by David Fisher
We walked for a long time until we finally came into the streets. The police were looking for us, but as we were at that moment no one could recognize us. Our faces and our clothes were mudcovered, I had lost my shoes, we smelled bad—and we needed help. We decided to go to the home of one of my employees, who I trusted to help us. “Listen,” I told Gustavo. “We have to pretend that we’re crazy while we’re going there.” Crazy people could be as filthy as us. People would move away instead of looking to see who we were. So we acted crazy, hiding our faces with leaves from trees. People shouted at us from their cars, “Move, you crazy jerks, get out of the street.”
It was a very painful experience. One that lives with me now.
When we reached the home of my employee he first tried to get us to go away. Then he realized who I was and brought us inside. We took showers there, one of the nicest showers of my life, and put on loose clothes that we borrowed. For the first time in my life I was running from the police. It was a strange feeling, but in the years to come I would get used to it.
The question was what we were going to do at that moment. I didn’t know what the police had learned about Lara’s killing. But I knew they had created evidence against me and could assume they wanted to connect me to it. I was innocent, but at that moment I didn’t know exactly what Pablo’s involvement had been. When we got in contact with Pablo, he told us that he decided the whole family had to leave the country quickly and go into hiding. Some of Pablo’s partners who were being pursued had made the same decision and would go with us. Even some leaders of the Cali cartel were making plans to leave the country. We would go to Panama, Pablo said. He had worked out an arrangement with an important general to give us his protection. Each group in the organization agreed to pay him $1 million to stay there, a total of $5 million.
Pablo went to Panama first to get our situation established. We stayed hidden, the lawyers working to get our wives out of jail. My wife was locked up for fifteen days and was treated badly. They didn’t want to give her food or clean clothing and made her time there as difficult as possible. There was no reason for that. She had done nothing against the law.
Pablo made all the arrangements for us to join him in Panama. I was in charge of bringing his wife, María Victoria, who was pregnant, as well as my family. The helicopter that was coming to pick us up was late and we began to get afraid something had happened to it. I watched the area around us carefully, wondering if the police would suddenly show up. María Victoria was having a bad time. Finally, though, it arrived and we all scrambled aboard. For the first time I was able to relax.
And then the helicopter started making strange sounds. “We have a problem,” the pilot said. “Hold on.” We went spinning down too quickly. We thought we were going to die, but we landed safely near a small town in Chocó. We were surprised to still be alive. Within hours a second helicopter picked us up and took us to safety in Panama.
Life as we had enjoyed it was over. The existence of the Medellín cartel was now known all over Colombia. Pablo and the other leaders of the cartel were being blamed for Lara’s assassination. The United States was putting great pressure on our government to stop the flow of drugs and in the States the face they put on cocaine was Pablo’s. So instead of just being a fugitive from Colombian authorities, Pablo became known in America and Europe as the man behind the cocaine epidemic. They wrote as if all of the drugs reaching those places were because of Pablo.
We settled into Panama. We had no idea how long we would stay or what we would do next, where we would go. Obviously money was not a big problem. Pablo began meeting with Colombian government representatives to try to agree how we could return home safely without being extradited.
We were on the run and we wouldn’t stop for another seven years. And Pablo, my brother, who I loved, was becoming the legendary great desperado of the world.
Five
IN PANAMA, OUR FUGITIVE LIFE WAS VERY NICE. We were there with the acceptance of Panama’s dictator, General Manuel Noriega. We stayed at a house owned by a high government official near a golf club, but it was like being in a hotel. They gave us cars and provided what we needed. There was not much we could do there but wait while we tried to negotiate some change in the extradition policy in Colombia, so we spent our time playing soccer, going to the gym, sitting at the pool, using all the facilities. We went often to the club for meals and the people there looked at us like we were rich Colombian businessmen. They had no idea that at that moment we were the most wanted outlaws in the world.
I can remember Pablo doing push-ups every morning while Gacha, wearing bright green sweatpants, would try to work out while smoking a big cigar. I remember Gustavo and Carlos Lehder playing tennis all afternoon. Carlos loved to read the newspapers. And I spent much of the time riding bicycles to try to stay in shape and clear my mind of the problems. It was unusual, we were living near the golf course and Pablo didn’t play golf. But what we would do was early in the morning or later in the afternoon we would turn over our T-shirts and play soccer on the golf course.
After staying awhile in the high official’s beautiful house Pablo and I each rented our own homes with our families near the country club. Panama was so nice that I asked Pablo if we should buy a property in there. He told me, “No. I don’t trust Noriega. If anything happens he’ll take possession of our properties. Better to rent than buy.”
While we were in Panama Pablo and various associates held meetings with representatives of Colombia’s government to try to work out an arrangement for all of us to go home safely and without charges against us. These were secret meetings, as the Betancur government wanted no one to know they were negotiating with the traffickers. In return for being granted amnesty and canceling the extradition treaty, Pablo and his associates offered to stop the business, give aid to a program that would develop substitute crops to replace income from marijuana and cocaine—and pay off the total national debt of Colombia. I don’t remember exactly how many billions that was, I know it was more than $9 billion, but it would have been necessary for all of the drug cartels in Colombia to participate in exchange for the end of extradition. Even with everyone involved it would have been difficult, but possible, to raise those funds. The threat was that if there was no deal the cartel would have to fight back.
Would Pablo have actually gotten out of the business? I believe it was possible. He already had enough money for the rest of his life and this deal would have let him live completely free. But no one will ever know for sure, because when the supporters of Lara Bonilla in the government learned of the negotiations they insisted the government reject any such agreement out of respect for the justice minister’s life. They even built a monument to Lara. For a short time we had hope that we could go home and live our lives, but the rejection made it clear that was never going to happen.
To make certain that we had no surprises from the Panamanian government, Pablo was paying a couple of colonels on our general’s staff to provide us with inside information. So we knew every move that Noriega was going to make. It was one of these colonels who informed Pablo that Noriega had said that he was going to speak with the North American government, especially to the DEA. He said, “They are looking at him and he is trying to negotiate his freedom. His deal was that if he gave them you, he would be clean.”
Probably to show his serious intentions to the Americans, Noriega ordered his military to capture 16,000 barrels of ether that were supposed to go to the new laboratory being built in Panama with his approval, organized by some of Pablo’s associates.
Pablo knew that there was nothing he could do as long as we were guests in Noriega’s country. In secret he gave the order that everybody had to leave Panama right away. He had a couple of airplanes and helicopters sent to him. Several members of the family went back to Medellín, others to Europe, and we were to go to Nicaragua.
There were only a few places we could safely go. Finally we requested asylum from the Sandinista go
vernment in Nicaragua, and there we settled for some time. Pablo brought with him 1100 kilos, which could be turned into cash.
Some of Pablo’s friends went to Brazil and others to Spain. Most of the leaders were going their own way.
It’s hard to describe the strange thoughts I had in my mind. Only months earlier I could go anywhere in Colombia and be greeted with respect as an athlete and a successful businessman. Now I could no longer walk down any street in in my own country without the fear of arrest. I had been forced to flee. To become a hunted man and be powerless to do anything about it shakes your soul. To watch your family suffering and not be able to stop that is the most terrible feeling. And I was a fugitive without committing any crimes: I was pursued by Belisario Betancur’s government just for being Pablo’s brother. But that’s where we were, at the mercy of my brother and his ability to solve his problems.
In Bogotá the Betancur government began the new policy of extradition to the United States. One of the first four Colombians to be delivered to the Americans was Hernán Botero Moreno, the owner of the Nacional soccer team, the most popular team in Medellín. Botero came from a wealthy family who owned a great hotel in the city and he was accused of laundering $57 million for the drug traffickers. The fact that he was arrested was unfair because at that moment there wasn’t a law against transporting money. Even though he had been arrested he didn’t believe he could be extradited for committing an act that wasn’t a crime under Colombian law. In addition to Botero, extradition papers were signed against Carlos Lehder in case he was caught. And the word we got was that they were looking hard for evidence against Pablo in order to sign the papers on him.
While we were in Nicaragua Pablo spent time trying to establish a new foundation for the business. He split the 1100 kilos he had brought with him into two shipments. Pablo hired a pilot named Barry Seal, who normally worked for other leaders, to deliver six hundred kilos to the United States. Barry Seal previously had delivered more than one hundred loads’ worth, valued at between $3 and $5 billion. But this load got seized when he landed in Florida. Then it was discovered that Seal was a former CIA man who was collaborating with the American DEA. He presented dark, hazy photographs to the DEA that he said showed Pablo and others loading the drugs onto his plane. President Reagan showed one of those pictures on television to prove Pablo was sending drugs from Central America. Pablo said loudly that it could not be him in the picture, because one thing he never did was load drugs himself.
The public naming of Pablo Escobar as a drug kingpin was very painful to our mother. She told me that the first time she heard Pablo called “Most Wanted” on television she wanted to die. Pablo calmed her: “Your son is on TV but don’t believe everything that’s said. I’m not going to tell you, Mommy, that I’m a saint, but I’m not the devil either. I have to protect myself, I have to fight back. Mommy, you need to understand that they made me like this. I was in the business helping people, but they made me like this.”
Supposedly this Nicaragua story was revealed to the newspapers by Colonel Oliver North, who was working in the basement of the White House to help the Nicaraguan rebel contras overturn the Sandinista government. This story served his purpose well. But this also gave the American government evidence that Pablo was a drug trafficker and allowed them to get an indictment against him and Gacha so that they could be put on the extradition list. Barry Seal was to be the important witness in the U.S. trial against a friend of Pablo’s if this person could be extradited to America. Two years afterward Seal was assassinated in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and naturally Pablo and the Medellín cartel got blamed for it. Like always, it made headlines and was useful to political people. Except that afterward three Colombians eventually were convicted of this assassination and when questioned they said they were instructed in the operation by an anonymous military officer, who they believed was a colonel.
Eventually Pablo decided that the safest place for him was Colombia, where he had control of the people around him. Things had cooled down enough for him to return, although no longer with a public profile. But he still believed it was possible to reach an agreement with the government to take off the pressure. “I’m going to go home,” he told me. “I’ll make arrangements for everyone.”
I traveled briefly to Brazil and finally landed in Madrid, Spain, where we were in operation. I spent time there with a Medellín cartel boss. We were in Madrid only for a short time before I started getting my warning feelings again. It felt like someone was following me when I walked or drove in the city. Then my wife told me the same thing, that when she went shopping she had the feeling people were following her. I also knew that Cali’s cartel bosses were also living in Madrid. Finally I decided, “You know what, I know some people here, but my life is in Colombia. I need to go back.”
The depth in which my country was held in my heart was surprising even to me. Colombia is a beautiful nation and even with all the dangers waiting for us I wanted to be there. I left my family in Spain until I knew it was safe for them to return and then I started my journey home.
I arrived by helicopter to one of our farms called the Circle at five in the afternoon, just as Pablo brought together a meeting of the most important drug traffickers in the country, some very prestigious people—even some priests—and owners and presidents of the country’s soccer teams. There were about seventy people there and they brought at least two hundred bodyguards with them. We have a saying in Colombia, “with all the toys,” meaning with all the weapons, all types of guns. Believe me, these bodyguards came with all the toys. This was a major getting together of some of the most important people in the country, and Pablo had made arrangements with the commander of the police, so that he could be informed of any actions against the drug dealers. He had guaranteed to all the people who attended that they would be safe.
Pablo was trying to find a peaceful way to respond to the extradition of Botero. It was at this meeting that he said his famous words, “I would rather have a grave in Colombia than a jail cell in the United States.”
“Gentlemen,” Pablo said to them, “this extradition law is not only for me. It’s going to be for all of you. That’s why we have to be together to stop it now.” Then he proposed his plan: First, the soccer teams would strike in protest. They would refuse to play the championship until the extradition was canceled. The people would say, “What’s going on?” and tell their leaders to stop the extradition.
In addition, Pablo wanted to organize a collective security force made up of the sicarios. He already had his own group of bodyguards but he wanted everyone to work together to create a larger group that would be distributed throughout Medellín. His plan was to divide the city into five or six zones and each group would have charge of one zone. In this way all of the people in the business would be protected from extradition.
Only a few of the people at this meeting agreed immediately to support the plan, while most of the others wanted more time to think about it. Right then Pablo was one of the few traffickers whose names were known to the public. It was his problem, they believed. They thought they could continue to live as they had been for the last few years, having no idea what was coming. They were very selfish. After they had all left a few hours later I was able to breathe the air of my country for the first time in months. Not for too long though. After midnight a Mercedes came to the farmhouse and a nicely dressed lady knocked on our door. “I have flowers for Dr. Hernández,” she said, naming a person we didn’t know. She claimed she was delivering wedding flowers and had been given this address.
“This is not the place,” I told her, and she apologized and left.
I watched her drive away and I had my uneasy feeling. “That’s strange,” I said to Pablo. “Something’s wrong. I’ve never seen someone deliver flowers in a Mercedes-Benz.”
Pablo thought I was nervous because I’d just come home. “Maybe it’s the owner’s car,” he said.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I t
old him. “We’re far away from the city. Something is wrong.” Pablo dismissed that, but I warned the bodyguards: “If you see something weird just start shooting into the air.” Pablo and I sat talking for a few hours, catching up with our lives of the last few weeks. It was two in the morning; Pablo was drinking coffee and eating some cake when we heard three shots fired.
“I told you,” I said. “I told you. Now we gotta run.” We went out the back way and started running, really running. Some of the bodyguards came with us. Suddenly whoever was coming, we figured it was the police or the military or both, started firing at us. One of the gun shots struck a small stone wall and pieces of the brick hit me in the face. I started bleeding badly. I thought I was mortally wounded. But I was able to keep moving. Another gun shot grazed my leg. There was confusion all around as we ran through the night, people were shouting orders. I was looking for my brother, but in the mess I couldn’t find him. Then I saw him walking calmly. “You guys are gonna kill yourself running where you can’t see,” he said. I couldn’t believe how calm he remained. Some of our people had been sleeping and had fled without getting dressed.
We managed to get to a road down below, where we had some luck. One of the bodyguards had been praying at a nearby cemetery and was coming back in a car. Pablo and I and Gustavo jumped into his car and escaped, others went through the woods, but eight of our people were captured. My wounds were slight and needed only a Band-Aid. But for me this was a major escalation. Because of my position as the accountant I had been far from any kind of violence. Now people were shooting at me. Although I had known the stakes of the business before, the coldness of it had never been so close to me. It was more than just leaving the country, or having to hide, it was living every day with the possibility of instant death.
