It was Echeverria who set the course for the eventual downfall of the Mexican economy, and the beginning of the most corrupt era in Mexican history. Any opportunity for a true democracy would lie in the hands of Echeverria’s successor. Mexicans joked that they lived in a state of hope, they hope the next president will be better. Everyone prayed that Echeverria's handpicked successor, had to be better, since there was no way he could be worse. But it was after all, Echeverria who did the picking, so it shouldn't have been a great surprise that his choice would turn out to be worse. Thus, Jose Lopez Portillo came to reside at “Los Pinos” in 1976, the official residence of the Mexican President.
It was easy at first for Lopez Portillo to convince Mexicans he was going to be a great leader, they so wanted to believe this. Events, however, would prove him to be another catastrophe. His administration would give new meaning to corruption, ineptitude at managing the country, and recklessness handling the country's wealth, much of which would find its way into his own pockets or those of close relatives.
When it was discovered that Mexico's oil deposits were far greater than previously believed, providing the country with one of the world's largest reserves, Lopez Portillo took the country on a wild orgy of spending by borrowing against future oil deliveries. Under his leadership, Mexico would borrow over 85 billion dollars, much of it misspent or diverted into his and his cronies' hands. If anyone dared to protest, their mutilated body would be discovered in a ditch or sewer a few days later. The common citizen learned to stay quiet and go about his own business. The wild spending on every conceivable infrastructure and housing project fueled the inflation which began under the Echeverria administration. The strain on the peso's value reached the breaking point and within a few years, Lopez Portillo’s house of cards would tumble under the strain.
On Halloween Day of 1979, a telephone call made from Los Pinos to the White House made the situation clear. Lopez Portillo would never forget the visit to the Mexican capital of the seemingly self-righteous Norte Americano President Jimmy Carter. Aware of Lopez Portillo’s true colors, President Carter forced “El Presidente” to endure a tongue lashing on human rights, a sincere but foolish action. Such behavior would not only sink U.S.-Mexican relations to its lowest point, but also promote a pro-Lopez Portillo movement by the majority of the Mexican population, who viewed Carter’s actions as hypocritical.
Now with the crash of a U.S. airliner in his backyard, Lopez Portillo had the opportunity to pay Los Norte Americanos back for the insults endured earlier in the year. A well-placed Mexican official who was present during that presidential conversation, stated that Lopez Portillo clearly informed Jimmy Carter that “the United States of Mexico did not need nor want any assistance with the investigation from Los Gringos to the north.” President Carter had taken some flak from the press for his “holier than thou” lecture which had strained relations, but more importantly, crippled business between the two nations. Despite the damage done, before 2605’s demise, the United States and Mexico had been able to hammer out an important agreement: Mexico would supply Los Norte Americanos with petroleum and natural gas through the year 2005. President Carter knew how important the agreement was, especially since the oil embargo of the early 1970s had caused such turmoil. Word went out from the U.S. State Department to investigators of the National Transportation Agency; don’t investigate too closely, this should be a Mexican show.
Unaware of the political jockeying taking place that Halloween night, I felt myself confused and fatigued as I was being carried arms over the shoulders, by two young Mexican gentlemen, orderlies I barely recognized from my time at the hospital. My valiant effort to escape only let me back through the streets, through the crowds to the entrance of the administration building of the hospital El Centro. The strong young men spoke rapidly.
“Si, es el del accidente.”
“No se ve muy bien.”
“Necesitamos regresar al hospital.” I was too exhausted to protest their action as they believed that I was disoriented and in need of assistance. As we approached the large doors of the building I noticed some of the comandante’s men scurrying about. My absence had been discovered. Chavez himself met the three of us as we entered the lobby. The proud officer exploded like a volcano which was primarily directed at his subordinates to whom he gave no quarter.
“Cabrones!” There were violent threats then more cursing followed by more threats. He ordered everyone back down the long hallway into the private cubicle. I found myself propped back upon my little black milk box.
A reporter rushed to the entrance but the strong Aztec chief slammed the door on his prying eyes. Chavez continued to scream, this time at me then everyone in general. I witnessed the fright and surprised in the faces of the young orderlies, who were in disbelief.
Chavez turned and faced me once again, accusing me of the very charade I was playing. The man reached far back with his arm and brought it down hard on the right side of my head. Like a rag doll I was knocked completely off the black box as the Mexican chief screamed for answers he wanted and he was in no mood to wait a second longer. I felt the pain and throbbing on the side of my head.
“You know you served “los pilotos” liquor on the flight and the captain was drunk when he tried to land the plane at the airport. Admit it!” Like a black vicious panther he roared while everyone in the room remained silent. Chavez was a cunning man. Even if I were to complain to the proper authorities, who would be able to tell what injuries were from the crash and what damage was a direct result of this sadistic beast.
“Reina, help me. This thing is getting out of hand.” I offered up a makeshift prayer. Perhaps the comandante’s erratic behavior had embarrassed him? My mind hoped so, but such optimism was dashed as the snake asked for a chair and promptly seated himself next to me, and my black box. I lowered my head and the officer slowly lit another nasty cigarette. The interrogation began once again.
“My friend, your mother’s name is Alicia. Your father’s name is Reynaldo.” My Aztec nemesis set upon a new approach to the problem he faced. I had not told anyone my father’s name, or had I? I grew more frightened. I could not remember and I could not rely on my sleep-deprived mind. “Alicia, Reynaldo and Eduardo?” Chavez demanded my attention. “You expect me to believe you do not speak or understand Spanish?” The federal officer gritted his teeth. “Pocho pendejo.”
Chavez motioned for Cardosa to escort the two orderlies out of the room. I yearned to exit with them. One turned toward me for a last glance, a nod and a wink. I sat silent and defeated. There was no way out of my present situation. Survival again became the primary goal; live another day. My passiveness just pissed off the rabid comandante even more. He again stooped down to face level and screamed.
“You will give me the mother f###ing declaration I want.” His dark choleric eyes revealed the true depravity that lay deep in his rotten soul.
“By the time we are finished my young Chicano friend, your Spanish will be excellent.” The officer chuckled mischievously. My interrogator turned to a subordinate, “Llama Senor Montoya.” The finely dressed young man left the room. The comandante continued rambling as my mind fell prey to exhaustion. I tuned him out and tried to fill my head with thoughts of more pleasant things, my family, my mother making her famous red chile enchiladas. What had registered before this day as normal now seemed so distant.
“Tell me mi amigo,” Chavez’s pressed. “Do you have a wife, children?”
“Don't you know? You know everything else about me.” My impudence raised a slight grin on the comandante’s leathery face.
The room remained silent. My black box started to vibrate with a pulsating rhythm. Quickly I realized that it was the floor that registered the steady beat. The door swung open as I was staring at Chavez's smile of contempt.
“Let me introduce you to Senor Montoya,” he motioned his arm toward the door. Confused, I looked up to view the leviathan that was to be my persuader.
“Montoya, por favor, Senor Eduardo Valenciana. Oh, excuse me.” The serpent toyed with my mind again “We must speak in Ingles as Senor Valenciana does not speak Spanish.” I was in real trouble.
“I am going to be sick.”
The Hispanic code of conduct demands that a true man's suffering be done in silence. The good sisters of Carmel always would remind me that I must be willing to bear my cross in moments of personal suffering “The hell with that,” I thought. Any attempt to struggle against my captors during this period would prove futile as my broken body was no match for the solid mass that was about to toy with me. My black box vibrated once more as Montoya took a position behind me. Looking up I witnessed the zealous comandante nod his head. The first crushing blow was administered to the back of my head utilizing the newest edition of the Distrito Federal telephone books as the tool of persuasion.
“Sign the paper and we will stop.”
Concerned that I had not yet been located, Gate Agent Hugo Garcia entered the chaos at the office of the Minister of Transportation, located on the grounds of the airport. The media’s miles of cables, lighting fixtures and cameras posed dangerous obstacles as an exhausted Senor Garcia sought to accomplish what the airline's officials could not.
“Don Diego por favor,” he addressed a busy secretary in an office where all hell seemed to have broken loose. “Tell him it is Senor Garcia.” Hugo knew something was very wrong. The woman returned and escorted him into an interior office. He made inquiries with the local police concerning my disappearance and was suspiciously stonewalled. Now he would go over their heads to find his Norte Americano friend.
A sunrise at the high altitude of Mexico City can be beautiful on a clear day, which is not very often for the smog-choked metropolis.
The landing approach into the airport is even more breathtaking as it takes you right over the center of the bustling city.
As a company DC-10 made its final approach towards Runway 23-Right: the cabin was full, silent and depressing. No one said a word about what was on everyone's mind. This was a special flight, for among its passengers were families of the dead. Some of the distraught wept openly, others just stared blankly.
Senora Torres was on board with her eldest daughter Theresa, now her only daughter. As the jumbo jet's wheels touched down, the religious woman held tightly to a small flame of hope inside, perhaps the company had been mistaken when she received that fateful call in the early morning hours. What little optimism remained was certainly snuffed out as the plane taxied toward the gate. All heads strained to catch a glimpse of the blackened remnants of Flight 2605, outside, lying dead upon the tarmac. Senora Torres turned away: she had to, and began to cry softly.
There were other passengers with a vested interest in the catastrophe. They too strained their necks against the confines of expensive shirts and ties for time was of great importance to them. One gentleman in particular, Mr. Gerry Downey, was a very neat man projecting a cocky self-confidence. His jewelry and tailor made suit were expressions of success in his chosen profession; he was a lawyer specializing in liabilities. Gathering his belongings and stepping out into the jet-way his intentions were clear. The shrewd attorney had represented various interests in past newsworthy incidents and had been very well rewarded for his time and expertise. One may wonder what went through such a man’s head as the first news reports of the crash were aired on the morning programs. Tragedy or opportunity?
Once clearing customs in the Mexican capital, the impeccably dressed counselor hailed a taxi. Downey had grown up on his father’s ranch in Texas, worked closely with the migrant hands and spoke Spanish fluently, a tool that would prove to be very vital in his current quest. Well prepared, he had acquired the names of the few who had survived and it was just a matter of finding them. His clever tongue would handle the rest as he would dazzle them with promises of justice and of course, grand fortunes.
There were other lawyers exiting the cabin of the jumbo jet that morning, but their intent was of a different sort. Not as finely dressed they were company representatives or more correctly, representatives of the insurer of the destroyed DC-10. Ahead for them was the slow process of gathering information for what were sure to be long and difficult multi-million-dollar lawsuits. The lead attorney in this task was Andrew Jawkins, a tall humorous sort, rather young for a position of importance as an investigative lawyer. He had specialized in airline accidents and had helped handle the messy process of a similar tragedy in Chicago, some months earlier. On this particular trip his briefcase was much heavier than usual, for along with the necessary legal material needed, Jawkins carried a tremendous amount of United States currency, cold cash. His entourage, too, had a prime interest in finding the survivors and families of the deceased victims as soon as possible; for Jawkins' goal was opposite of Downey's. Andrew and his team had “quick settlement” on their minds and the smell of freshly printed greenbacks would be the bait used to hook the grieving families.
It was assumed that the majority of the dead were Mexican nationals, and Jawkins was counting on that. Poor families could ill afford the time and effort, not to mention financing legal representation, in an attempt to hold out for the big money. Another dilemma was that Mexican law places a ceiling of $70,000 in payment for the life of a victim. Although Jawkins was not specifically aware of the presence of Downey in the Mexican capital that morning, he was sure that someone was already in motion trying to secure the American families as clients. In the suit-happy United States, laws of a capping an amount did not exist. This was an unfortunate discrepancy for many a Mexican families, and the money-waiving tactics of Jawkins and his team would prove far too tempting to pass up. It was rumored that some families settled for as little as $6,000 cash for their perished loved one that first day in November, All Saints Day. There were few of the righteous to be found conducting such business on one of Holy Mother Church’s most revered days.
According to a pact called the Warsaw Convention, nations of the world agreed that if such an accident were to occur on their soil, such as Flight 2605 in Mexico, the appropriate agencies would be invited to participate in the investigation. And so, also deplaning that first morning of November were experts from McDonnell-Douglas Aircraft Company, the maker of NW903, The U.S. National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB); The American Air Lines Pilot Association (ALPA) investigation experts representing the airline itself; and, as a show of proper courtesy, representatives of the Airline Flight Attendant Association (AFA). Highly motivated and with completely good intentions in their hearts, the various American groups of experts set about to face their task: seeking the truth and formulating a logical conclusion for the cause of this disaster. What was on no one’s mind was that a clause in the Warsaw agreement stated that the host country would conduct the official investigation and determine the official cause of the accident.
Last to deplane at Benito Juarez that morning was Mrs. Torres and her daughter. Neither lawsuit's millions nor aviation data was on this mother's mind. All the money in the world could not eliminate the horrible pain she felt. Originally from El Salvador, the good woman left her native country before the turmoil of violence fully erupted. She sought a better life and opportunities for her ten children, eight boys and two girls. Limited by
a lack of formal education, she still possessed the strength a mother gains through the uncompromising love for her children.
Senora Torres hurried to the customs agent with the hope of having no delays. She sought to claim the remains of her youngest daughter Reina as quickly as possible. The customs officer, upon seeing her Salvadoran passport, requested that she and her daughter step aside. Senora Torres and Theresa were about to be detained in customs for the next four hours. Looking around for the company representative they thought would be waiting at the airport, they saw no one, they felt abandoned.
Theresa Torres was a strong-willed woman. She repeated the reason for their arrival at the Mexican capital, first to one officer then another. They had not come to live in the city. They were not political refugees seeking asylum from the death squads in San Salvador. No matter how many times it was explained, the true purpose of their trip seemed to be swept aside. Senora Torres quietly wept. She simply wanted to be reunited with Reina, her lost daughter.
The airline soon became increasingly aware of the shocking limits that were being imposed on them by the host government. Mexico was calling all the shots utilizing circuitous political clout. If an investigator wanted to see something with regard to the incident, he must first check with the Mexican official in charge of that particular domain: assuming he could determine who he was and then locate him. If a smart Norte Americano happened to make it that far in the chain of command, then he would have to wait for hours for what amounted to worthless answers and limitless excuses.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 20