The group sat silently for a few moments until the pilot asked, "Do we take off now?"
"What do you think?" said Pablo. "Move it! Move it!"
Minutes later, the chopper landed on the prison soccer field, which was not yet planted with grass. The newly built prison was set on the top of Mont Catedral, a green peak with a commanding view of the valley and the entire city of Medellín. Pablo had overseen construction of the prison, which was still under way. So far there were fences, a cinderblock-roofed home for the warden, a collection of larger prison buildings on a lower clearing, and another, larger structure higher up the hill to house prisoners. It looked austere, appropriately prisonlike. But Pablo had plans for the place and he had also taken precautions. He and his brother had visited La Catedral weeks earlier and had buried an arsenal of rifles and machine guns on the slope uphill from where their "cells" would be.
"One day we will need them," he'd assured Roberto.
As Pablo stepped off the helicopter, he found himself facing fifty armed prison guards in new blue uniforms, each pointing a rifle.
"Lower your weapons, damn it!" Pablo ordered, and they did.
He was escorted to meet the prison director, and there he raised his left pants leg and withdrew a 9mm SIG-Sauer handgun with a gold monogram inlaid on a mother-of-pearl handle and theatrically took out the rounds one by one, flicking each to the ground before handing over the gun. It looked like something Pablo had rehearsed, a symbolic end to years of war. He then called his brother on his portable phone to tell him the surrender was complete.
Pablo talked to some of the reporters who had been invited to the prison. He told them his surrender was "an act of peace."
"I decided to give myself up at the moment I saw the national Constitutional Assembly working for the strengthening of human rights and Colombian democracy."
Starstruck journalists swooned. Already forgetting Pablo's campaign of terror, even his war on their own profession, all the editors and reporters he had kidnapped and killed, a Medellín TV reporter gushed: "I had thought that he was a petulant, proud, disciplined man, one of those who is always looking over his shoulder. But I was wrong. On the contrary, he is educated, he asks permission if he walks in front of a person and is agreeable when he greets someone."
"You can see that he is someone who worries about his appearance," said another. "Especially his shoes. They were impeccably clean."
"He had a bit of belly," said another, "which makes him look like a calm man."
"He walks as if he had no hurry in the world. He is very jovial and he laughs a lot."
Before leaving, Villamizar chatted with jovial Pablo, who apologized to him for the suffering he had caused his family. He explained that the war had been hard on both sides. In their conversation, Pablo denied any responsibility for the death of Luis Galán.
"A lot of people were involved in that," he said. "I didn't even like the idea because I knew what would happen if they killed him, but once the decision was made, I couldn't oppose it."
He also said he was happy that his men had never killed Villamizar, even though he had been told that the congressman was a stubborn enemy.
"In that war we were fighting, just a rumor could get you killed," he explained. "But now that I know you, Dr. Villamizar, thank God nothing happened to you."
He promised that no further harm would come to his family.
"Who knows how long I'll be here," Pablo told him. "But I still have a lot of friends, so if any of you feels unsafe, if anybody tries to give you a hard time, you let me know and that'll be the end of it You met your obligations to me, and I thank you and will do the same for you. You have my word of honor."
It was over, or was supposed to be. Pablo's "confession," part of his deal with the state, would ignore the kidnappings, the murders of Turbay and Montoya, the thousands of car-bomb victims, political victims, murdered judges and police officers. In keeping with President Gaviria's decree, Pablo acknowledged only one crime: acting as a middleman in a French drug deal arranged by his dead cousin Gustavo. In purely legal terms, he did not even admit he was guilty of that. He had been tried and convicted in absentia by French authorities, and, according to Pablo's carefully crafted statement "That country's penal code…gives one the right to apply for a revision of their case, when they appear before their national judge, in this case a Colombian judge. This is precisely the objective of my voluntary presentation to this office, in other words, to have a Colombian judge examine my case."
To satisfy the requirement of his plea, Pablo agreed to appear before a judge in Bogotá and confess. He did so months later, in February 1992, in a revealing session in which the drug boss lied fluently but displayed his usual wit and pugnacious patriotism, turning the session into his own indictment of the authorities. Everyone in the room knew, of course, that Pablo Escobar was the world's most notorious drug trafficker and the most prolific killer in Colombian history, but he understood that the court was obliged to assume his innocence of crimes for which he had not been convicted, and he played the role with cynical aplomb. He identified himself as "a livestock farmer," noted his one semester of accounting after high school in 1969, and added, "I have no addictions, don't smoke, don't drink." He emphasized his innocence, that he was surrendering only to enable an appeal of the conviction against him in France, and announced his intention of pursuing a college degree while in jail. Pablo presented himself as a victim. "I wish to clarify that there may be people who might try to send anonymous letters, make phone calls, or commit actions in bad faith under my name, in order to harm me. There have been many accusations, but I've never been convicted of a crime in Colombia."
This was demonstrably untrue, but there were few living who would stand up in court to dispute it, and the records of those earlier convictions had all been destroyed. Pablo confessed to setting up a meeting for his cousin Gustavo that had led to a four-hundred-kilo cocaine transaction.
"Do you know where they got the four hundred kilos of cocaine?" the judge asked.
"I think Mr. Gustavo Gaviria was in charge of that."
"Who is Mr. Gustavo Gaviria?"
"Mr. Gustavo Gaviria was a cousin of mine."
"Do you know how Mr. Gaviria died?"
"Mr. Gaviria was murdered by members of the national police during one of the raid-executions which have been publicly denounced on many occasions."
"Let's talk," the judge later suggested, "about your personal and family's modus vivendi and the economic conditions you've had throughout your life."
"Well, my family is from the north-central part of Colombia, my mother a teacher at a rural school, and my father is a farmer. They made a great effort to give me the education I received, and my current situation is perfectly defined and clear before the national tax office."
The judge asked Pablo to explain how he had been employed throughout his adult life.
"I have always liked to work independently, and since my adolescence I have worked to help sustain my family; even when I was studying I worked at a bicycle rent shop and other less important jobs to support my studies. I repeat, since I was an adolescent. Later on, I got into the business of buying and selling cars, livestock, and land investment. I want to cite Hacienda Nápoles as an example of this, that it was bought in conjunction with another partner at a time when these lands were in the middle of the jungle. Now they are practically ready to be colonized. When I bought land in that region, there were no means of communications or transport and we had to endure a twenty-three-hour journey. I say this in order to clarify the image that people have, that it's all been easy…."
The judge asked Pablo if anyone had helped him get started in business.
"No. It all began from scratch, as many fortunes have started in Colombia and in the world."
"Tell the court what disciplinary or penal precedents appear on your record."
"Yes, there have been many accusations, but I've never been convicted of a crime in Colombia.
The accusations of theft, homicide, drug trafficking, and many others were made by [DAS head] General Miguel Maza, according to whom every crime that is committed in this country is my fault."
Escobar denied knowing anything about cocaine, owning airplanes, clandestine airstrips, or boats, and explicitly denied being involved in narco trafficking. Pressed by the exasperated judge if he knew anything about such things, Pablo said, "Only what I see or read in the media. What I've seen and heard in the media is that cocaine costs a lot of money and is consumed by the high social classes in the United States and other countries of the world. I have seen that many political leaders and governments around the world have been accused of narco trafficking, like the current vice president of the United States [Dan Quayle], who has been accused of buying and selling cocaine and marijuana. I have also seen the declarations of one of Mr. Reagan's daughters in which she admits to taking marijuana, and I've heard the accusations against the Kennedy family, also accusations of heroin dealing against the shah of Iran as well as the Spanish president; Felipe Gonzáles publicly admitted that he took marijuana. My conclusion is that there is a universal hypocrisy toward drug trafficking and narcotics, and what worries me is that, from what I see in the media, all the evil involved in drug addiction is blamed on cocaine and Colombians, when the truth is that the most dangerous drugs are produced in labs in the United States, like crack. I've never heard of a Colombian being detained for possession of crack because it is produced in North America."
"What is your opinion, bearing in mind your last few answers, on narco trafficking?" the judge asked.
"My personal opinion, based on what I've read, I would say that cocaine [will continue] invading the world…so long as the high classes continue to consume the drug. I would also like to say that the coca leaf has existed in our country for centuries and it is part of our aboriginal cultures…."
"How do you explain that you, Pablo Escobar, are pointed out as the boss of the Medellín cartel?"
Pablo declined to comment directly, but he referred the judge to a videotaped statement he had turned over to the court, adding, "Another explanation I can give is this: General Maza is my personal enemy…. [He] proclaimed himself my personal enemy in an interview given to El Tiempo on the eighth of September, 1991. It is clear then that he suffers a military frustration for not capturing me. The fact that he carried out many operations in order to capture me, and they all failed, making him look bad, has made him say he hates me and I am his personal enemy…."
The judge read Pablo a list of names of known traffickers who had publicly identified him as their boss, including an American named Max Mermelstein.
"I don't know any of these people," Pablo said. "But through the press I know about Mr. Max Mermelstein. I deduce that he is a lying witness which the U.S. government has against me. Everyone in Colombia knows that North American criminals negotiate their sentences in exchange for testifying against Colombians…. I would like to add to the file a copy of Semana magazine which has an article about Max Mermelstein, to demonstrate what a liar this man is. I want to read an excerpt from this interview: ‘Escobar was the chief of chiefs. The boss of cocaine trafficking wore blue jeans and a soccer shirt, was tall and thin."'
Short, chubby Pablo then stood up.
"I ask you to tell me, am I a tall and thin person? For a gringo to say that one is tall, you would suppose that man to be very tall."
So ended the first war. Pablo had tumbled from a great height. He was still one of the richest men in the world, but Colonel Martinez's pursuit had cut him off from his wealth. He had been reduced to bargaining for a place for himself in Colombia, but he had still bent the country to his will. It was now written into the constitution that he could not be removed from his country to face trial for his crimes. And within his own country, Pablo had little to fear from the authorities, even in jail, as time would tell. President Gaviria had achieved peace, albeit at the cost of wounding his country's dignity in the eyes of the United States and much of the rest of the world. His hope now was that Pablo would remain contained at La Catedral long enough for the country's judicial system to heal and, it was also hoped, bring more serious charges to bear on the imprisoned drug boss. Then he might lock him up for the rest of his life.
In time, Gaviria would realize that this had all been wishful thinking. In striking this deal, he had badly underestimated Pablo. He had failed to understand how deep the man's influence reached in Colombian government and society, and how hard it would be to contain him. Pablo was going to make a fool of him.
Pablo's public standing rebounded immediately. On his surrender, the fickle public, relieved to see an end to the war, swiftly forgave him the bombings, assassinations, and kidnappings—after all, hadn't most of his famous hostages been released unharmed? Shortly after taking up residence at La Catedral, Pablo granted a number of cheerful interviews to reporters, always protesting his innocence and displaying his impressive knack for public relations. He told a reporter from the newspaper El Colombiano in July 1991 that he intended to study journalism while serving his term, which prompted a wit at the U.S. embassy to point out that he might want to reconsider, given how dangerous that profession had become in Colombia.
IMPRISONMENT AND ESCAPE
June 1991–September 1992
1
Pablo had fallen from a great height, but he had fashioned himself a comfortable place to land. Ensconced inside the walls of La Catedral, he was confident that his French conviction would eventually be overturned by a friendly Colombian judge. Under the terms of his deal, he would then be a free man, with an amnesty for all the other crimes he was suspected of having committed before the date of his surrender. Meanwhile, he was in a safe place while things cooled off, and he had a chance to begin putting his cocaine empire back together.
During the months he had been running, hiding, and fighting the government, dozens of his associates had been killed or arrested. Through the first half of 1991, the Colombian police, steered by American technology, had seized about sixty thousand kilos of cocaine and all but destroyed the cartel's infrastructure. In February they had taken one of the cartel's converted DC-3 cargo planes. All of this made little more than a dent in the amount of the drug reaching the United States, but it did have an effect Wholesale prices for cocaine in New York were rising, and purity levels were down—a sure sign that the supply was being cut back at its head. Mostly it was hurting Pablo's competitive position against the Cali cartel. With Colonel Martinez off his back, he would have a chance to regroup.
He went to work rebuilding. Knowing that the police and the Americans were still listening to his radio and phone calls, Pablo raised pigeons for private communications; he even had little personalized leg bands that read:
PABLO ESCOBAR
CÁRCEL MÁXIMA SEGURIDAD
ENVIGADO
Not long after Pablo moved into La Catedral, the purity levels of cocaine on the streets of New York were restored and the prices dropped.
Lawyer Roberto Uribe visited him weekly and found the place growing cozier. At first the living quarters, gymnasium, and cafeteria had seemed like a real prison, but gradually the furnishing became more lavish. Pablo had grown accustomed to his life on the run, and at first he'd wanted little. But the men with him, his brother Roberto and some of his top sicarios, began importing luxuries and, not wanting to outshine El Doctor, whatever they ordered for themselves they also ordered for him. Anything could be brought in. The prison guards were no more than Pablo's employees, and the army checkpoints just waved Pablo's trucks through. The inmates facetiously referred to the regular truck route as the "tunnel." To have plenty of cash on hand, Pablo shipped in tightly rolled American hundred-dollar bills in milk cans, which would be buried in the fog of dawn at places around the prison. Two of the cans, each containing at least $1 million, were buried under the soccer field. A bar was installed, with a lounge and a disco. For the gymnasium there was a sauna. Inmates' "cells" we
re actually more like hotel suites, with living rooms, small kitchens, bedrooms, and bath. Workmen began constructing small, camouflaged cabanas uphill from the main prison. This is where Pablo and the other inmates intended to hide out if La Catedral was ever bombed or invaded. In the meantime, the cabanas made excellent retreats, where the men entertained women privately. Brightly colored, surrealistic murals were painted on the walls and ceilings of the cabanas, as in classic sixties-era dopers' lairs, complete with black lamps and Surround Sound. Food was prepared for them by chefs Pablo hired away from fine restaurants, and once the bar and disco were up and running, he hosted many parties and even wedding receptions.
He had a powerful telescope placed on the balcony overlooking Medellín, which opened up beneath his feet like a personal fief, so that he could see his wife and children at any of their various homes below. They visited him often at the prison. A small play area was built for Manuela, with a big playhouse stuffed with toys and dolls. On his forty-second birthday, December 1, 1991, they threw a party. His mother presented him with two big Russian fur caps, which Pablo announced would henceforth be his trademark. Just as Che Guevara had worn a beret and Fidel Castro was know for his beard and cigars, Pablo would be known for his big fur caps. Family and friends dined on stuffed turkey, caviar, fresh salmon, smoked trout, and potato salad. Pablo posed for pictures at the table with Maria Victoria and their two children, with his mother standing proudly behind them.
It was not a normal prison in other ways. Pablo, for instance, did not feel obliged to actually stay. He rarely missed an important pro soccer game in Medellín—police would block off traffic to allow Pablo's motorcade easy access to and from the stadium he had built years before—and he was sighted shopping in a fashionable Bogotá mall over the Christmas holidays. In June 1992 he celebrated the first anniversary of his imprisonment with his friends and family at an Envigado nightclub. Pablo considered such excursions minor…he did, after all, always come back. He had made his deal with the state and intended to honor it—even if he did put one over on his jailors now and then.