How a Dead DEA Agent Haunts the Drug Trade

It all began with Enrique “Kiki” Camarena’s murder in 1985, a death that was as gruesome as it was consequential. I’m not here to dissect why he was killed. There are only so many ways you can argue over cartel feuds, bad choices, and botched undercover operations before your head spins. But what I will say is this: his death didn’t just spark outrage; it sparked one of the last great diplomatic crises between Mexico and the United States. It was like the Cold War, except instead of nuclear missiles, they had cocaine and corruption—and perhaps a dash of tequila for good measure.

The Americans were livid. Understandable, yes, but their response? Utterly ham-fisted. They decided to launch what’s grandly known as the Second Operation Interception, a name that makes it sound like Tom Cruise should’ve been flying F-14s along the Rio Grande. In reality, it was less “Top Gun” and more “Total Chaos.” The U.S. shut down the border tighter than the lid on a pickle jar, grinding northern Mexico’s economy to a screeching halt. Trade? Forget it. People trying to commute to work? Tough luck, amigo. The diplomatic fallout was immense, like two neighbors arguing over a fence but with entire countries dragged into the spat.

But it didn’t stop there. No, no, no. The DEA decided it was time to play judge, jury, and executioner, and they weren’t going to let something pesky like “evidence” get in the way. In their minds, every Mexican politician was in on the drug game, from the president to the guy sweeping the steps of the National Palace. It’s like accusing every Brit of having a drinking problem just because some of us enjoy a pint or three (or five) on a Friday night.

Their accusations weren’t just baseless; they were downright racist. To the DEA, Mexicans weren’t just corrupt; they were organically corrupt. As if tequila worm DNA somehow turned you into a cartel boss. They didn’t have proof, of course, but they didn’t need it. They leaked half-truths and outright lies to the press, painting Mexican politics as one giant, sombrero-wearing drug racket. Subtle, they were not.

And then we get to the pièce de résistance of this debacle: the extrajudicial capture of Humberto Álvarez Machaín. If this story doesn’t make you laugh—or cry—I don’t know what will. The DEA decided that this Jalisco doctor had kept Camarena awake during his torture, which, given Camarena ended up dead, makes Álvarez Machaín about as effective as a chocolate teapot. But facts didn’t matter. They wanted him, and they were going to get him.

Enter Los Gansos Salvajes—or the Wild Geese—a ragtag bunch of ex-Mexican cops hired by the DEA. For a few thousand dollars and the promise of U.S. residency, they arrested Álvarez Machaín, bundled him onto a plane at a clandestine airstrip, and flew him to El Paso, Texas. Just imagine it: a plane full of mercenaries, a terrified doctor, and a mission that sounds more like a Netflix original than actual history.

This wasn’t just a breach of Mexican sovereignty; it was a middle finger to the very idea of sovereignty. The U.S. basically walked into someone else’s house, helped themselves to the fridge, and left the door wide open.

And what became of Álvarez Machaín? After years of legal wrangling, the U.S. Supreme Court decided that, well, yes, the DEA probably shouldn’t have done that, but also, “What are you gonna do?” So, they shrugged, and life went on. As for the Wild Geese, they got their green cards and presumably lived happily ever after. Justice, it seems, is a flexible concept.

The fallout from all this? A lingering mistrust between the U.S. and Mexico that persists to this day. The DEA continues to operate in Mexico, often with about as much finesse as a bull in a china shop, while Mexicans remain understandably wary of their so-called allies up north. And as for Camarena, his death became a rallying cry for the war on drugs—a war that’s cost countless lives and achieved, well, not much.

Kidnapping with Impunity

Let’s continue with Álvarez Machaín. The DEA accused him of playing the role of Dr. Evil in the torture of their agent, Enrique “Kiki” Camarena. Apparently, Álvarez was supposed to keep Camarena alive through the torture sessions—except, well, Camarena didn’t survive. So, naturally, the DEA decided the good doctor needed to answer a few questions.

Under normal circumstances, you’d expect an extradition process. Some paperwork, a few formalities, maybe a meeting or two between diplomats. But no, the DEA decided to skip the boring bits and jumped straight to “grab him, tie him up, and fly him to El Paso.” The sheer brazenness of it is almost admirable, like a bank robber waltzing out of the vault while whistling the theme to The Great Escape.

But Álvarez wasn’t the DEA’s first victim of creative law enforcement. In 1986, they pulled a similar stunt with René Verdugo Urquídez, an alleged drug trafficker from Mexicali. Verdugo was blindfolded, tied up, and whisked across the border faster than you can say “illegal rendition.” And while Verdugo was accused of being involved in Camarena’s murder, the U.S. justice system never actually proved it. Yet, there he was, languishing in prison until 2018—a staggering 32 years of incarceration based on what can generously be called a hunch.

If you’re wondering how Mexico felt about all this, let me paint a picture. Imagine your neighbor climbs over the fence, nicks your lawnmower, and then lectures you about property rights. The audacity! The Álvarez and Verdugo kidnappings were a slap in the face to Mexican sovereignty, the kind of move that strains relations faster than a bad tequila hangover.

Mexico’s diplomats, of course, were outraged. But outrage only gets you so far when your northern neighbor is wielding the big stick of economic and military dominance. So, while Mexico protested, the U.S. shrugged. After all, when you’re the DEA, apparently international treaties are more like polite suggestions.

The Camarena case didn’t just rattle Mexico-U.S. relations; it also shone a spotlight on the festering swamp of corruption within Mexico’s own institutions. The DEA’s investigations painted a grim picture: drug traffickers and the judiciary coexisting in a state of unholy matrimony, bound together by bribes, threats, and a mutual love of impunity.

Carlos Monsiváis, the sharp-witted Mexican intellectual, put it best when he said 1985 was the year “the red note was incorporated into politics, or vice versa.” The “red note,” for those unfamiliar, is the kind of sensationalist crime reporting that makes tabloids look like academic journals. And in 1985, crime and politics didn’t just overlap; they merged into a single grotesque spectacle.

Public trust in the police, already fragile, crumbled entirely. Mexicans didn’t just see their security forces as ineffective; they saw them as complicit. The outcry was so intense that the government had no choice but to restructure its entire security apparatus. But let’s be honest—restructuring a corrupt institution is a bit like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. The ship’s still sinking, mate.

Now, you might be thinking: wasn’t Mossad celebrated for doing the same thing with Adolf Eichmann? And yes, in 1960, Mossad snatched Eichmann, a Nazi war criminal, from Argentina and brought him to Israel for trial. But here’s the difference: Eichmann was a genocidal maniac responsible for the deaths of millions. Álvarez Machaín, on the other hand, was accused of malpractice during a single DEA operation. Comparing the two is like comparing a lion to a house cat—they’re both predators, but one’s a bit more, shall we say, significant.

The Price of a DEA Agent

The Camarena case was a sordid little affair with consequences as vast and complex as the Amazon rainforest—though with significantly less charm. When DEA agent Enrique “Kiki” Camarena was brutally murdered in 1985, it didn’t just shake the world of narcotics enforcement; it blew it to smithereens. And in the rubble, Mexico and the United States found themselves at odds, grappling with corruption, sovereignty, and the murky waters of asymmetrical power dynamics.

The fallout was spectacular, like watching a poorly maintained fireworks display go wrong. But as the smoke cleared, something strange emerged: everything changed, but nothing really did.

Let’s start with the one clear casualty of the Camarena affair—the Dirección Federal de Seguridad (DFS) for Federal Security Directorate. This outfit wasn’t just corrupt; it was the gold standard of corruption. If there were an Olympic event for graft, the DFS would have taken home gold, silver, and bronze, all while pocketing the medal money for good measure.

After the Camarena case, the DFS was finally disbanded. Good riddance, you might think. But this wasn’t a moment of triumph for law and order. Oh no. It was more like lopping off a Hydra’s head, only to watch two more sprout in its place. The DFS’s dissolution merely paved the way for new police corporations, new alliances, and new deals with the ever-adaptable drug cartels.

And those cartels? They didn’t exactly pack up and retire after the DEA came calling. No, they adapted, restructured, and fragmented. With the Sinaloa drug lords captured, the drug trade didn’t die—it diversified. Like a business after a hostile takeover, new players stepped in, new pacts were forged, and the supply chain continued as efficiently as ever. It was capitalism at its grimiest.

The Camarena case may have reshaped the narco landscape, but in the end, it was all plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. Drugs still flowed north, money still flowed south, and corruption remained the lubricant that kept the whole grim machine running.

For the DEA, however, the Camarena affair was a turning point. Before his murder, DEA agents were simply law enforcement officers doing a difficult, often thankless job. After his murder, they became untouchable, cloaked in an aura of immunity that bordered on divine.

The message to Mexican cartels was clear: you can kill local cops, soldiers, and even the occasional journalist, and no one will bat an eye. But kill a DEA agent? That’s a whole different game, one you don’t want to play. The retribution for Camarena’s death was swift, brutal, and relentless. For the cartels, it was a lesson learned—don’t poke the bear.

But while the DEA gained power, Mexico’s government found itself in a perpetual bind. U.S. anti-narcotics agents demanded free rein to operate on Mexican soil, a demand that rubbed up against decades of nationalist rhetoric about sovereignty. Public opinion wasn’t having it either, with critics pointing out the sheer unconstitutionality of allowing foreign agents to operate with such impunity.

Where, people asked, was the patriotic posturing that had long defined Mexico’s foreign policy? Why not stand up to U.S. pressure? The reality, of course, was that standing up to the U.S. wasn’t an option. Mexico’s leaders had to navigate the treacherous waters of dependency and diplomacy, caught between appeasing their northern neighbor and placating their own citizens.

And so, the governments that followed Camarena’s murder—from Miguel de la Madrid’s administration to the present day—have walked a tightrope, balancing on the knife-edge of asymmetry. On one side, U.S. demands for cooperation in the war on drugs; on the other, a domestic audience fed up with foreign interference.

It’s an impossible position, really. The U.S. calls the shots, but Mexico takes the hits. It’s like being the drummer in a rock band—you’re integral to the operation, but no one’s paying attention to you unless something goes wrong. Because in this grim little game, everything changes, yet everything stays the same. And that, dear reader, is the ultimate tragedy.

In-text Citation: (Pérez Ricart, 2022, pp. 24-26)