takes min­utes to walk from Mata­moros to Brownsville, Juárez to El Paso, Piedras Ne­gras to Ea­gle Pass. The econ­omy of fam­i­lies along the bor­der­line is in­ter­na­tional: res­i­dents buy elec­tronic goods in the US, pas­tries and med­i­cal ser­vices in Mex­ico. The “twin cities” that face one an­other over the line are in­ter­de­pen­dent: Alex Per­rone, a for­mer mayor of Calex­ico, Cal­i­for­nia (where the Trump ad­min­is­tra­tion is build­ing one of its first new walls), who was born in Mex­i­cali, Baja Cal­i­for­nia, once spoke out against a pro­posal to line a canal on the US side with ce­ment, to pre­vent Mex­i­can farm­ers from tap­ping seep­age. “Eco­nom­i­cally,” he said, “if Mex­i­cali loses, we will watch Calex­ico die.” Sam Vale, a busi­ness­man in McAllen, Texas, whose Mex­i­can grand­mother sent her dresses by steamship to Paris for clean­ing, told me, “McAllen lives or dies on the ba­sis of in­ter­na­tional trade, start­ing with the fact that 90 per­cent of re­tail in the town is Mex­i­cans com­ing over to buy stuff.” More com­mer­cial traf­fic crosses the US–Mex­ico bor­der ev­ery year than any other bor­der in the world—five mil­lion trucks and tens of thou­sands of freight train wagons, worth some $400 bil­lion. Start­ing in the 1960s, sweat­shop fac­to­ries (maquilado­ras) were built along the bor­der to pro­duce goods that could be ex­ported tar­iff-free to the US. The fac­to­ries drew mil­lions of peo­ple from the poor Mex­i­can south and in­te­rior, not to cross the bor­der but to live on it. This was three decades be­fore the North Amer­i­can Free Trade Agree­ment re­moved trade bar­ri­ers be­tween the two coun­tries in 1994.

For peo­ple in Mex­ico try­ing to cross into the United States, how­ever, the bor­der has be­come in­creas­ingly re­stric­tive. When I first came to the Ti­juana bor­der in the 1980s, cross­ing it was a spec­ta­tor sport. So-called “road­run­ners” darted at dusk along a dry canal into the ter­ri­to­rio de nadie, the no-man’s-land be­tween Mex­ico and Cal­i­for­nia, try­ing their luck by re­ly­ing on strength in num­bers. A 1994 of­fen­sive launched by Bill Clin­ton, called Op­er­a­tion Gate­keeper, ended this prac­tice. In 2010, while Cantú was in­car­cer­at­ing mi­grants, Ari­zona gover­nor Jan Brewer signed Se­nate Bill 1070, which em­pow­ered any law en­force­ment agency to stop any per­son and de­mand proof of im­mi­gra­tion sta­tus, on pain of ar­rest and de­por­ta­tion if there was none. In hind­sight, Pres­i­dent Clin­ton’s mea­sures were the gen­e­sis of the present dra­co­nian bor­der pol­icy that has de­vel­oped over the past few ad­min­is­tra­tions and has reached its most ex­treme form un­der Trump.

Even be­fore Trump made it a cor­ner­stone of his pres­i­den­tial cam­paign, the bor­der was mil­i­ta­rized. More than six hun­dred miles of fenc­ing al­ready ex­isted, and are now be­ing for­ti­fied and ex­tended in places. The fron­tier is se­cured by guard posts, search­lights, in­frared cam­eras, and sen­sors, and po­liced not only by the Bor­der Pa­trol and Cus­toms and Bor­der Pro­tec­tion, but also by mem­bers of the Na­tional Guard, ICE, and the Bureau of Al­co­hol, To­bacco, Firearms and Ex­plo­sives, as well as SWAT teams. Trump, un­sat­is­fied with these mea­sures, has fur­ther bru­tal­ized im­mi­gra­tion, asy­lum, and bor­der pol­icy. What the present White House calls “a bot­tom-up re­view of all im­mi­gra­tion poli­cies . . . dan­ger­ous loop­holes, out­dated laws, and eas­ily ex­ploited vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties in our im­mi­gra­tion sys­tem”5 has re­sulted in pol­icy that in­ten­si­fies what Cantú calls “the thing that crushes.” In ad­di­tion to Trump’s pledge of a “big, beau­ti­ful bor­der wall”—which would cut not just across the land but through indige­nous and en­vi­ron­men­tally pro­tected lands—the pres­i­dent wants $100 mil­lion to re­cruit five hun­dred more agents to the Bor­der Pa­trol, cur­rently some 19,000 strong, as a “first hir­ing surge for the 5,000 [ex­tra] agent re­quire­ment.”

Thou­sands of peo­ple who have lived peace­fully in the United States for decades are be­ing ar­rested and de­ported for the orig­i­nal sin of hav­ing ar­rived in the first place. Chil­dren are be­ing in­car­cer­ated and sep­a­rated from their par­ents. When Cantú is called in by his su­per­vi­sor to trans­late for two chil­dren, aged nine and ten, who have been brought across by “friends” from Si­naloa, he tries to speak to them, but “they were too young, too be­wil­dered, too dis­traught at be­ing sur­rounded by men in uni­form.”

I re­mem­ber meet­ing in a shel­ter for de­ported chil­dren in No­gales, Sonora, around the time Cantú served, a fouryear-old named Amer­ica who had been dumped into the de­por­ta­tion pen by Bor­der Pa­trol agents. She had no idea where her par­ents were, and sang a song from a te­len­ov­ela se­ries that went “Fi­esta, fi­esta, la vida es fi­esta,” af­ter which she burst into tears. That was dur­ing the Obama ad­min­is­tra­tion, yet it was noth­ing com­pared to what is hap­pen­ing as the Trump ad­min­is­tra­tion uses the de­ten­tion of par­ents and chil­dren at sep­a­rate, far-flung lo­ca­tions as a de­lib­er­ate de­ter­rent against asy­lum and mi­gra­tion. The bor­der is a place of para­dox: it di­vides two na­tions but keeps them cheek-by-jowl, ex­tends op­por­tu­ni­ties to some and con­signs oth­ers to poverty. And para­dox is what Cantú’s book is about: his own con­flict as a Mex­i­canAmer­i­can who joined an ap­pa­ra­tus ded­i­cated to ar­rest­ing Mex­i­cans, and the deeper di­chotomy that faces Latino US cit­i­zens on the bor­der—what Cantú calls “the ten­sion be­tween the two cul­tures we carry in­side us.” “Per­haps it is hard,” Mol­loy wrote on Fron­tera List, “for some­one who doesn’t know the bor­der to be­lieve the con­tra­dic­tions that Cantú de­scribes.” Cantú ac­knowl­edges the way the lights of El Paso and Juárez “reached across the bor­der to form a sin­gle throb­bing me­trop­o­lis,” yet “to live in the city of El Paso... was to hover at the edge of a crush­ing cru­elty, to safely fill the lungs with air steeped in hor­ror.” It is in­deed strange to be, for in­stance, on the cam­pus of the Univer­sity of Texas at El Paso, among all that youth­ful ef­fer­ves­cence, and look past the free­way at the shanty bar­rio of Lo­mas de Poleo, one of the poor­est in north­ern Mex­ico, climb­ing a dusty hill not two miles away. I met a woman in 2002 in Lo­mas de Poleo called Paula González. She was hold­ing the Vir­gin of Guadalupe neck­lace the po­lice had fi­nally re­cov­ered from the vi­o­lated, mu­ti­lated body of her daugh­ter María Sa­grario, who had been dumped in the dirt. “Where were you,” she im­plored the icon, “when they did that to my lit­tle girl?” One morn­ing six years later, I drove at dawn from the safety of El Paso to Juárez to find a crowd gath­ered at the sight of a de­cap­i­tated body hang­ing by the armpits from an over­pass.

Cantú even­tu­ally crosses the line to visit his friend José, who has been try­ing again and again to re­turn to his fam­ily in the US and is torn be­tween re­gret at hav­ing left them to visit his mother and the re­al­iza­tion that he had no al­ter­na­tive. Once Cantú is across the bor­der, one would have liked him to have ven­tured fur­ther and ac­knowl­edged the ways in which bor­der­cross­ing has changed since he was an agent. Most of those whom Cantú in­ter­cepted when he was in Ari­zona would have left from the in­tim­i­dat­ing, cartel­con­trolled town of Al­tar, Sonora, a base camp for the treach­er­ous jour­ney north where ev­ery store and stall sold back­packs, flash­lights, and other sup­plies for cross­ing from the vil­lage of El Sás­abe into the US. When I was first there in 2009, al­most all those stay­ing at the Cen­tro Co­mu­ni­tario de Aten­ción al Mi­grante y Ne­ce­si­tado shel­ter were Mex­i­can. But on a re­turn visit in 2015, most were Sal­vado­rans, Hon­durans, and Gu­atemalans search­ing not only for work in the United States, but respite from gang vi­o­lence back home, and seek­ing asy­lum.

This March, while Don­ald Trump vis­ited the new bor­der wall pro­to­types near San Diego, I was across the line at Ti­juana’s most es­tab­lished shel­ter, Casa del Mi­grante. Back in 2008, dur­ing Cantú’s time in the pa­trol, most peo­ple there were Mex­i­can; in 2015 they were pri­mar­ily Haitians who had fled the rav­ages of the earth­quake; this year, bid­ing time in the greenand-cream-painted court­yard, most had fled gang­land car­nage in Cen­tral Amer­ica or per­se­cu­tion and war in Africa, the lat­ter group hav­ing ar­rived via Brazil. The re­cent out­cry over the bar­bar­ity of fam­ily sep­a­ra­tions on the bor­der high­lighted how the pro­por­tion of those seek­ing to cross as asy­lum seek­ers, rather than so-called eco­nomic mi­grants want­ing “a bet­ter life,” has in­creased since Cantú’s day—more than the ad­min­is­tra­tion seems pre­pared to rec­og­nize.

Parts of the bor­der re­main open in ways the Trump ad­min­is­tra­tion shows no in­ten­tion of ad­dress­ing. One is the “iron river” of south­bound traf­fic in guns to the car­tels: 70 per­cent of the 105,000 weapons seized by Mex­i­can po­lice be­tween 2009 and 2014 came from the US, and that does not in­clude the in­creas­ing num­ber of arms as­sem­bled from smug­gled parts. The other is the north­ward flow of drug money: the Wa­chovia and HSBC banks were caught, in 2010 and 2012, re­spec­tively, laun­der-

ing prof­its made by the Si­naloa Car­tel. Bank of­fi­cials were given de­ferred pros­e­cu­tions—no one went to jail—but some­one is still clean­ing narco money north of the bor­der, and the sys­tem that per­mits this is be­com­ing more opaque.6

6“Wa­chovia En­ters into De­ferred Pros­e­cu­tion Agree­ment,” press re­lease by the US At­tor­ney’s Of­fice for the South­ern Dis­trict of Florida, March 17, 2010. So de­spite all the “flawed, deadly pol­icy” Cantú was tasked with en­forc­ing, a steady sup­ply of co­caine, heroin, and meth still crosses the bor­der at a sta­ble price while vi­o­lence in Mex­ico spreads and wors­ens. And if Mex­i­cans are now wiser to the per­ils of cross­ing the bor­der in pur­suit of “a bet­ter life,” count­less oth­ers are suf­fi­ciently des­per­ate to try.

For them, the bor­der has be­come an in­sur­mount­able ob­sta­cle. At one point, Cantú’s friend José ad­mits, “I would rather be in prison in the US and see my boys once a week through the glass.” Of­ten, cross­ing on foot from Juárez to El Paso, one ob­serves peo­ple do­ing so in tears—prob­a­bly re­turn­ing from vis­its to those like José. “There are thou­sands of peo­ple just like him,” writes Cantú, “mil­lions ac­tu­ally—the whole idea of it is suf­fo­cat­ing.” When he lived and worked in Texas, José would stare at a satel­lite im­age of his mother’s house on a com­puter. Af­ter he crossed the fron­tier to her deathbed and be­came stuck on the Mex­i­can side, José con­fides to Cantú, “I look out the win­dow at those hills . . . . That’s the United States. I used to be able to just run up and over those hills. But now there is a bar­rier. I hate it, I hate it.”

A US Bor­der Pa­trol agent, New Mex­ico, 2009; pho­to­graph by Eros Hoagland from his book Reck­on­ing: At the Fron­tier, pub­lished by Kehrer in 2014

Fran­cisco Cantú, South Tuc­son, Ari­zona, 2017

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