White Death by Philip C. Baridon Page A

that the suitcase was processed just like all others, with the important exception that it was not somehow lost. All understood that a body floating in the Miami River was the price for betrayal.
    Business was good. Tyrone Jones used only a handful of distributors who operated under a no-adulteration rule. He wanted to build a solid base of satisfied consumers and secondary distributors. Although he couldn’t enforce the rule down the line, everybody knew that Jones’ people had the best product. He had not underestimated the demand. Cocaine went out the door as fast as flights to Miami arrived.
    Then the flights to Miami stopped coming in.
    Zoila was being prepared in the usual way in a corner of the parking lot at
Aeropuerto Ernesto Cortissos
. A little younger than most, twenty at best, she had long pretty hair, a comely face, and was of indigenous ancestry. She had very small breasts and dark skin, a
morenita
. The lighter-skinned handlers teased her about her skin color and breast size. As in many countries in Latin America, skin color is a proxy for social class. Nervous from thestart, she did not take the teasing well. She was a good Catholic girl who had two children to care for, and a husband who dumped her for another woman. She needed the money.
    After landing in Miami, her apprehension soared. She began to sweat. The U.S. Customs line seemed so long to a girl who had never traveled more than twenty kilometers from her home. Finally, she presented her passport and visa to the Customs agent, who was a Latina. At first, she was relieved. The few phrases in English that she had been taught were long forgotten.
    “What’s the purpose of your trip?”
    “To visit relatives in Miami.” The agent paused and looked up at her. Her accent was uneducated, and yet she had money for new clothes and an expensive outing of only a few days.
    “When is your baby due?”
    “About six weeks.”
    “The father must be proud. What type of work does he do in Barranquilla?”
    “He’s looking for a job.” Zoila knew immediately that it was the wrong answer; she was not working.
    “So, you’re relatives here paid for the trip?”
    “Yes, my uncle; he’s Cuban.”
    “What business is he in?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “So, your Cuban father married an Indian in Colombia. What tribe?”
    “Wayuu.”
    “How did your parents meet? Here in Miami or in Colombia? And what business was your father in to take him to the northern jungles?”
    Zoila, sweating profusely and scarcely able to answer, felt paralyzed. The agent picked up the phone, speaking in English, said, “I’ve got one for a secondary inspection. She’s pregnant, very young, beyond nervous, and her background, clothes, and reason for coming, don’t seem to add up. Thanks.”
    The agent told Zoila to go with the two men who came out of a side door, which she hadn’t noticed. They were big Americans with short hair and grim appearances. The handlers could only watch from behind the line. The raw fear made her knees buckle.
    “Are you all right?” one of them asked. His Spanish was excellent. “I’ll have a nurse check you over before we ask a few questions.”
    After walking inside, Zoila unleashed a torrent of remorse.
    “I didn’t want to do this. I have no husband and two children to feed. They gave me two-hundred dollars, and said I would get three hundred more when I returned. I hate this stuff; it’s ruining lives in my neighborhood.” She tore open her blouse and packs of shaped cocaine fell to the floor. She ripped off her bra and yelled, “Take it!” spilling more unpackaged cocaine.
    The stunned agents sat back in their chairs and watched Zoila sob. They were not about to touch her. Fortunately, the nurse arrived and took in the situation.
    She led Zoila to a bathroom, cleaned her up a little, and found a blouse for her.
    As she calmed down, it became apparent that she was only a classic mule. She did not know the men at the Colombian