Don Jorge Ochoa organized a party at his farm in Bolombolo, Antioquia. He invited The Mexican, Gildardo Yuca Rica, Pablo Escobar, and thirty lesser-known drug dealers. At that time El Patrón and The Mexican didn’t have an arrest warrant in Colombia. The stories surrounding the fight against extradition sent a clear message to all those in favor of the policy: any judge that pressed charges against the Extraditables was a dead judge. The authorities didn’t have evidence that Pablo and The Mexican were the brains behind the Extraditables and they certainly didn’t have evidence proving that they had anything to do with the deaths of the judges or the others. The only arrest warrant in force for Pablo and Ochoa was one in the United States. It involved the Nicaraguan case and the evidence brought to light by Barry Seal. Without extradition, the authorities couldn’t put those arrest warrants into effect. A great future for the mafia was within reach—without extradition over their heads, triumph was in the air.
El Patrón went to Ochoa’s party. Arete, Pinina, Chopo, Paskin, Oto, Mugre, and I accompanied him. The party began with hugs, emotional shouts, and congratulations. The musicians, a mariachi band, played the best of their repertoire. Beautiful women made the soul happy with their little bikinis. A gangster party without beautiful girls is no party at all. The beautiful bodies decorated the pool and the artificial waterfall. We, the owners of death, breathed life in the middle of such happiness. The Mexican was happy and outgoing thanks to the music. Don Jorge, always a good host, showed off with his good food and fine and abundant liquor. The Mexican’s bodyguards, numerous and well-armed, protected the place. We, Pablo’s bodyguards, tasted the food, but made sure not to drink too much. Our job was to look after El Patrón. Yuca Rica was making fun of The Mexican. They were great friends.
When Santofimio returned to Ibagué after three years in prison, he received an ovation from the crowd, March 19, 1999. (Photo courtesy of the newspaper El Espectador)
A clean-shaven Pablo Escobar with Jorge Luis Ochoa Vásquez giving an interview, October 26, 1989. (Reproduced from the magazine Tempo de Francia. (Photo courtesy of the newspaper El Espectador)
El Patrón lit a blunt, took three puffs, and then took a swig of beer. Some women at the pool showed off their beautiful bodies and the flirting began—they were there for that very purpose. The drug lords smiled at them and tried to seduce them. Their money was enough to get the girls excited. Money is an effective aphrodisiac. Suddenly, The Mexican removed a plastic snake from the freezer and threw it at Yuca Rica. Rica, taken by surprise, jumped, terrified, feeling the cold animal on his neck, and shouted in panic. He took his gun and aimed it toward the piece of rubber that looked quite like a real reptile. Everyone burst into laughter. El Patrón couldn’t stop laughing. The pot had done its work. Later, the old friends told stories about their persecution. Don Jorge related a story about being at the Department of Córdoba, near Monteria,34 at one of Rafico’s farms. Once they were having a party with the very same mariachi band that was playing at that moment. During the party the police surrounded the main house. Quickly Don Jorge and Rafico began impersonating two of the musicians, taking their hats and instruments. When the police took the living room and ordered the men and the women to separate from the musicians, they announced that they were looking for Jorge Ochoa Vásquez. Everybody was asked for identification except for women and musicians. After three hours of investigation, the police abandoned the place empty handed. Don Jorge and Rafico escaped quickly before informants could rat them out. Everyone laughed and congratulated Don Jorge with applause for the creativity and cleverness of his escape.
It was 3:00 in the afternoon and the beautiful girls were sitting on the gangsters’ laps. The Mexican and Pablo were sitting together. One could see by their gestures that theirs was a good friendship. They were a great team. They chatted in lively animation, surrounded by four beautiful girls who looked at them with curiosity and false sweetness.
At 6:35 p.m. one of El Patrón’s watchmen delivered some bad news. He whispered in Pablo’s ear. President Virgilio Barco Vargas had ruled the decision of the court was without grounds and by administrative procedure resumed the extradition of Colombians to the United States. The news hit like a splash of ice water. The musicians were ordered to stop playing. The women cautiously shrank back to their rooms. The glasses of liquor went from hands to the tables and everybody looked at each other. A dead silence invaded the house. Only the sound of tinkling glasses was heard as the waiters began to clean up. Don Jorge, The Mexican, Yuca Rica, and Pablo Escobar gathered and suddenly, in an untimely manner, quickly said goodbye. Each retired to their hideouts.
El Patrón ordered Arete to plan their departure to Medellín with all the necessary precautions. Two cars drove up ahead to clear the way, their occupants alert and ready to inform the drug lord of any potential trouble. I looked at the Chief, and I noticed he was lost in thought, his stare fixed on the horizon. With his right hand he softly caressed the gun that he held with his left. I was certain of what was going on in his head. He would fire up the Colombian authorities once again.
Chapter XI
The Torture of a Journalist
December 17, 1986. It was 6:45 p.m. The assassins had parked their Yamaha DT 165 motorcycle on the train tracks that crossed Avenue 68 in west Bogotá, the engine still running. Carro Loco was driving with Pabón as his passenger. Two days ago, Pablo Escobar told them in person who they had to kill this time. The buses went by full of people. It was rush hour. This was an industrial area.
A small man with glasses and white hair was coming out of the parking lot of the offices of El Espectador in a modest Subaru station wagon. The bus drivers recognized the prestigious journalist and kindly let him exit the parking lot and get on the road. He was headed north of the city. Guillermo Cano extended his left arm out with a smile to thank the drivers. He turned on to the road completely unaware of what would happen next.
The assassins watched him on their motorcycle as if it was all in slow motion. There was too much traffic. They placed themselves behind the station wagon almost without accelerating. Carro Loco slowly maneuvered around the side of the journalist’s car, right next to the window. Pabón extended his right arm with impeccable balance and with precision he shot his target only inches from the victim’s skull. The blood splattered on the windshield of the Subaru. In the middle of all the traffic, the assassins somehow managed to escape undetected.
Three days earlier, the front page of El Espectador had read, “The party is spoiled for the mobsters,” as if Guillermo Cano had actually been at the Bolombolo’s party.”35
This headline cost the brave journalist his life and sparked enough hatred in Pablo Escobar to later order a terrorist attack against the newspaper’s installations that would leave the newspaper crippled.
The country was shaken by the news. The national and international press was supportive of El Espectador and Guillermo Cano’s family. The ordinary citizens, Cano’s main readership, were deeply moved by the journalist’s bravery. The news traveled around the world and media everywhere covered the assassination.