He escaped a 'panic house' in Mexico, where young drug users end up as hit men — or dead
'Drug addiction led me to a critical condition. I couldn't find a way out, and I was scared,' he told Noticias Telemundo.
A year ago, he managed to escape from a panic house (also known as panicueva, or panic cave) commonly used by organized crime gangs in Mexico. Some of these buildings, located in Guanajuato and other states where drug use is rampant, also serve as recruitment bases for young people selected to become hit men and operatives for these criminal groups.
'It's the place where you can go, buy your drugs, and get high right there,' said another 19-year-old who managed to escape a panic house and was interviewed by Noticias Telemundo on the condition that he remain anonymous for fear of retaliation.
"I entered a panic house and saw several women who had to prostitute themselves, and several of my friends got involved in selling drugs and ended up being killed,' said the young man. He said he spent five years living in one of the houses and eventually joined a local gang.
According to the latest report issued by the Mexican government, Guanajuato is the state with the highest number of homicides (980 from January to April). In February, the daily average reached 12.5. Last year, the Victimization and Security Perception Survey revealed that 87.5% of the population in Guanajuato considered public safety to be the most serious problem in the state.
"They've put a gun to my head, they've threatened me, they've told me I'm done, that's it. But the most horrible thing I've seen is how they killed my best friend,' the young man said, referring to his experience in the shelters.
'I was required to do many things ... they send us to train to use a firearm, all of that comes together and from there come the hit men, from there come the thieves, the hawks,' he said, referring to the murderers, thieves and drug traffickers.
Guanajuato is grappling with gang clashes over criminal activities such as fuel trafficking, and is also the epicenter of a growing methamphetamine epidemic. According to data from the Federal Ministry of Health, the addiction rate to this drug in the state grew 449% over the past 20 years.
For David Miranda, a counselor at the Las Joyas de León Addiction Assistance Center, a civil association, the rise in methamphetamine use is creating a social crisis in the state.
"They're recruiting more minors, ages 12 to 17,' Miranda said. 'Within these 'panic houses,' they recruit many minors who are now hit men.'
Noticias Telemundo visited the Las Joyas neighborhood in the municipality of León, where, according to the state's Security Secretariat, criminal groups have taken over a 380-unit housing complex.
'The situation in León right now is demanding and very serious,' Miranda said. 'Inside those houses there are women, girls, minors, and you see drug trafficking, trafficking of women, trafficking of everything."
Most panic houses are in working-class neighborhoods like Las Joyas. According to the state government, there could be up to 60,000 homes across Guanajuato currently being used for illegal drug use.
'In fact, you can see a panic house on any corner, anywhere. It's very easy to find them. There are many abandoned houses,' one of the young men interviewed by Noticias Telemundo said.
According to state figures, at least 10 people have been murdered in panic houses in the last two years, and around 400 neighborhoods in the state are struggling with high crime rates.
'León is the number one city in terms of drug dealing,' said Juan Mauro González, Guanajuato's secretary of security.
"Drug houses" aren't unique to Mexico; similar trends exist in other countries, such as drug houses in the United States or drug dens in Spain. 'While criminals may be attracted to abandoned houses, these are also spaces where potential victims and criminals tend to converge without surveillance. Our results support the idea that abandoned houses also generate crime,' said Lauren C. Porter, a professor at the University of Maryland who co-wrote a study on the issue.
"The most important thing to rehabilitate people is to change their mindset. They have to say they don't want that anymore, that they no longer want to suffer or be in that world where they were humiliated, abused, and forced to do things. They should want a different life; we do the rest and we help them,' said Miranda, who said his addiction center has a capacity to serve 150 people.
Meanwhile, young people like the ones interviewed by Noticias Telemundo continue to struggle to avoid falling back into addiction and the dangers of the "haunted houses" that abound on some areas of Guanajuato.
'I'm scared. I don't want them to catch me again and force me to do things,' said one of the men, who told Noticias Telemundo he wants to move to another neighborhood and have an honest job as a pizza maker, as he enjoys feeding people.
'My life is already very ruined, I was very humiliated,' he said. 'It's time to make a change.'
An earlier version of this story was first published in Noticias Telemundo.
This article was originally published on NBCNews.com
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Five people in blue work shirts bearing the car wash's logo made a beeline for the wall and appeared to use a bench to jump over. Someone gestured for Diaz to run. He couldn't hear the shouts of "migra." He walked a few steps, put a hand on his head, appearing confused. He jogged to the wall and pulled himself over, dropping out of sight. After he landed, Diaz felt pain shoot through his foot. He scaled a few more walls in backyards before running out onto Sultana Avenue. Agents spotted him and blocked his path. Diaz motioned that he couldn't hear. The agents took his phone and cuffed his hands in front of him, tight enough to bruise. They did not explain why he was under arrest or say why he was being taken. "I signal to them I can't hear, and they just go ahead and cuff me. They're very forceful," he said. "They don't care. They don't care if you understand. They just cuffed me. There's no explanation as to what's going on, no one told me anything.' He sat in the SUV. 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An agent with a badge around his neck approached Diaz, who motioned that he couldn't hear. The agent wrote on a piece of paper in Spanish. He removed the cuffs and Diaz wrote back that he only knew English. Another agent asked Diaz when he entered the country. "I don't remember, I was a baby, I don't know that story exactly," he said. "I couldn't give them those details." They asked if he had a green card. Diaz wrote no. "I thought they were going to ask me, 'Do you have DACA,'" he said. They never did. He thought they would check his wallet. His mother had taken his current work authorization card, which expires in October, so she could help him renew his permit. But his license was there. Diaz was finger printed and photographed, still in his work uniform. Inside the detention center, there was a bathroom, but no shower and no space to sleep. Despite so many people around him, Diaz said, he felt alone. Diaz's family was desperate to find him. His mother, Maria, had gotten a call from a relative telling her the car wash had been hit by ICE. The family shared their locations on their phones, and Miguel zoomed in on his brother's, the detention center in downtown L.A. Miguel grabbed Diaz's work permit and headed there. But he was turned away with no information. The family couldn't find Diaz on the ICE locator. Maria feared her middle son, a slight 5-foot-5, would be deported to Mexico, where he wouldn't be able to read signs. Life was already hard there; what would it be like for Diaz, she wondered. He doesn't know Mexican Sign Language. "I'm never going to see him again," Maria thought. The family called Muro's office that day and spoke with an assistant. The immigration firm was booked out with appointments two months in advance. But when the raids began, Muro instructed her staff to screen those detained to see if they could help or refer them out. That evening, she learned of Diaz's case. She called the family. After learning Miguel had had no luck finding his brother downtown, Muro drove to an ICE office in San Bernardino. An officer in the parking lot gave her the phone number and email address for a supervisor at the B-18 detention center where Diaz was being held. She called. It was around 7:30 p.m. No one answered. So she sent an email. "Help DEAF MUTE CLIENT DETAINED WITH DACA," the subject line read. She attached Diaz's current work permit, which had been issued by U.S. Citizenship & Immigration Services. 'Since he had DACA, under any other period of time in my time practicing, this would have been somewhat easy," Muro said. "You show up with the DACA approval notices and talk to a supervisor and I'm almost certain he would have been released." The supervisor responded, saying he would look into it. By June 15, Diaz was on a plane to Texas. It was his first time flying. He spent the trip in handcuffs. When Diaz arrived at a detention center in El Paso, he changed out of his work uniform and into a blue shirt and pants. Officers kept him in a cell by himself. Diaz said he received pen and paper, on which he would ask to go to the bathroom. He had never felt more isolated. At times he cried and wondered if his family was crying too. He spent most of the time sleeping, tossing and turning on the hard bunk bed. Sometimes he joined other detainees watching TV. There were no subtitles. 'Day would come and it was the same thing," he recalled. "Morning, afternoon, evening, I was isolated.' Diaz saw people who were scared. Like many, he prayed. "For God to help me and to save me," he said. "I just wanted to be safe." Although the ICE locator showed Diaz in El Paso, Muro struggled to find him, even when she provided the facility with his 'alien registration number,' assigned to noncitizens. It wasn't until she provided a variation of his name that they were able to track him down. She sent proof of Diaz's DACA protection, but he remained detained. Muro learned that the government in May had filed a motion to revive Diaz's administratively closed case. In recent months, Muro said she's received 40 motions from the government that involved reopening administratively closed cases. At least one involved someone who was already granted lawful permanent residency. Diaz's case, she said, had yet to be put back on the court calendar. Muro tried to find a way to connect with Diaz as he was detained in Texas. The supervisor told her the facility did not have text telephone devices, used by people with hearing or speech disabilities to send and receive text messages. Muro saw her client for the first time on Webex at his bond hearing on July 2. During the hearing in El Paso, Diaz, hunched over, hair disheveled, turned toward the camera to watch an interpreter explain the proceedings. He said it was the first time in weeks someone communicated with him using sign language. Other than acknowledging when the judge asked questions, Diaz kept his hands clasped in his lap. Muro told the judge that Diaz's removal case had been administratively closed in 2013. She said he has DACA protection, that it was just renewed and would not expire until 2027. A Department of Homeland Security lawyer who sat at a table near Diaz said that an addendum in Diaz's arrest record in Texas acknowledged that he had DACA. She added that Diaz's case remained administratively closed, which appeared to puzzle the judge. "I never have had that before, where I have a bond request on an admin closed case," the judge said. "This is the first time." The government lawyer explained that Diaz had been picked up during "an at-large operation by ERO and HSI," both arms of ICE. The judge questioned whether he even had jurisdiction to grant bond. "You do have jurisdiction. He should not even be detained," Muro said. "He was lawfully working at the Temple City Car Wash when ICE raided the car wash. I can discuss the illegal arrest later." The judge asked if Diaz had any criminal history. The government lawyer said no. "There's no evidence in the record that would suggest that you are a danger," the judge told Diaz. Muro told the judge her client was not a flight risk and had maintained his DACA over the years. The judge set bond at the minimum — $1,500. He gave Homeland Security the discretion to monitor Diaz but said the agency was not required to do so. "Good luck," the judge told Diaz. "I hope that everything works out for you." The following day, Diaz was finally able to talk to Muro and his family. His mother cried. He felt like crying too. His brother told him he would soon be released. Diaz asked if his brother had retrieved his car. Miguel assured him he had. Someone had even scrawled a plea to traffic enforcement officers on the burgundy 2005 Toyota Camry: "The owner of this car was detained by ICE this morning. A hard working man working everyday at the carwash. I hope he is released or his family picks up his vehicle. Please don't issue a ticket." On July 8, a Tuesday, an agent signaled Diaz to get up from his bed. He wrote to Diaz that his bond had been paid and he could leave. Twenty-five days had passed since his arrest. It was his mother's birthday. "Finally, I'm free," he thought. But before he left, the officers put a black monitor on his left ankle. Diaz didn't know what the monitor was or why it had been attached to his ankle. The officers handed him a sheet of paper with instructions on the device. It was in Spanish. Miguel and a cousin bought flights to El Paso. Diaz waited in a shelter. When they came to pick him up, Miguel was given his brother's belongings, including his wallet. The Real ID was no longer inside. Expenses kept stacking up. They rented a hotel. Because they couldn't fly without Diaz's ID, Miguel scrambled to rent a car. Miguel noticed a change in his brother, who often smiled and laughed, but now seemed reserved. Diaz would ask permission to eat. To use the restroom. To shower. "I knew he had a fear,' Miguel said. 'I think he felt he had to be a certain type of way.' Diaz's cousin and brother took turns driving the more than 11 hours back to L.A. Diaz anxiously checked the ankle monitor. They passed through New Mexico. Then Arizona. Diaz, who had never before left the state of California, marveled at the $2 gas. But he also realized that people noticed the ankle monitor. His heart raced. "They didn't call the police or anything, but I know they were looking at me," he said. He did not start to calm down until they reached California. As night fell, Diaz's father, Miguel Sr., clutched his phone outside the apartment, watching his son's location draw nearer with each minute. "Vienen en San Pedro," Miguel Sr. announced. They were on a nearby street. And he still called his son to make sure they were almost home. "Ya mero llegas verdad?" "Ya estoy en la esquina," Miguel Jr. said. They were around the corner. As Diaz shuffled toward the stairs leading to his apartment, his father bounded down. He held a blue poster the neighbors had made. It read: "Welcome Home Javier." Another poster delivered the same message, this time in sign language. Diaz's eyes were blank, his arms heavy at his sides. Miguel Sr. embraced his son. Neighbors cried as they hugged the man they had known since he was a boy. They patted his hair, which had grown long in detention. He hiked up his pants leg to display the ankle monitor. His mother was waiting in the hallway of their small apartment. He reached for her, hugged her tight. As he wiped away her tears, his own threatened to spill over. Finally, he was home. Sign up for Essential California for news, features and recommendations from the L.A. Times and beyond in your inbox six days a week. This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.
