Free Narcoland: The Mexican Drug Lords and Their Godfathers by Roberto Saviano

you’re the third.”
    With Don Neto by this time were Caro Quintero and a slim figure, six feet tall with a pale complexion, prominent cheekbones, and dark hair combed back with a parting: Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo himself, the Boss of Bosses. If Don Neto was reassured by this news, it upset Félix Gallardo, who promptly left the room to question Camarena himself.
    “I don’t feel well, I’m going to La Pasadita to get something for it,” said Don Neto to Caro Quintero, getting up off the bed. “I leave you in charge. Make sure nothing happens to him, put people you can trust to look after him and to get him whatever he needs.”
    “Ok,” nodded El Príncipe.
    Don Neto left Caro Quintero’s house along with Ramírez, and went to rest. The following morning he returned to speak to Camarena. That would undoubtedly be one of the worst days of his life.

Don Neto’s confession
    On the afternoon of April 9, 1985, Don Neto found himself at No. 9, Lázaro Cárdenas, in the ornate seventh-floor office of Florentino Ventura, the implacable commander of the PJF and head of Interpol in Mexico.
    There was no messing with Ventura, and the drug trafficker was reluctant to experience first-hand the kinds of torture this policeman used to obtain a confession. So his first formal statement was fluid and full of detail. Fifty-five years old, with thirteen of them spent trafficking, helpless and washed-up, Don Neto confessed that he and Caro Quintero had made the decision to kidnap Camarena; he gave a blow-by-blow account of the day the Prince had told him that the DEA agent was past talking.
    After Camarena’s death and his quarrel with Caro Quintero, Don Neto spent two days shut up at home, partly because of rage, but also out of caution. The press and the radio were hammering out the news of Camarena’s kidnapping. Feeling the strain, Don Neto then sought refuge in Puerto Vallarta, in an elegant villa lent to him by Paty, the woman who ran the house in Guadalajara, an up-market prostitute who he often paid for her services. Not long afterwards, on April 7, Don Neto was arrested at the Bugambilias condominium in the resort city, along with Ramírez and nineteen other gunmen.
    In those days, of course, people like Fonseca, Caro Quintero, or Félix Gallardo never acted as if they were on the run—and nor do the majority of their colleagues in Mexico today, unless the government announces a specific manhunt. In fact, such drug barons made a show of their impunity—attending high-society parties, throwing extravagant orgies with the best mariachi bands to celebrate the birthday of a police chief, or buying fleets of luxury imported vehicles to shower on senior figures in the Jalisco state government and the local and federal police.
    Rafael Caro Quintero felt so far above the law in Guadalajara that he regularly shot up other people’s cars, without the least fear of consequences. This was something that profoundly galled Don Neto, who told him off on more than one occasion: “Look here, compadre, don’t be a jerk, if you keep messing up you’ll set the whole city against you.” Rafael, of course, ignored his advice.
    According to the explanation Don Neto gave to Interpol’s Ventura, his arrest in Puerto Vallarta was the result of carelessness. That day, one of his men, Ramiro, had gone out drinking with a group of gunmen known as Los Gallos, who worked for Félix Gallardo. Emboldened by alcohol, they beat up someone who immediatelycalled the municipal police. The officers shadowed Ramiro, and happened on the house where Don Neto was hiding. After an exchange of fire, the occupants were all arrested.
    Don Neto vehemently denied to Ventura any responsibility for the murder: he’d been sick at the time, he couldn’t have been present when they tortured Camarena. He’d intended to talk to the American agent on February 8, but didn’t, because by then Camarena was a goner. On April 11, Don Neto amplified his statement and