One manager even remarked that Señor Rojas “has a magical vault filled with magical money that saves lives and protects families and schools.”
The truth was, indeed, often said in jest, and the vault contained within the mansion at Cuernavaca just outside Mexico City was, in fact, piled from floor to ceiling with dollars and pesos. Walls and walls of cash. Millions and millions — money that would be deftly laundered through the networks and the shell companies and deposited in overseas accounts in addition to bolstering Rojas’s legitimate businesses, his dealerships and restaurants and cigarette manufacturers and telecom companies.
Because the one business that not only weathered rough economic times but even flourished was the drug trade. At times Rojas wished he could detach himself from the business that had helped build his empire. It had been a painstaking challenge to keep his identity and involvement in the cartel a secret. Neither his wife nor his son knew anything about the Juárez Cartel and how Rojas, then a senior in college, had become involved with the business.
Rojas had met a grad student named Enrique Juárez, who his colleagues and professors said was a genius in recombinant DNA gene technology and the insulin manufacturing process. Juárez wanted to establish a pharmaceutical company in Mexico to take advantage of the cheap labor. So impressed was Rojas by the business proposal that he invested a huge portion of his life savings (nearly $20,000) for a partnership in the company. GA Lab (Genetics Acuña) was established in Ciudad Acuña (population 209,000) along the banks of the Rio Grande, south of Del Rio, Texas. Juárez had explained the process of their operation: The first contract was to produce the A chain with twenty-one amino acids and the B chain containing thirty amino acids as the precursor to the synthesis of human insulin.
Once the A and B amino-acid chains were grown, GA would ship the material back to the United States, where it would be stitched into circular DNA strands called plasmids, using special enzymes to perform molecular surgery, the next step in the insulin manufacturing process.
The contracts came in. The business took off, and during the next five years both Rojas and Juárez drew six-figure salaries. Rojas clearly saw the advantage of owning a pharmaceutical company with a legitimate front, and he began to hire people behind Juárez’s back to produce black-market versions of drugs such as Dilaudid, Vicodin, Percocet, and Oxycontin, all of which produced more money than the insulin side of the business.
One Friday night, over a long dinner and even more heated debate, Juárez stared at Rojas through his thick glasses and said, “Jorge, I don’t like the direction you are taking our company. There’s too much at stake now. Too much to lose. I don’t care how much we make on the black-market drugs. If we get caught, we lose everything.”
“I know what you’re saying. That’s why I’m prepared to buy you out of the business. You can take the money and start up a new venture. I’ll make you a very generous offer. I don’t want to see you unhappy. We started this with some great ideas and a lot of praying. Let me free you up to do something else.”
“I created this business. It was my brainchild from the start. You know that. I’m not going to hand it over to you. We were partners, but you’ve never consulted me on any of this. You’ve gone behind my back. I can’t trust you anymore.”
Rojas stiffened. “You’d be nothing without my money.”
“I won’t sell you this business. I’m asking you to stop risking everything.”
“You need to accept my offer.”
“No, I don’t.” Juárez rose, wiped his mouth, and stormed away from the table.
The next morning he attempted to fire all of the scientists and lab personnel Rojas had hired.
Rojas told him to go away, take a week off, go skiing in Switzerland. He was not thinking clearly. Juárez finally resigned himself to the pressure and took the vacation. Unfortunately, while there he died in a terrible skiing “accident,” and had left all of his money and property to his elderly mother, who immediately struck a most agreeable deal with Rojas.
The Juárez Cartel had been unofficially named after the city where the operation did most of its business, but the striking irony was that the man responsible for its birth also bore the same name. Rojas had begun with a small pharmaceutical company, which he expanded into many more businesses, which in turn helped him to create companies that could help launder money while purchasing huge swaths of real estate that cut through some of the most populated cities in Mexico.
He recognized that the quickest way to achieve expertise in new enterprises was to bypass time-consuming learning curves and buy up successful preexisting companies in that market. His understanding of finances and how to move and sell product led to the rapid — even extreme — growth of his empire. However, his organization was not without problems. Three of the cartel’s highest-ranking members began running the drug-smuggling operations into the ground based on their egos and hubris, thus he’d been forced to “remove” them from power. The decision — like the one concerning Juárez — still haunted him, but he knew if he didn’t act swiftly, the operation would go down, and he along with it.
In more recent years he’d purchased land in New York City and made millions by flipping such parcels. He bailed out book and magazine publishers and bought stock in them. He often flirted with the idea of simply handing over the entire cartel and its businesses to Fernando Castillo, who would provide stable and keen leadership. Rojas had been ready to make a clean break, but then the world’s economy had nose-dived, and he’d been forced to reinforce his companies and build back his earnings by remaining the clandestine leader of what now had become the most profitable and powerful drug cartel in Mexico.
How did he do it?
He thought of leaning toward Campbell and telling him the truth. “Jeffrey, this world is unfair. This world took my dear wife from me. And because of that, I can’t play by the rules. I have to take chances like my brother did. So I’m doing what I have to do. Doing what good I can in the world, but I know that other lives are being ruined, that good people are dying, but many more are being saved. This is the ugly truth of me. The terrible secret. At least you don’t have to live with it …Only I do.”
J.C. arrived with their dinner — freshly made fajitas that filled the cabin with an aroma that made Rojas dizzy. He thought of Miguel, who’d soon be heading off with his young lady for a short vacation.
What would that day be like? The day his only son learned the truth?
18 THE SLEEPING DOG
The presidential palace of Colombia had been named in honor of Antonio Nariño, born 1765, who’d been one of the political and military leaders of the independence movement in Colombia and who’d built his own home on the same site. Four pairs of round columns rose up to a stunning archway at the palace’s entrance, and as Rojas passed into the shadows of that magnificent work of art, he thought that yes, it would be nice to live in a house with as much history and tradition as this one. Jeff Campbell came up behind him, and President Tomás Rodriguez was already there, beaming at them. He had a thick shock of dark brown hair and wore a black suit, white dress shirt, and gold silk tie that gave Rojas pause. He’d never seen material as smooth and glistening, and he made a mental note to ask the president about it.
The introductions were brief, with the president making direct eye contact and giving both Rojas and Campbell firm handshakes, following up with an abrazo for Rojas and a firm pat on the shoulder. “It has been too long, my friend.”