The Jaguar's Children by John Vaillant

one is caring so much and to run the red is no sin. This is what César is doing on Independencia near the Zócalo—not fast, just normal. Our misfortune is that there is a truck of federales coming down Juárez at the same time—fast, and they have the green. Well, you can imagine a military Ford 250 hitting a little Nissan Tsuru—it is a disaster for the Nissan. We are mostly OK, but the taxi is not—the front is finished and the engine is not where it is supposed to be. It will never be fixed, but that is only the beginning for César and me.
    These federale trucks are a special kind that came to Oaxaca with all our troubles last year. They are painted black like skin so there is no reflection and they have a machine gun standing in the back, the kind that can stop a bus or empty a plaza. The men in these trucks are all in black too—helmets, boots, gloves, and their bodies are thick with the armor. There is only one thing with color and that is the bandolera hanging from the gun, each bullet the size of a dog’s dick and shining as bright as the gold in church. Every man in the truck has also his own powerful guns and they are ready to shoot at all times—you can see this by their fingers. Pues, it is the dead hour of the night and we are in it—César with the broken taxi, me in the back with ten pesos, and five federales who can make their own war.
    The first problem for us is that we have frightened the federales because it is by this same method that narcos are killing police in Mexico—they block them with a car in some lonely place and then compadres who are hiding shoot them all. So as soon as the truck is stopped, all the men in the back and in the cab are shouting and pointing their guns in different directions—doors, windows, roofs, and one of them is pointing his gun out the window right at César who is only a meter away. In that moment something like ice is pouring through my body and I cannot move, even to open my mouth. I think it is the same for César because he is just sitting there, his hands on the steering wheel like he will never let it go. I can tell you, I never got sober so fast. There is nothing else in the street, no other cars or people, only low buildings because it is a neighborhood sleeping. Some who hear the crash open their shutters to look, but close them right away. No one wants to be a witness to this kind of thing.
    By now the federales understand it is an accident, not an ambush, but when they get out of the truck and come over to the taxi they still have their guns to their shoulders ready to shoot. The officer by César signals him with the barrel to get out of the car. César’s door won’t open anymore so he must leave by the other side. He is moving slow and when he gets out the officer is shouting, “What’s in your hand! Drop it!”
    Every gun is pointing and I am afraid they’re going to shoot us right now, but I hear only the sound of César’s keys falling in the street. One of the officers shines a light on them and I see the medallion there. It is the one for Juquila—I know it by the shape. I am still in the back when the first officer turns to me. “Show your hands!” When I get out, he points behind the taxi. “Over there!” My knees are shaking and when I look at César the same officer shouts, “No contact!” So I look at the ground where I can see the taxi bleeding its fluids black and green between the cobblestones. Two federales are now studying the dead taxi and the truck, which has only a flat tire and a broken light. One of them gets back in the truck and picks up the radio. Another puts his rifle over his shoulder and walks over to César who stands with his head turned, trying not to be blinded by the flashlight. The officer pats him down, but he misses César’s phone.
    â€œWhere’s your wallet.”
    â€œStolen,” mumbles