“This is in Spanish.” I protested. The Comandante ignored my obvious point.
“Yes, so? Sign it.”
“I have no idea what this says,” I had to retain my parody. If they figured I understood Spanish, the pressure would increase. The officer's intention was to reduce me to a subservient pawn. My thoughts spun, perplexed. Surely, this could easily tumble into being one of a great number of “misunderstandings” between the United States and her sister to the south. “Shit, people end up dead for much lesser things in this part of the world.” Reality was making its point and I was aware that I was walking a tightrope.
“Come my friend, this paper is merely a routine statement; let us send you back home.”
Chavez believed he saw a chance to achieve his goals quickly and I was about to get screwed in the ass no matter the decision. I resolved that I would not be a passive victim.
“Routine maybe, but...I’ve told you. I don’t speak Spanish and guess what, if I can’t speak it, I certainly can’t read it.” I threw the paper and pen on the floor in a childish fit. The disappointed officer silently motioned a henchman, who he referred to by the name of Cardosa, to pick the tossed items up. Chavez could afford to be patient; he became silent, eyeing me, surely frustrated. He now selected a different approach. The finely dressed commander huddled with his subordinates in small talk in the adjacent corner of the boxy room. I noticed the purple tie that graced his neck, the color of royalty in ancient times. My attention was drawn to the faint sounds emanating through the small upper window. In moments of calm, the room echoed the erratic sounds of the ongoing metropolis outside the concrete gray walls. All at once a mid day's light broke into our space, one small streaming gleam, methodically crossing from one bare wall to another, then it was gone. My eyes instantly returned to the profile of my nemesis. His pomposity sickened me but also made me realize what a dangerous individual I was dealing with.
“Your name is Eduardo Valenciana? El Comandante commanded.
“Yes.” Politely I responded.
“You were the senior flight attendant on the plane that crashed?”
“No.” Primitivo did not like the answer but pressed on.
“No? You were not the senior?” I raised my head, avoiding locking eyes with the lawman, still defiant.
“No means no. What part of no don’t you understand?” My host bore a slight smile, if only for a second, lighting another cigarette. Soon the room was rancid with the smell of those horrible smokes. If Chavez only knew that all he had to do was to continue to blow that crap in my face for a period of time, I would have given up, signed any document and admitted to any crime the vile man accused me of.
“Valenciana is a Mexican name is it not?” Pleasantries returned to the affair.
“Yes.”
“What is your mother’s name?” The Aztec warrior became intrigued so I paused to evaluate his course of questioning.
“Alicia.” I spoke hesitantly. The comandante raised his arms in an animated posture.
“Ah, Alicia, such a pretty name, a Spanish name. But of course you do not speak Spanish my Chicano friend. “Y su amigos? Did you see your friends in the fire?” This vicious and cunning man had set his trap, his tactics were obvious, shrewd, and would require I pay a price either way. The comandante was going to play with my mangled mind. Unfortunately, it would not be the last time someone utilized this plan of action to try and gain an advantage over me. I would be safer if the crash had truly driven me crazy.
“Would you like to see your mother Alicia again?
“What do you mean?” I inquired..
“Just sign the paper and I shall have you on a plane back home, this afternoon, if you like.” The Nahuatl was persuasive but feeling frustrated and I came to a point where I had enough. I was not going to allow this situation to get out of hand before I could really do anything about it; as things were moving too swiftly.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but get this through your thick skull, I’m not signing anything.” The comandante exploded.
“Pendejo! Do you believe I am stupid? You fake! You liar! I don’t believe one word you are saying and now you are going to tell me the truth. You know you served liquor to “Los Pilotos” during the flight, didn’t you?” Chavez grabbed me with both hands and threw me off the black box onto the ground. He ordered Cardosa to retrieve the pen and paper which also went flying across the floor. In an instant he regained control, relaxed and in a calm manner requested, “Now sign the paper so we can ship your stubborn Chicano ass out of here.” Another henchman wearing a gray leather coat lifted me up and slammed me back upon the ebony wooden box that was my seat. Cardosa, once again took the items for my proposed declaration and politely laid them upon my lap. The action had its effect because now I was truly scared. I fumbled as I slowly unfolded the paper and reviewed its contents carefully. I quickly gazed at the bold print trying not to let them realize that I understood what it said. In print Chavez was relating what he demanded verbally.
“This is my sworn declaration; October 31. I Eduardo Valenciana, the Senior Flight Attendant on Flight 2605 served alcoholic beverages to the cockpit crew during the flight.”
“Now sign it if you know what’s good for you.”
“This is not true.” I persisted with weakened resist. The comandante quickly rushed forward and seized my fire-scorched hair causing pain upon my scalp. The officer got right into my blistered face.
“Let me explain something to you. You are going to give me this declaration or else.”
“Or else what?” Chavez instantly whacked me on the side of my head a payment for my defiance. It was apparent that my Aztec friend did not use all his force, which scared me even more. The Mexican jackal suddenly tried to calm himself as he bent forward and pointed his index finger at me, terrifying me once more.
“Believe me my insolent friend you don’t want to know. Sign the paper! It crashed because the pilots were drunk! Do you hear me? You served them alcohol and now you are going to admit it” The sinister federal officer tossed the paper at me once again and once more it fluttered to the floor beside my right foot.
“Bullshit! This is total bullshit!” I muttered as I slowly reached down to grasp the white sheet and instinctively crumbled it and tossed it aside. Chavez slowly reached inside his tailored black coat and removed a revolver from a side holster. Brandishing the firearm he reached forward and grabbed me with his other arm elevating me off the black box. The commandant was rabid.
“You think I am playing a game? Sign the god-damn paper.” Comandante Primitivo Chavez turned his revolver it in my direction. The henchman in the leather coat standing nearest to me quickly stepped aside recognizing the trajectory the bullet would take. He had no desire to have his fine garment splattered with blood and brain matter. This action made it apparent to me that the brave Comandante had done this before. Oddly, I wanted him to pull the trigger.
“Go ahead. Do it! Get it over with. I should have died in the crash anyway.” The events of this hideous day overwhelmed me and I was brazen beyond any normal sense of logic. I should have signed the paper and got the hell out of there, letting the diplomats untangle the massive web of complexities that were developing around this horrible event. But then again, “The hell with it.” Perhaps I wanted death to win the game, allowing me to rejoin my crew mates and find the path to total peace I believed they had. For the first time, but not the last, I was of the mind that my survival was more an act of rejection from that greater source: that silent God that was dumb and mute regarding pleas for intercession. I had lost control of the direction my life would take when DC-10 NW903 died on the tarmac. Even if I did survive this bizarre ordeal, it was already clear that any sense of what I regarded as life would never really be mine again. I began to cry uncontrollably as the weary comandante slowly calmed believing he was successful in breaking me. He slowly lowered the weapon then secured it once again into his military holster. Primitivo began to circle
the small room lost deep in his own thoughts, forming a strategy and wanting to take full advantage of my obvious vulnerability. My Mexican nemesis began to sneer as he stalked about reminding me of a cunning jaguar, a valiant beast revered by Aztec warriors of old in a time when Hernan Cortez’s first set foot upon this ancient city.
Chavez softly and politely asked Cardosa to bring him a chair then sat, glaring at me for a period of time. He finally removed the blue pack of non-filtered cigarettes from his inner coat, ceremoniously removing one. Immediately, another faithful follower offered his chief a flame. I studied the tanned skin and jet black hair of Chavez’s youthful, right hand man. His subservient actions were par for the course in this military based culture. The cohort was probably biding his time till he would fill the shoes of his superior, the shoes of a madman.
At anytime, at anyplace, the walking time bomb that was Comandante Primitivo Chavez could go off and I was well aware that I would be the casualty of such a detonation. The federal officer arose and carefully parked his chair next to me as I struggled not to sob. He took a long draw on the cigarette and retained the smoke in his lungs for a long period of time. His profile was peculiar. I recalled long ago in my youth, the story told by my maternal grandfather, Alvaro. The family blood line could be traced to a craftsman from Toledo, Spain named Francisco. He reportedly was with Cortez when the Aztec empire fell before the foreigners. I began to wonder if our Francisco was benevolent and just to the conquered indigenous people, or as abusive as this demonic comandante.
It amused me, this battle of minds of ancient cultures. I was in a no-win situation and Primitivo Chavez knew it. His craftiness reappeared as he quickened his pacing and began to speak in Spanish.
“The carnage must have been incredible.” A sympathetic snake is still a snake. “What is it like seeing your friends die? Could you see the flesh melting off their bones?” The diabolical words of death flowed gracefully en Espanol. Yes, there is good and evil. Perhaps this was the one obvious assumption concerning this catastrophe. Dwelling there, deep in the eyes of this man, was the latter. So I began to understand how crucial decisions throughout these dealings were now going to be.
“I understand many of the pasajeros were decapitated mi amigo, crushed. Did you see their heads rolling down the aisles? Could you hear their painful screams? Did you witness their agonizing demise?” The federal officer broke into a smile and shook his head. “What a pitiful piece of meat!” His thoughts betrayed him. It was going to be a long day. Here I was in custody in what I later would discover was a room in the security offices of El Centro Hospital de la Ciudad del Distrito Federal, sitting on a black wooden milk box in the middle of a pit of snakes. Suddenly, another subordinate entered the room.
“Comandante, por favor, telefono.” The chief glanced over at me as I cowered and he spoke loudly in English.
“Our Pocho friend will be okay. He’s not going anywhere. Vamanos!”
The bulk of the group walked out leaving a very able attendant in the form of Cardosa to assure I did not wander away.
An angle of minimal light broke onto the floor from the small window. I estimated that
it was already late afternoon. It was Halloween and excited young children were putting the final touches on their garments of trickery as delight would soon be revealed through their metamorphoses.
“On October thirty-one when the sun goes to rest, it's the night of Halloween when fun is at its best.”[2] I recalled a childhood song. This was the one period during the year you could live out a fantasy or a nightmare.
It was time to retreat and regroup; even in his absence the fear that was Comandante Chavez was gripping. I had to come up with something to increase my odds, just enough to survive this wicked episode, at least until others with more common sense could find me. The accident, the fire, the grief had to be stored away to be dealt with on another day, another time. Chavez was the problem at the moment and I had no choice but to deal with this.
Primitivo Luis Chavez de Leon was the son of an aristocratic military career man, the equivalent of a Colonel in rank. The elder Chavez was a bitter man and took his anger out on his young son. Primitivo was reared in a patrician world but only by the grace of his stepmother, Maria de Leon Perez. Born a bastard to his father Ramon’s long time mistress, he was immediately branded with the mark of rejection. The officer's wife who was a devout Roman Catholic decided to do the unthinkable by adopting the young child as her own. From that moment on, the boy became a constant reminder of his father's shame and his stepmother’s efforts at becoming a living saint.
Soon after his birth in Guadalajara, the future comandante’s biological mother vanished from existence. Rumors persisted that she had been bought off and fled to seek a better life in Los Estados Unidos. Compared to his cousins, who registered the trait of the blue blooded family with their light complexion and fair hair, no one mistook the source of the bloodline of the young Primitivo. “Indio” was the nickname he carried for most of his life, which greatly irked him. Motivated by resentment, the strong boy scratched and clawed his way to better his lot in life, constantly trying to do whatever it took to be looked upon as an equal. Never mind that he carried the de Leon name, because of his lowly birth by his Indian mother, it became apparent that he would never be accepted by the political aristocrats that surrounded him.
“La sangre no es pura.” Reality spoke to him every day of his life.
Ramon, the elder Chavez, died an alcoholic, ashamed of the child he had fathered. Senora de Leon assisted Primitivo in his efforts to attend the best military schools and his maternal grandfather saw that there would be a command awaiting him after his studies were completed. Because of his birthright, or lack of it, he became a loner and seethed with contempt for those who purposely kept their distance. His only companion was the Roman Catholic faith he inherited from his saintly step-mother for it was very clear the patricians would never allow him to become one of their elite.
Primitivo Chavez sought to make his own statement as an officer in the Federal Police, his dress was impeccable and he became a man of habit. He attended La Purisima Catholic Church in the center of the city every Sunday morning, remained a lifelong bachelor, ate the same meals at the same Zona Rosa restaurant, and developed a reputation as a bully and sadist throughout the Federal District. His appearance at any gathering stirred fear in those in attendance, which delighted the law man: a tool to level the playing field, as he saw it. His stunning career, fueled by the hatred that festered within, made him the perfect man for covert operations against discontented indigenous Indians in the south.
On this particular day, the situation at Benito Juarez International Airport office of the Mexican Minister of Transportation had become chaotic. Obviously unprepared for such a disaster, all governmental department heads initially seemed to panic in trying to decide the right course of action to take. Paranoia caused them to cut all communication with the downed airline's head office and appropriate U.S. officials. Rumors would persist that Mexican President Lopez Portillo had called diplomats at the highest level in Washington D.C. to smooth over any fears or confusion. If there was a correct procedure being applied, it was through the efforts of individuals, airport personnel who took it upon themselves to make the tough decisions that were actually making a difference. Hugo Garcia would prove to be one such man. The Mexican gate agent took command those first few vital hours until company representatives, both in Los Angeles and Mexico City could be brought up to date in the early morning hours.
Enrique Valenzuela was the airline’s main man in Mexico. The vice president was a veteran with many years in the business and retained the right political keys to run the operation. Valenzuela had the knack of knowing how to deal with Mexico’s pirate unions that could go on strike on a moment’s notice, shutting down a company’s entire operation for a few hours or a few days.
President Lopez Portillo made it clear to the elected officials in the United States th
at the Mexican Government could ill afford a nasty incident of this sort. Tourism was at an all time high and they were very aware that millions world-wide would view the carnage. The twisted wreckage and fire would scream at them as they demanded answers. Mexico needed a scapegoat and the deceased pilots wouldn’t render any resistance. If they could obtain a statement from the surviving crew member of 2605 that he served the boys in the cockpit liquor during the flight, Mexico, the Mexican Government, would be blameless regardless of what any or all investigations revealed.
“Valenciana? Eduardo Valenciana?” Enrique’s voice echoed through the office walls. The cry of the name attracted Hugo Garcia to his superior’s office. “I have not met with any crew members,” stated Valenzuela. Hugo was taken aback by the statement. “I’ll get on it right away, thank you.” The company's Mexican Vice President hung up the phone.
“What about Valenciana?” Hugo interjected. Enrique was surprised by Hugo’s appearance and thought for a moment.
“Was there a flight attendant from 2605 taken to the American-British Hospital?” He asked.
“Yes, I put him into the ambulance myself early this morning.”
“Well, he is not there now and the company wants confirmation on whether he survived or not.” Hugo was dumbfounded.
“Survive? You better believe he survived and others did too because of him.” Enrique dropped his head into his hands and sighed.
“Senor Garcia, I do not need any more trouble than I already have.” Hugo understood what he meant as government officials were in the waiting area. There would be no time for employees to search for the lost flight attendant. “What a shit of a mess,” the Mexican V.P. stated as he put on his suit coat.
“Ah, Excellency,” Hugo walked past the government official as Valenzuela extended his hand to the Minister of Transportation.
The agent's thoughts were still on the young crew member as he entered the elevator. He was sure he had given the proper instructions to the ambulance attendants. The elevator door then opened to the terminal level. Wailing dominated the greater space. Extended families consisting of cousins, uncles, grandparents and friends had besieged “el aeropuerto” to join in on the lamentation. It was Hugo’s responsibility to assemble the immediate relatives into one room, away from the growing glare of the frantic news media who were now descending upon Benito Juarez like locusts.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 17
