I thought he was teasing, but there he was, getting me excited anyway. We agreed on an appointment for the next Sunday. I would enter Cómbita Prison as a family visitor to coordinate how we would start our work.
The clock said three in the morning. I watched it intently as I waited to be picked up. Something about the combination of the cold, my drowsiness, and my anxiety made me especially impatient. Finally, at 3:15 a.m. the car arrived and we headed toward Cómbita Prison, three hours away from Bogotá. Popeye was waiting for me at patio number two.
After endless procedures and other little inconveniences, all due to the prison’s bureaucracy, I could at last hear Popeye’s signature greeting of “Hello, beautiful” once again. It had been three years since I last saw him. The face of the man in front of me already showed the signs of confinement. His hair had turned completely white; however, in spite of his age, he still appeared athletic and fit.
At first we made small talk, but, due to the short time we had together, we soon began to discuss our guidelines for writing this book. He would write about everything he remembered, beginning with his childhood and ending with his present stay in prison; correct order would not be a necessity, but we would still try to cover everything chronologically. We would include various relevant characters, but most important would be the story of Popeye at Pablo Escobar’s side. We wanted to cover Pablo’s life, his tastes, and the anecdotes that would allow the reader to know the real life and true personality of the man that had caused so much destruction in his country.
Taking all of my notepads out of the prison was quite the undertaking. With Popeye’s excellent memory and my frequent visits to the prison (I came every fifteen days), we finally finished the book. I was then free to consult with other people who could corroborate his stories.
This book has some mistakes in grammar and writing; we wanted to keep it that way in order to preserve the historical value of the written chronicle, having it read exactly as told by Popeye, one of the most famous bandits to survive the war of the Medellín Cartel, who today admits that it wasn’t worth the deaths of so many innocent people, much less the sacrifice of his own youth. This is why he has always said that, despite the effort of some of the guards to destroy his book, he wants the truth to be known.
I am Jhon Jairo Velásquez Vásquez, alias Popeye, for many years a man trusted by Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria, “El Patrón.” I am one of only three surviving leaders of the Medellín Cartel. This is the story of my life and my actions inside the cartel, my friendship with Pablo Escobar, and the crimes I witnessed and committed under his orders.
This cold cell has been my home for the last twelve years. Here I have exhausted the final days of my youth. I have turned grey and am now called “The Old Pope.” But I have never been alone during these years in prison; the ghost of Pablo has remained by my side throughout the endless days and long nights. His presence, still prevailing, leaves its mark on my life even today. Alive or dead, his extraordinary personality continues to point my way, as it did from the first day I saw him. El Patrón offered me his friendship, made me a part of his closest group, and brought me into his circle of trust, which allowed me to somehow decipher his complex personality. That’s why I am sure my chronicle will reveal the true Pablo, the man whose cold blood still maintains its indelible mark on the country he subjugated and transformed as he pleased. The mistakes we committed now weigh heavier than ever on my shoulders.
Today is January 8, 2004. Inside this gloomy, cold cell at Cómbita Prison in Boyacá, I write the final lines of this, my testimony.
Chapter I
The Beginning
He looked me straight in the eyes in a piercing sort of way. It was like he was reading my whole past. In one thousandth of a second, his pupils covered every inch of my face. I saw him record my features. I knew he was taking note of my haircut. When I answered his questions, he stared at the movement of my lips, as if he had mastered a secret code with which he could detect truth from lies. He stared at my hands. It felt like he was staring for an eternity. I don’t know if what I felt at that moment was fear or deep respect. What I do know is that it was one of the best days of my life. Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria, the gangster of all gangsters, Colombia’s most feared, most powerful, and richest man, had noticed me.
“And who are you?” he asked me.
“I am Popeye, Don Pablo. I am Miss Elsy Sofia’s driver,” I answered.
The “miss” part must have seemed ironic because his lips revealed a subtle smile at the sound of the word. He tapped his fingers softly on the frame of my truck’s window. He placed his thumbs inside his pants, like he was holding his belly against the buckle of his leather belt. He slowly turned and walked inside his beautiful house, on a hill in the prestigious El Poblado District in Medellín. For a cartel boss, he was quite peaceful and radiant.
The woman I had just brought him was really beautiful—none other than Miss Medellín herself. She was a blonde from paisa1 high society. She had refined and elegant features; her skin was white and soft, and her legs were so long and graceful that they seemed to reach all the way to her neck. She was wearing a delicate red dress that matched her elegant shoes, little shoes showing her heels. She had a very elegant Cartier wristwatch and an expensive diamond necklace. Like many other luxuries, Pablo had given them to her on previous dates. Her perfume was rather exquisite. From the moment I picked her up at her house, I could tell that she wasn’t wearing underwear—nothing but a very small black lace bodice that held her beautiful, vivacious breasts. This woman was a true fantasy for any man; she could rival any Hollywood movie star. Pablo sure knew how to pick his women.
The first time I was born—I have died many times in the course of my life—was in Yarumal, a small, cold village about a hundred and forty miles from the city of Medellín. It was April 15, 1962.
My father was a small livestock farmer and businessman of the region. My mother was a housewife, a saint with solid principles, and a believer and practitioner of her faith. Always holding onto faith, she prayed with rosary beads every day in the company of her children. When we left church she would reward us with an ice cream. It was our privilege to choose between two flavors, vanilla or strawberry.
One of the things I enjoyed most at that age was visiting my father’s grandmother because she always offered me delicious, sweet milk. But that pleasure had its price: in order to visit her, I had to cross a graveyard. In that very graveyard rests the remains of two of my little brothers who, according to my mother, where born dead. The graveyard at night was ghostly white and colder than the rest of the town. Crossing it was my greatest nightmare.
Before I knew it, I was five years old. One day my father decided to move us to Itagüí,2 a town scarcely eighteen miles from the city of Medellín. There, in Itagüí, the world opened up to me in a dramatic and frantic way. Happiness came without warning or preparation, and I welcomed it. Children were everywhere: playing, riding bicycles, coming and going from school, and lining up to see the movies. Life was vibrant and all around, stores were full of candies, and streets were filled with thousands of cars and motorcycles, bar music, pool halls, and dancing parlors. My mother still insisted that we go to church every Sunday, but that boredom became bearable because it preceded the fantastic time when the tedious mass finally ended and we could go out and play with the other children and, of course, collect the grand prize: a delicious ice cream cone better than that of my former home. In this new city we could choose between chocolate, blackberry, rum and raisins, coconut, guava, tamarind, guanabana, and many other flavors, in addition to vanilla and strawberry of course. Ice creams in Itagüí were truly cold. In fact, I was sure that the ice cream of my first home was not really ice cream at all. The ice cream in Itagüí was sold at a little business six houses down from mine. It was the place of my dreams, my personal sanctuary.
Soon it came time for me to go to school. I felt important. My father even gave me some pocket money with which I discovered freedom. I could buy all the ice cream I wanted. But happiness never comes without misfortune. The offender: a horrible teacher who intimidated