Border Patrol Stories
Piedras
Working San Diego Sector's line, you heard that war cry often. The harder you worked, the more you heard it. You never ever wanted to feel it. Sometimes you didn't get a warning, only the solid thud of a stone. Mankind's oldest weapon, the venerable rock, has been a first choice for deadly force at as far back as Cain vs. Abel, maybe even longer. No different on the border. Ammunition was plentiful, and those who used it were fairly skilled. The single word piedras had many translations, ranging from "I will throw rocks at you", "I am throwing rocks at you" or "let's all of us throw rocks at you". I vividly recall my first experience. Fresh off probation, I would race out to the field after dayshift muster to pick off stragglers left over from mids. I spied a guy walking back to the fence at E-3 and blazed up to grab the easy apprehension. He stopped and stooped, coming up with a softball sized rock in hand. He raised it to his shoulder and said nothing, staring me down. I responded to the threat as trained, pointing my revolver at his chest while he ignored commands to drop the rock. My first piedra, and a genuine Mexican standoff to boot.
Per Federal Regs, case law and self-preservation, I would have been legally justified to use my pistol to stop this threat. He hadn't thrown it yet, so do I let him have the first shot? Tools such as pepper spray and tasers were still light years away, so it was either fists or firearms. Body cams didn't exist to record the event, so I would only have my testimony to a jury deciding if I made the right move. In a micro-second, my mind shifted towards irrefutable documentation. I clicked the hammer back and took aim at the rock, an easy shot at ten feet. My rationale being that if my bullet hit his rock, it would be proof positive that he provoked the shot, and I could potentially disarm him and make the arrest. Immediately after that brainstorm, I realized that my fledgling career would not survive the fallout, so I took the only common sense path. "Vete a la chingagda" (get the hell outta here). He complied, we both surviving to tell the tale. I felt like crap for awhile backing down like that, but as I learned from my Journeymen and future experiences, it was likely the best resolution.
There was a common saying at the station about getting rocked. It generally went like so: "I heard you got rocked last night, why didn't you shoot?". Reply: "I looked down the sights of my trusty Smith & Wesson and they whispered Sweetgrass, Montana". Everyone knew what that meant. An agent had been struggling with a fighter at the fence while being bombarded by pieces of concrete thrown by a compadre sitting atop the fence. The agent's backup arrived and promptly shot the rocker, who turned out to be 16 years old. The media, egged on by human rights activists, took issue with the Patrol shooting a kid who merely tossed some pebbles. Even though the agent lawfully used deadly force to prevent his colleague from being brained, the public pressure was intense enough to cause his transfer to Sweetgrass, where theoretically he would never encounter another piedrasmoment. The kid survived his rocking experience with a colostomy bag, and even won a civil judgment of about 50 grand from the sympathetic American taxpayers. I knew where his house was on the Mexican side of the E-2 fence because it was the only shack in Colonia Libertad sporting a huge satellite TV dish on the roof.
I had to admire those border kids. They would wander over to the U.S. side to hunt rabbits and squirrels with, you guessed it, rocks. It didn't take long before they had a few carcasses hanging from their belts to be rendered into burritos or chili by their moms. In the squalid Colonia where they were born, rocks were their first toys. Breaking bottles in marksmanship contests soon turned to putting meat on the family table. As I watched them grow and throw, I understood why so many professional baseball hurlers come from humble beginnings in third world countries. These kids were really good. I wondered how many would graduate from friendly waves and smiles at La Migra to chucking rocks at us at 16 years old. I knew whenever that happened, the assaulted agents would be painted as Evil Yankee Oppressors shooting little kids innocently tossing pebbles.
Those innocent tosses came in three varieties. If you had the stillwatch post at E-1, just next to the Port of Entry, it would be mortar fire; rocks launched in a high arc over the fence in hopes of hitting your vehicle. Not much danger there unless they got lucky. Plunging fire from atop the fence was more worrisome, but sometimes you had a chance to move out of the beaten zone. Face to face duels were always a problem. I remember an agent found unconscious on the ground in the parking area of Imperial Beach Station, located danger close to the border fence. He had been brained by a rock and was leaking spinal fluid from his ear. It could happen anywhere, anytime. The most unlikely place I ever got rocked was far from the border along I-5, as I walked the freeway fence in search of a load driver who had bailed out on a stop. Nice California stucco homes were on the other side, places I could never afford to own. Maybe some helpful homeowner could assist me to locate the runner. But the hate apparently ran deep even here, as a golf ball sized stone sailed over my head, apparently thrown from someone's backyard. Maybe they grew up in La Libertad and still harbored a grudge. The most amusing rocking happened when an Agent on my unit, the colorful Pat Cory, fought fire with fire one night while patrolling the Razorback. Upon being assaulted by rock throwers, he grabbed a handful of his own and returned fire, beaning and arresting one of his tormentors. Pat's after-action report skills did not suffice to save him from a day on the beach, and prompted Deputy Chief Bill Veal to address our muster with the immortal words "if the Patrol wanted you to use rocks for self-defense, we would issue you a bucketful and have you qualify with 'em on Range Day".
Self defense, especially against rockers, was always a sore spot with the Patrol. The FBI was officially tasked with investigating all assaults on Federal Agents. Trouble was they never showed up, and the local U.S. Attorney would only ever consider charges if the assaulted agent was sufficiently bloodied. No assault charge on a shot assailant meant a big payday for the ambulance chaser attorney and his victim. We were literally between a rock and a hard place. One night after such an assault, Chief Patrol Agent Gus DeLaViña showed up and personally called the FBI duty agent. The agent told the Chief to preserve the scene and they would come out in the morning to investigate. The Chief curtly advised that his next phone call would be to the head of the FBI in D.C. unless he did his job and got his ass out there pronto. The relationship improved dramatically after that night. Thank you Chief! In a twist of fate down in El Paso, some FBI agents were assisting the Patrol working a train robbery epidemic along the border when two of their folks were dragged into Mexico. They got rocked and beaten comatose. You better believe no stone was unturned in that investigation. Welcome to Our World!
Per Federal Regs, case law and self-preservation, I would have been legally justified to use my pistol to stop this threat. He hadn't thrown it yet, so do I let him have the first shot? Tools such as pepper spray and tasers were still light years away, so it was either fists or firearms. Body cams didn't exist to record the event, so I would only have my testimony to a jury deciding if I made the right move. In a micro-second, my mind shifted towards irrefutable documentation. I clicked the hammer back and took aim at the rock, an easy shot at ten feet. My rationale being that if my bullet hit his rock, it would be proof positive that he provoked the shot, and I could potentially disarm him and make the arrest. Immediately after that brainstorm, I realized that my fledgling career would not survive the fallout, so I took the only common sense path. "Vete a la chingagda" (get the hell outta here). He complied, we both surviving to tell the tale. I felt like crap for awhile backing down like that, but as I learned from my Journeymen and future experiences, it was likely the best resolution.
There was a common saying at the station about getting rocked. It generally went like so: "I heard you got rocked last night, why didn't you shoot?". Reply: "I looked down the sights of my trusty Smith & Wesson and they whispered Sweetgrass, Montana". Everyone knew what that meant. An agent had been struggling with a fighter at the fence while being bombarded by pieces of concrete thrown by a compadre sitting atop the fence. The agent's backup arrived and promptly shot the rocker, who turned out to be 16 years old. The media, egged on by human rights activists, took issue with the Patrol shooting a kid who merely tossed some pebbles. Even though the agent lawfully used deadly force to prevent his colleague from being brained, the public pressure was intense enough to cause his transfer to Sweetgrass, where theoretically he would never encounter another piedrasmoment. The kid survived his rocking experience with a colostomy bag, and even won a civil judgment of about 50 grand from the sympathetic American taxpayers. I knew where his house was on the Mexican side of the E-2 fence because it was the only shack in Colonia Libertad sporting a huge satellite TV dish on the roof.
I had to admire those border kids. They would wander over to the U.S. side to hunt rabbits and squirrels with, you guessed it, rocks. It didn't take long before they had a few carcasses hanging from their belts to be rendered into burritos or chili by their moms. In the squalid Colonia where they were born, rocks were their first toys. Breaking bottles in marksmanship contests soon turned to putting meat on the family table. As I watched them grow and throw, I understood why so many professional baseball hurlers come from humble beginnings in third world countries. These kids were really good. I wondered how many would graduate from friendly waves and smiles at La Migra to chucking rocks at us at 16 years old. I knew whenever that happened, the assaulted agents would be painted as Evil Yankee Oppressors shooting little kids innocently tossing pebbles.
Those innocent tosses came in three varieties. If you had the stillwatch post at E-1, just next to the Port of Entry, it would be mortar fire; rocks launched in a high arc over the fence in hopes of hitting your vehicle. Not much danger there unless they got lucky. Plunging fire from atop the fence was more worrisome, but sometimes you had a chance to move out of the beaten zone. Face to face duels were always a problem. I remember an agent found unconscious on the ground in the parking area of Imperial Beach Station, located danger close to the border fence. He had been brained by a rock and was leaking spinal fluid from his ear. It could happen anywhere, anytime. The most unlikely place I ever got rocked was far from the border along I-5, as I walked the freeway fence in search of a load driver who had bailed out on a stop. Nice California stucco homes were on the other side, places I could never afford to own. Maybe some helpful homeowner could assist me to locate the runner. But the hate apparently ran deep even here, as a golf ball sized stone sailed over my head, apparently thrown from someone's backyard. Maybe they grew up in La Libertad and still harbored a grudge. The most amusing rocking happened when an Agent on my unit, the colorful Pat Cory, fought fire with fire one night while patrolling the Razorback. Upon being assaulted by rock throwers, he grabbed a handful of his own and returned fire, beaning and arresting one of his tormentors. Pat's after-action report skills did not suffice to save him from a day on the beach, and prompted Deputy Chief Bill Veal to address our muster with the immortal words "if the Patrol wanted you to use rocks for self-defense, we would issue you a bucketful and have you qualify with 'em on Range Day".
Self defense, especially against rockers, was always a sore spot with the Patrol. The FBI was officially tasked with investigating all assaults on Federal Agents. Trouble was they never showed up, and the local U.S. Attorney would only ever consider charges if the assaulted agent was sufficiently bloodied. No assault charge on a shot assailant meant a big payday for the ambulance chaser attorney and his victim. We were literally between a rock and a hard place. One night after such an assault, Chief Patrol Agent Gus DeLaViña showed up and personally called the FBI duty agent. The agent told the Chief to preserve the scene and they would come out in the morning to investigate. The Chief curtly advised that his next phone call would be to the head of the FBI in D.C. unless he did his job and got his ass out there pronto. The relationship improved dramatically after that night. Thank you Chief! In a twist of fate down in El Paso, some FBI agents were assisting the Patrol working a train robbery epidemic along the border when two of their folks were dragged into Mexico. They got rocked and beaten comatose. You better believe no stone was unturned in that investigation. Welcome to Our World!
Piedras
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