Domingo. D.F.

La Patruya

Dormimundo

A Vague History of La Nota Roja

My attempts to find out about the origins of the trend for Mexican Crime reporting have ranged from tall sounding tales of dying revolutionaries, drawing their last breath with bloodied declarations of Republic in their hands, to Enrique Metinides holding a DVD copy of Spiderman in his Mexico City apartment and proclaiming that he considered Peter Parker's capers to be as good an example of 'Nota Roja' as one might find.

This paper, by William Straw, helped me shed some light on the subject, defining 'Nota Roja' as: "a Mexican term for the chronicling of violence and crime" which helps us with the term itself but not with it's origins, it's visual etymology.

I'm interested in this form of journalism as a language within Mexican society and am always curious to understand how images of the more macabre side of life somehow arrived and stayed in the mainstream of the Mexican press. Death and violence are a daily front page certainty in Mexico's tabloids.

Something that could be considered shocking or inappropriate in other parts of the world is a pre-requisite for the Mexican front page.

In the West publication of 'explicit' images seem somehow most justified to their readership if the victims are seen to be terrorists.

Images of the corpses of Muammar Gaddaffi or of Uday and Qusay Hussein are widely published examples but generally editors of Western papers prefer to stay away from the blood and guts, hooking their readers on the cult of the expose and the grainy CCTV portrait.

Perhaps it's a case of the 'Tell All' rather than the 'All Told' approach.

In Mexico City tabloids however, a victim of a car crash can be enough to warrant a full page cover with the headline "MALA SUERTE". In other words it's violence for it's own sake. As opposed to reinforcing a broader moral standard of good versus evil, it seems to be suggesting that life is short and bad luck may lurk anywhere, so beware.

The only reference to Nota Roja on Wikipedia is in a biography entry for Metinides. This is unsurprising as for many he remains the 'Padrino' of Mexican crime photography...his decades of spectacular images first published in La Prensa paving the way for interest in the subject.

Straw's article, while not delving into the history of this transition into the mainstream does provide answers as to why Mexican true crime reporting emerged as a distinct visual language.

He cites the time - when snappers like Metinides came of age - as a kind of Belle Epoque for newspaper publishing, a time when graphic boundaries were being pushed in Mexican tabloids.

It was an era when the layout and design in publications like Metropoliciaca, Nota Roja, Policia and Prensa Policiaca shaped a new style in how their photo stories were presented to the public, using graphic type faces and paneled images over multiple pages to foreground the sensational photography. Straw states:

"The history of the Mexican nota roja, has been interwoven at important points with that of the Mexican comic book, from which crime magazines borrowed a penchant for the telling of stories using sequential photographs."

When I came across this Post Card photograph "Rebel burnt in the street" at a Mexico City market however I returned to the question of the beginnings of this genre and wondered what the precedent of true crime photographs in Mexico had been before the time of Metinides and the graphic novel style.

Surely there was a time when the taboo of publishing images of the death and suffering had been broken and the 'Policiacas' had crossed over to the mainstream media? I wondered whether these type of picture Post Cards formed the beginning of this culture?

The Mexican Revolution was one of the first conflicts to be documented in images from the front lines. Events on the Rio Grande unfolded at the same time as photographers began moving out into the world: eager to capture 'life as it is today'...

"Using glass plate cameras and early cut film cameras, primitive by today's standards, the photographers faced injury and death to obtain negatives which would be printed on postcard stock and sold to the soldiers and general public on both sides of the U.S.-Mexican border. Some of the views were obviously posed, and others showed the death and destruction resulting from the violence of a nation involved in a bloody civil war."

Whether images of this type from sometime in the 1910s were distributed for news value or for shock value is not certain but like the classic era crime images of the 50s or the modern Mexican tabloids, these vintage images do not shy from shock value and retain the kind of sensationalist edge that epitomises the style of La Nota Roja.

Perhaps then, the genre emerged fully formed out of the photographic box? History shows us a combination of factors that made it viable: a public hungry for news and for the first time able to see conflict in images; the idea, indicated above, that some of these images blurred the lines between fact and fiction thus elevating them to a kind of mythical status.

These are traits that still inform the style of Nota Roja today and why some point to the Revolution and others to Hollywood blockbusters as valid examples of the genre.

Maybe it's the idea of spectacle that best informs what La Nota Roja is and is not...regardless of it's origins.

Vulcadora...

Culto A La Sta. Muerte - Tepito

Tepito

Culto A La Sta. Muerte - Tultitlan

Grillo on El Equipo

Former Brighton rude bwoy turned investigative journalist on the frontline of Mexico's drug war, father and all round good skin, Ioan Grillo continues his fantastic reporting south of the border with an interesting piece in Time magazine this week. Check it out here.

Enrique 'El Nino' Metinides, Lightbox by Time

Shout out to the good folks over at Time magazine's fantastic new photography portal Lightbox for publishing my video homage to the incredible Mexican photographer Enrique Metinides. It seems they're as fascinated by his work as I am.

Props also to the enigma Ross Killeen of Event Junkies for the edit and to Eunice Adorno for generously letting us use her wonderful portraits of the man.

Notes from the Crime Beat: The Presentation

The crime beat, early in the week in Mexico City, can be a bit more tranquilo than the siren filled dramas of the weekend. As with any metropolis Monday and Tuesday nights sees less activity on the streets in general and in the 'D.F.' it's no different.

The street walking hookers on Calle Sullivan are less than half in numbers than the boomtime of Fridays and Saturdays, when their pyrex heels cause a hungry traffic jam of customers with paychecks in their pockets, although paradoxically, early weeknights seem to make no difference to their transsexual counterparts, a block or so away, who continue to gather in numbers, chatting in their broken voices and swinging, one-armed, around lampposts in man-sized hot pants.

The cacophony of freelance Mariachis that normally pack the sidewalk at Garibaldi is no longer present. The gold stitching of an outlandish costume glints briefly from the darkness, caught in the sweep of passing headlights. An unused guitar case topped by a sombrero leans against the wall with a sense of abandonment but there is none of the usual madness here, not this early in the week.

There are less car crashes and incidents of random violence these nights too but that's not to say that it's not without event. Mondays and Tuesdays often bring a different and unexpected type of drama to proceedings on the crime beat: La Presentación.

Crime rates, one supposes in most cities, spike over the weekend and Mexico City is no different. Saturdays and Sundays may well be the normal punter's time to let their hair down but they are also days of rest, the courts and higher offices of the police department being closed over the weekend.

The result of this is that people arrested on a Friday, Saturday and Sunday, los detenidos, often have to wait until a Monday or Tuesday to be moved to the courthouse for their hearings. It is usually at this time that reporters have the opportunity to photograph and interview those detained; being obliged to report on the circumstances of their arrest and the alleged nature of their crimes.

This is especially the case if the crime is newsworthy but oftentimes if there is nothing more pressing on the agenda, as is often the scenario early in the week, these minor criminals can become the focus of the 'sunguns' of the tv news cameras and the flashbulbs of La Nota Roja.

It's a kind of impromptu trial by media, maybe motivated by boredom, maybe by bad timing that sometimes can take place on the street, outside the police station or in the back of a van.





These incidents kind of remind me of the sentiments so interestingly expressed in Donald Weber's photo essay 'Interrogations' in the range and complexity of emotions expressed by those detained. It's kind of a classic crime drama played out in real life.

Some use the opportunity to plead their innocence. Some cry and wail without shame. Some say it was a fair cop. Some hide their faces and spit swearwords at the photographers. Some say they were working at the behest of others...and got hung out to dry.

Some say they are sixteen and scared.







The guns and drugs, if there are any, are laid out by the police as evidence, we jumble to gather our footage, panning and tilting across the neatly arranged displays.

I imagine a Mexican newscaster relaying the amounts, places and the names in a crisply edited voiceover.

The detained are whisked away to the station.

Debates ensue shortly afterwards about these incidents and I glean what information I can, sometimes shocked by the allegations that stand against these detenidos, sometimes merely amused.

Kidnappings, embezzlement and drug deals. Middle class professors ripping off their employers. The crimes are often more serious than you appreciate when you're in the moment, when you think about it later. The character judgements can be too, whether the person is a liar, a coward, a hero...or merely a pendejo. Everything about the individual, this detenido, can be judged on this brief encounter.

My sense of sympathy at this very public airing of dirty laundry often dissipates at this moment; regardless of the emotion expressed and the niceness of someone's face, they have veered off their paths somewhere, crossed the line and unfortunately, for them, got caught. Whether they're a good person or bad, guilty or innocent doesn't really matter anymore, they're now on a journey into the Mexican justice system of which La Presentación is only the first stage.

You wish them good luck.

Notes from the Crime Beat: El Camino de la Luz

'El Camino de la Luz' or 'The Way of the Light', Mexico City 2011

"The Mexican", writes Octavio Paz in his Nobel prize winning 'Labyrinth of Solitude', "is familiar with death. He jokes about it, caresses it, sleeps with it, celebrates it. It is one of his favorite toys and his most steadfast love.”

I'm not quite sure whether this rings true or not, certainly death is not something to be enjoyed but there is certainly a strange interplay of life and death here in Mexico that mixes faith, magic and history in a unique way. Stanley Brandes in his anthropological history of the Day of the Dead in Mexico 'Skulls for the Living, Bread for the Dead' recounts in the book's introduction how, on one of his first trips to Mexico in rural Oaxaca, he was invited to a funeral. Rather than stand as a passive spectator he was shocked that the family members and friends invited him forward to the coffin to take pictures of the corpse. The family wanted to remember this moment in the person's life as much as they wanted to remember him alive and smiling for snapshots...and so began Brandes' fascination with these cultures and customs in Mexico.

Contrary to my expectations and while different to many of our own experiences, this Mexican affiliation with death is not borne from a lack of respect or some kind of thin bloodlust. True, it's up front and laid bare for all to see but one of the greatest indicators of a deep feeling and sensitivity for the dead is the custom of 'El Camino de la Luz' or 'The Way of the Light'.

While working on the crime beat and photographing what the night throws at you naturally it can be highly charged at times but for the most part there is often an eerie calm and quiet to be observed in the faces of the spectators and the movements of the emergency services and police who deal with these things in the course of their daily work. There is a strange silence to the spectacle of the event.

Often, one of the first things you notice is a small white candle laid in proximity to the body. This practice is done in much haste and as soon after the person has lost their life according to the Mexican tradition. The candle is lit, people tell me to provide a pathway of light, 'El Camino de la Luz' for the angels, so that they may come quickly and retrieve the soul of the deceased and provide it safe passage to heaven.

La vela, or the candle seems to provide a kind of instant shrine at the scenes of these incidents that somehow helps you understand and appreciate this affiliation with death in Mexico. People gather around and watch the proceedings, the scenes are documented and discussed but everyone pays heed in these first moments as the candle burns.

While not exactly magical - I have yet to have visions of angels descending from heaven - 'El Camino de la Luz' somehow provides a sense of peace and detracts from the horror of the incidents. As time passes and people begin to disperse, as the bodies are moved into Coroners vehicles, often times an anonymous person steps forward to extinguish the candle, satisfied that the person has gone to a better place. This act is never met with disagreement and it's a kind of instant closure that, whether religious or not, brings solstice and a broader sense of compassion to otherwise tragic things.

Notes from the Crime Beat: Meeting Metinides

Sometimes you get the impression that life really does imitate art and listening to the story of photographer Enrique Metinides, the Godfather of 'La Nota Roja' was one of those times. This week I had the privilege of meeting the man sometimes referred to as the Mexican Weegee at his home in Mexico City; where he told me how he got the nickname 'El Nino'.

A little older now but his tiny frame still buzzing with energy, he begins to show me his collection of DVD's recounting how, in the early 40's he was obsessed with the movies of Al Capone and the noirs and gangster flicks that filled Mexico City cinemas during his youth. This formative time in the boy Metinides' life coincided with his father closing up his city centre camera store to open a restaurant and gifting his son an old Brownie camera and a bag of film to keep him out of trouble. At the age of 10, while helping out in his Dad's new place, Enrique began chatting with the local cops who came in to chow down, popping around to the local police station to snap pictures of corpses and criminals they would drag into the precinct.

By the tender age of 11, Enrique had secured himself a job as a sidekick to one of the photographers from Mexico City's largest daily 'La Prensa' and so began the fifty year career of 'El Nino', the youngest crime photographer in history, a career spent riding around on the top of firetrucks, listening to the police and emergency radio frequencies for news of car crashes, murders and crimes of passion and, in time, photographing perhaps more 'muertos' than even Weegee 'the famous' himself.

As Enrique recounted his - by now well told story - I couldn't help but get the feeling he has managed to live out a real life fantasy that was borne in his early youth watching hard-boiled gangster films of the 1940's. For half a century Metinides endlessly placed himself right at the heart of these horrific scenes as 'that guy with the camera', rendering his images with a cinematic flair that seems a world away from mere tabloid sensationalism. It is something he himself appreciates, the proximity with which he worked, the details and panoramas he captured, the fact his images were used, at times, to solve crimes as much as to seduce the imaginations of a public that devoured the huge photo layouts that filled the papers of the day.

His images defy logic and reason as much as his amazing life does, his photographs, although filled with horrible tragedies have such artistry that for some reason we feel romanticized by them rather than repulsed.

Planes nose dive from the sky, a crashed train zig-zags it's way towards the horizon like a fissure in the ground from an earthquake, an actress lies party suspended, crushed on a lamppost from a car crash only minutes after leaving a beauty salon, her stunning, perfectly made-up eyes frozen in time. Forever.

David La Chapelle couldn't even dream of it. And yet Metinides lived it.

Like other photographers who plied their trade with passion, conviction and sometimes madness in far flung parts of the world only to be discovered by the art world later in their life: Miroslav Tichy, Seidou Keita and Li Zhensheng to name but a few, Metinides has had mixed experiences.

It hasn't really made him rich but his work is appreciated by admirers and collectors around the world. He regaled me with stories of German television crews walking through the same little rooms in his house as I was, the famous collection of 3500 toy firetrucks and other emergency services toys and paraphernalia, press clippings from the exhibition that he had in a former Nazi bunker in Poland, the television sets where he watches action movies, disaster stories and historical documentaries and I couldn't help but get the feeling that even today, long after he put his camera down as the greatest 'Nota Roja' photographer there ever was, the life of 'El Nino' continues to imitate art.














Images Copyright Enrique Metinides

Links:

New York Times
Vice

Notes From the Crime Beat: Zeta Uno

Two radio handsets, perched on top of a city trash can at the base of the Monumento de la Revolucion, bleep and squawk muffled and garbled information and codes, punctuated by screeching sirens, incoherent speech and interference. These bursts from the scanners monitoring the police and emergency frequencies are urgent and dramatic...and usually followed by complete silence.

It's about ten o'clock on a Sunday night and I just arrived at ‘El Monu’, the de-facto operations base for the members of La Nota Roja, the Mexico City crime photographers I am working with. It’s not the most attractive place to spend eight hours of your life and in the wee hours of the night but it’s central and the media hawks from the local papers, television and radio stations can quickly scramble to most parts of the city as nocturnal events in Mexico City’s underworld unfold.


'El Monu'

I feel double-lost in translation on these cold nights.

For one I’m straining my ears trying to decipher the incessant static firing out of the police scanners. Things sometimes sound dramatic and urgent, rapid fire speech and howling noise belches from the handset but mostly 'La Nota Roja', Luis, Jaime, Alex, Gabriel and all remain calm and go back to chatting, leaning against their cars, smoking and hanging out. When the prospect of a news event dissipates with the lowering of the volume on the radio, I’m forced to switch back to trying to figure out the rhythm and cadence of the speech of 'La Nota Roja' themselves. This at times proves more frustrating than trying to understand the police scanners.

Their patter is fast and laden with Mexican street slang and my ears only pick up several words and phrases. I spend my time trying to string things together often with little success. The word ‘El Verde’ was being used so much for the first few days I worked with 'La Nota Roja' I was convinced it was a swear word, only to find out that ‘The Green’ was the nickname of Jaime, one of La Prensa’s photographers and a fatherly figure among the group. ‘Pinche Verde' or 'Fucking Verde’ they would mutter joking amongst themselves.


'El Verde'


Mostly I’m lost between two worlds of double talk but Alex gives me a dig out and begins to explain the significance of the police codes.

If the radio squawks ZETA UNO (Z1), he says, it means there’s been a murder. ZETA DOS, a shooting but the subject is still living. He goes on through the list detailing the litany of grizzly circumstances which make up the bread and butter of La Nota Roja.

DOS BRAVO, EQUIS TRES (X3), ‘Un Catorce’, the romantic sounding ‘Apperitivo’ and so on. Car crashes, police raids, drug busts, the dead, wounded and mutilated, it’s a grim list of codes that I was probably better off oblivious to. But now I know.

I’m a little tired of the night shift. I bring less equipment than normal after a dead quiet week and show up a little late to the ‘Monu’, where for the last seven nights or so I have been eating tacos and sleeping in the back of whoever’s car has a spare seat.

'Es la Navidad’ Jacobo told me earlier, ‘Los Sicarios van a vaccaciones'

Ca-Qua, a radio journalist from the radio station Cadena Tres has two radio’s in his hand, he adjusts the volume to a minimum and catches up on the scandals from the various Christmas parties that have been going on all week.

Luis or 'El Virgo', a photographer from Universal and my main point of contact with the group arrives even later than me and we all shake hands. Luis has taught me that things can happen at any moment in this type of work and often do.

Sometimes it’s not necessarily a good thing to get what you wish for and it’s not long since Luis has rolled up in his massive old red Ford that our quiet week is to be transformed.

Ca-Qua has turned his radio up to full and the TV Azteca guys are scrambling to check their equipment. Something is happening somewhere in the city. I turn to Luis, slinging my backpack over my shoulder and making for the car. ‘Zeta Uno’ he tells me, ‘a man killed in the Barrio Buenas Aires’ but he doesn’t elaborate any further. Everyone is rushing for their cars, phones begin to ring and engines are started.


'El Virgo'

The calm and tranquility from what seemed to be a lazy Sunday evening is gone. Luis urges Gabriel to speed up as we pull out of the ‘Monu’ and hit the accelerator. Checking the side streets with a glance before shouting clear as we punch through a succession of red lights. Luis’ Nextel bleeps as he receives and relays information as to the location and nature of the incident. The line goes quiet for a minute drops the phone his ear and checks his flash is working.

I’m mostly oblivious to the communications, my body tensing as we hurtle over Mexico City’s potholed and speedbumped streets.

III

In ten minutes we arrive at the Barrio Buenas Aires, the corner of Dr. Vertes and Morones Prieto and the scene is a Kaleidoscope of red and blue flashing sirens. As Gabo finds a place to park the car, Luis has the door open, ready to jump out.

I hit the street running behind Luis and it is immediately apparent that this incident is still unfolding. At first sight I can see a plethora of police arriving and people are moving in all directions. To my left I can see that they are fleeing a nightclub, streaming through the door and scattering past the arriving policemen.

In front of the nightclub door lies the body, unattended, fallen between two parked cars. It is later revealed that the body belonged to one Ricardo Tovar Leyva, 45, commonly know as ‘El Charro’ or The Cowboy, who has recently suffered a shotgun wound to his head.

'El Charro' is not going anywhere for now and after a preliminary few photographs, Luis is off down the street following the action as it unfolds. It is difficult to decipher what is actually happening amid the confusion. Police scurry after the fleeing nightclub patrons, grabbing some and holding them for quick questioning. A man is dragged into a squad car kicking. He puts his head down as the media begin to assemble around the car, his face caught in freeze frames of red and blue light.

A Federal Police man in full flak jacked and helmet marches past me, short and impossibly squat, he looks like the Sandman from Fantastic Four. In a cordon of police cars, other officers brandish what I assume to be the murder weapon in the car headlights, a destructive looking thing that they twist and turn in curious examination.

The situation is highly charged. I spot the TV Azteca guys nearby and finally my eyes catch Luis’s long red Tampa Bay Buccaneers jacket as gunshots, three in quick succession, cackle from around the corner.

The tempo leaps again as Luis urges me to get down low. I do and find it hard to run as police begin to stream past me, pointing their weapons into a building site on the corner.

I crouch for a minute with Luis and Alex. I photograph the cops as they storm over the temporary chain link fence, evidently where the shots came from. Alex follows the police over, his large frame tumbling over the collapsed fence, his tiny HD camera still glued to his right hand. TV camera lights and flashguns illuminate the scene as the police surround the building site Portakabin.

The voices of the officers rise above everything, ordering whoever is inside to emerge with their hands up. Policemen have their guns aimed at the little site office as the door opens slowly. A heavy set, middle aged couple, scared out of their wits stand in the white light as police move to them. They are unarmed and although certainly not the culprits are most likely witnesses to the shooting, who, for their own safety may not want to give information to the authorities. I fleetingly wonder how they managed to climb into the building site so quickly as the man is dragged back across the fence in a hail of flashes and thrust into a police car.

Two more shots ring out, this time on the opposite corner and everyone scrambles again. I run across with the police officers and take up a spot behind a parked bus, crouching down as a line of cops take up positions facing the building, everyone screaming and shouting. I poke my head around as cops point to various windows and towards the roof. Two cops begin to scale the façade of the building.

Federales in heavy body armor line up across the street, other cops lean against a cruiser with their guns cocked, movie shootout style, three in a row. A helicopter begins to circle the building, descending low enough to kick up a cyclone of dust and leaves, whipping it across the street and into the faces of all assembled. The spotlight rakes across the building scanning it for activity. I’m shooting video and scrunching up my eyes against the dust and leaves.

Luis is on the corner and he is the only one of La Nota Roja I can see. On the other side of the bus, another man is dragged down the street and into a police car but I can’t tell if he was hiding out in the building or was the one firing at the cops. I shoot a picture through the dark window of the cop car but it is all black.

Luis, leaning against a lamppost, watching the proceedings, looking cool as you like. Instead of church and a few hours on the couch of a Sunday it seems he can be found at hanging out at the odd police shootout. Just another day at the office.

The helicopter zips off to another part of the city, the thwack of it’s rotar blades fading into the night.

I ask Luis what the fuck just happened but he kind of shrugs and I pass him by to see what has become of El Charro.

Order is being restored to the crime scene, police begin to stretch their hot pink ‘Peligro’ tape in a wide cordon around the body, pulling it tighter as it waves and flaps in the wind.

The body, obviously, has not moved. Dry winter leaves swirl gently in a pool of dark, crimson blood and a shock of bright red brain matter that left Tovar Leyva’s head with the force of the shotgun blast, a .30 caliber.

People begin to gather to look at the body and the restored order is once again punctuated as a small group, maybe friends or relatives arrive at the scene. Two women are distraught, screaming and crying and trying to push their way closer to the body past the police cordon only to be restrained and comforted by a female cop. They push their way along the cordon to get closer.

Another relative arrives, she twirls and spins, wailing, distraught and overwhelmed. She feints in the street, flat on her back, her arms flayed out beside her. Bystanders look on as the closest to her aid her to her feet, all the while the continuum of red and blue flashing police lights pulsing across the scene.

I’m roaming now, watching people watching the dead guy. A man holds a toy dog inside his jacket, both watch on with curiosity. Mothers arrive with prams and their youngsters, youths adjust their sportswear and toy with their mobile phones, comparing their knowledge of weapons, bullet trajectories and cars: Barrio Buenas Aires is a well known neighborhood for chop shops and the auto-mechanic underworld and the dispute between El Charro and his assassin is likely over stolen cars.

Traffic, long since blocked off from the busy intersection once again begins to move along one side of the street in deathly slow single file. A giant red Coca-Cola truck passes by and my mind drifts to memories of tv commercials; a scene of snow covered countryside and a caravan of rosy red trucks with jolly, illuminated Santa Clauses on the side, chiming their way along in the half light. I remember that it’s Christmas.

The forensics van arrives and the detail work begins. Two men place little yellow signs with numbers around the corpse, near the white BMW alongside which the deceased lies and at other areas of interest. It’s a curious sight, these men in white coats moving back and forth around the scene like curious tourists, taking photographs with utmost attention to detail and leaving their little markers like sightseeing spots ticked off their map.

Luis and Alex are smoking cigarettes and snapping the occasional picture. They already have everything they need for their story and have witnessed scenes like this many times. They’re ready to leave and head back to the ‘Monu’.

The white chalk lines are drawn and I’m still curious to see the scene through, to see the street empty out after the body has been lifted and to feel calm return to the Barrio Buenas Aries but the guys want to leave.

I make a few final frames, long exposures, of the forensics guys tending to the body of El Charro and make my way back to the car.

Gabriel clips his radio back to the sun visor above the drivers seat. I’m back to being lost in translation but Gabriel and Luis’ chatter is all about the scene we all just witnessed and I feel a little more involved. ‘Bien Cabron’ remarks Gabo. ‘Si Guey’, ‘yeah man’ confirms Luis as we pull away from the scene. ‘Una chinga madre’ is all I can muster by way of remark about the night's events so far.

A real motherfucker.

The radio bursts out another siren howl and the voice of a police man or an ambulance driver somewhere in the city. I look at the guys to see what’s happening, raising my eyes inquisitively. 'Zeta Siete' they say and I’m back in the world of codes and double talk. Gabriel presses the accelerator and Luis reaches into his bag to pull out his flashgun and we’re off again, I sit back in the seat and watch the city flying by, waiting to see what’s going on in Colonia Centro.