Introduction: (Click Here)

It is 1982. Wars in Central America have forced hundreds of thousands to flee north to the United States, seeking asylum. Many wind up here at Bayview, a detention facility for immigrants caught entering the country illegally.

I am in charge. I look up from my desk as two male Salvadoran detainees walk into the Four-Alpha dormitory. The guard at Gate-Three radios to me that these men are returning from a meeting with their lawyer.

The guard asks, "Do you copy, Four-Alpha?"

"10-4," I confirm.

The two men give me their names to write into the daily log book.

They look worried and talk quietly to each other in Spanish. Carlos interprets when they go. He says they talked about giving all their money to the lawyer. They're afraid to be deported, afraid of what awaits them in El Salvador.

The detainees come from all over -- China, Germany, Mexico, Africa, India, Libya, etc.-- but most are from Spanish-speaking countries, even as far south as Chile.

I don't have much conflict with them. I don't speak their language but it doesn't matter. I treat them with respect and they give me no trouble. In fact, most of the time, it's better than that.

"Jack Rabbit! Jack Rabbit!" radios the Gate-Three guard. Jack Rabbit is code for an illegal trying to escape.

A group of my men hear and rush to the nearest open window. They can see the escapee running. I order them back, lock the windows and hurry to secure the rest of my post. The escape makes the detainees edgy. Guards carry no guns or weapons inside the facility. Our only defense is a radio to call for help.

The men cheer on the Jack Rabbit. I push my way through the crowd and command them back to their beds. The Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) will require me to conduct a roll-call and head-count when everything is under control again.

I look through the window. The "illegal" is young, around 22. He is trying to scale the first 14-foot chain-link fence, about 40 feet from where I stand. His orange uniform is distinct against the dark blue sky. Not far behind run several guards who work for Burns International Security, the contract company which also employs me.

Now the man reaches the top of the fence. He is frantic. He must cross the V-shaped barbed wire on top. After this fence, there's another one ten feet away with the same barbed wire. Now he straddles the barbs. His arms are beginning to bleed.

He jumps to the ground, knees buckling. His head darts back and forth as he crouches like a scared animal.

Men yell at him from both sides. Immigration officers in green race along the outside perimeter in the foot-patrol area. Beyond them is the wildlife refuge. If the escapee can get there, the brush will hide him.

But he doesn't move. He knows he is not going to make it. He panics and tries anyway. He starts to run between the two fences. Roars from the dorm excite him. Two officers rush through the gate. The men in green grab and throw him into the dust.

The officers hold him. Within seconds the guards arrive. He lies motionless. One officer pulls the detainee's hands behind him while another thrusts his foot on the man's neck. They tie his hands. Another one kicks him repeatedly.

They pull him up from behind by his arms. The officers guide him from between the fences towards Processing in Building-Nine. As they walk past my dorm they jerk him from side to side. This behavior sends a message to other detainees, don't be our next example.

From two floors above mine, in Four-Bravo and Four-Charlie, other detainees call the officers names, "Asesinos perros, asesinos perros!" "Killer dogs, killer dogs!" Other voices echo through my dorm. I hear crying. Is any place worse than this?

I can't help but think about all the detained men and women I have talked with over the years. So many come to the United States because of poor conditions or fighting in their homeland. Some have seen parents and family members killed by their nation's armies. Others come looking for a better life. Whatever the reason, they just keep coming, searching for something better.

I wonder about this young man. Why does he want to escape? Maybe he spent all of his money just to get here and could not face being sent back penniless. Maybe the money he earned in America was necessary to his family at home. Maybe if he was deported, soldiers would meet him at the airport and he would join "los desaparecidos", the disappeared ones. Or maybe he was scared of this camp.

* * *

This book is about the men, women, and children caught between the fences of U.S. government policy and the degenerate power of its enforcers. It's about employees who worked for the government, police force, and security companies, and lost their jobs trying to stop the ongoing, widespread corruption. But mainly, this is a true story about my battle to stop the evil that I saw destroying and maiming as sure as any Salvadoran machete. It's about the conflict I faced deciding to take a stand for my beliefs; for idealism and for all who still love the law and are frustrated when it's spirit is broken in the courtrooms of America. It's a stand that I, my wife, and a handful of others took at risk of our lives. And in the aftermath were answers to the puzzle of my own mixed heritage.

My campaign reached Texas Senator Phil Gramm, the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC), the Federal Bureau of investigations (FBI), the Office of the Inspector General (OIG), former Texas Governor Ann Richards, Attorney General Janet Reno, and the House Judiciary Subcommittee on International Law, Immigration, and Refugees.

My legal complaints were thrown out of court on summary judgement by Judge Darrell Hester of the Cameron County Courthouse in Brownsville, Texas, known locally as "Hang 'em high Hester," but were broadcast to an outraged public in newspapers, magazines, local news shows, and internationally. Television programs Inside Edition, Telemundo Networks, Inc., the Maria Laria show, Ocurrio Asi Show, Univision Portada, and network sponsors of the Primer Impaco, and the Christina Show, have made public appeals.

A whistleblower's Act exists within the government to protect employees who report corruption from retaliation. No such act exists for security guards hired by contract companies who work alongside the government employees. If guards witness or are victims of wrong doing on government property, they can and did lose their livelihoods by reporting it. My certified letter to Texas Senator Phil Gramm, dated December 20, 1994, states in paragraph two:

"The reason it (loss of employment) happened is because our government does not protect the rights of personnel working for contractors on government facilities and operations. All these people need to be protected under the Whistleblower's Act. We believe with your help, we can put a cap on the abuse of human dignity, personal safety, and the sexual abuse of female detainees and guards, not to mention the sexual molestation of children who have been brought into this facility and maybe every other Immigration Law Enforcement Operation. If the Whistleblower's Act can be enforced, I do believe it will save taxpayers the cost of multiple ongoing investigations, and will stop these hideous acts."

Most of the names in this book have been changed to prevent further legal contest, except for well-known publicly elected officials and those who have consented in writing to be identified. In the case of detainees, Alpha numbers assigned when they are processed into the detention system have been given whenever possible as proof of the victim's identities on record. The extensive volume of documents and records of events makes putting everything into this book impossible. There isn't room to tell each story to the degree that readers will fully understand the impact these events have had on the lives of those involved. But this book will provide a complete picture of some of the events I either witnessed or was told about and later corroborated. Many of the untold stories still lay in the shadows behind closed doors.

On February 8, 1995, two immigration officers and seven other men were arrested for transporting drugs. The officers were being paid by Juan Garcia Abrego, known in the September 1996 trial as head of the powerful Mexican Gulf Cartel. United States government immigration busses were used to haul millions of dollars of cocaine through border checkpoints to avoid detection. During the twelve-year battle to stop corruption inside this facility, drugs were being smuggled into the country using our tax dollars. An informant told a Supervisor of Deportation in October of 1992 about the cocaine smuggling, but a high-ranking INS district official told him not to investigate. "Smuggling is none of our business."

The abuses in this system are horrifying. The only people who tried to do something about it lost their jobs. The others are still in charge.

"For God shall bring every work into
judgment, with every secret thing, whether
it be good, or whether it be evil."
Ecclesiastes 12:14
-Tony Hefner

March 2005

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