Death in Veracruz by Hector Camín Page B

cordial, punctuatedby meals and phone calls that grew notably more frequent in 1974 upon the launch of my column, “Public Life.” From then on I had in my fellow Veracruzan an unbeatable source. The information he provided was slanted and never complete, and it always served the interests, however obscure, of his superiors. Our cautiously professional relationship existed in the strange limbo of mutual usefulness well known to journalists and Mexican politicians.
    (In the words of my
paisano,
“Newspapers are the government’s seismograph, and columnists are the seismographers.”)
    I can now admit that through him I learned the details of stories and political developments that appeared first in “Public Life:” the column about the CIA and its Mexican agents in February 1975; Mexico’s involvement with the Chilean fascist group
Patria y Libertad
in July of the same year; the Chipinque conspiracy, named for the park where senior Monterrey business leaders plotted to overthrow the government, a scheme that was later unmasked in a speech by then presidential chief of staff Ignacio Ovalle.
    Throughout the presidential campaign of José López Portillo, from September 1975 to May 1976, I received an uninterrupted flow of information about grassroots groups, interests, deals and maneuvers thanks to my Veracruz contact on Bucareli Street. The information arrived with a regularity surpassed only by the cinematic discretion of its provider. It came in the form of calls from his observers, subordinates, friends and agents. Anything I could use from his network I took, and, one way or another, I compared it to what I got from other sources. Almost without exception, the information turned out to be first class. Though very rarely inaccurate or padded, it invariably served the interests of the sitting president rather than the candidate soon to replace him. I compensated for any bias by seeking information onmy own and following my own leads while always keeping an open channel to Bucareli. He never complained about what I left out of my column or what I included, even when it conflicted with the interests he served. He came out ahead simply by being where he was and playing the game fairly, cleanly, and with unflagging consistency. Each month I tallied the results of our long distance game as if it were a chess match played through the mail. I struggled for balance and considered my sources. I asked all the questions and dug for all the details that elementary prudence demanded. But, invariably, he succeeded in imposing his line on about half my columns.
    I recount all this to explain why, in late November 1976, amidst all the political speculation brought on by a change of administration, my guide on the campaign trail seemed to be the one light that might show me the way to a reasonably accurate assessment of Pizarro and the charges made against him by Rojano.
    He listened to my account of the Pizarro case without interruption, holding a pencil in front of his face and rolling it over and over between his fingers. When I finished, he rang a bell beneath his desk. “What did you say the man’s name is,
paisano?”
    â€œLázaro Pizarro.”
    â€œI mean your informant.”
    I hesitated before giving his name, then remembered I’d mentioned it already.
    â€œFrancisco Rojano Gutiérrez,” I replied.
    â€œRojano. It sounds familiar.”
    He kept a long silence. “Wasn’t he with the CNOP?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd the Rural Cooperative Bank before that?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe got involved in a scandal of some sort, didn’t he?Corruption. Or a shootout somewhere or other. I vaguely remember.”
    â€œBoth,” I said. His memory astonished me. He hid it behind the small eyes of a 40s’ movie idol. They were guileless and bright as if eternally searching for a woman who would understand him. He rang the bell again,