His latest work, “Down by the River,” just out from Simon & Schuster, is a wondrous feat of both reporting and writing. In it, Bowden tackles the 1995 shotgun murder of Bruno Jordan, the younger brother of Patrick Jordan, one of the DEA’s rising stars.
Like all great stories, Bowden uses one small tale to illustrate many larger truths, pulling back the curtains on the deep corruption in the Mexican government, the occasional complicity of the United States and the senseless and brutal violence of the Mexican cartels. “Down by the River,” has been compared to the movie “Traffic,” and in tracing Bruno’s brother’s slow decent into despair it does mirror that multifaceted illustration of the drug world’s many-tentacled reach into American society. But unlike Hollywood, Bowden has no pat answers or conclusions–Bruno’s murder remains unsolved–and this book, with its infusion of existential hope, is one of the great examples of reportage this year. Recently, Bowden talked to NEWSWEEK’s Seth Mnookin from his home in Arizona.
NEWSWEEK: This is a pretty labor-intensive book. What got you started on what turned into a seven-year project?
Charles Bowden: In 1995, I saw a news clip about the murder of Bruno Jordan, and I got in my car and went to El Paso. It seemed like this could be a way to penetrate the absolute tissue of lies that covers everything in the drug world. I thought maybe I’d write a magazine story. I’d been doing drug stories for about 10 years as a kind of sideline.
What got you started writing about drugs?
I live in Tucson, and in 1985 I started noticing a real change in my part of the world–suddenly there were Uzis in the backcountry. That’s a big change from the days when the drug trade around here was some fraternity boys going down to Mexico to buy a backpack of marijuana. I didn’t realize at first that this was because they’d [U.S. DEA agents] shut down Florida as a drug entry point, and Mexico became a real hotspot. And the papers here just ignored it all, like it would be bad for the town’s image. Right when this was happening, I started a magazine [City Magazine, in Tucson], partly out of a sense that I was going to put this on record. So by the time Bruno came around, I’d already been saturated. This was naked, it was going on everywhere, people were getting killed all the time. By the time Bruno came along, I was getting frustrated. I knew Bruno’s brother was a big shot in the DEA, and I gave him a call, thinking maybe this would be a story big enough to get to some of the truth.
And Phil Jordan just agreed to talk like that?
No, he said he wouldn’t talk unless I came down there, partly because he wanted to see me and partly because he doesn’t trust talking on the phone. So I got in my truck and drove down. And here I am, seven years later.
When you started this reporting, did you think Bruno Jordan’s murder would eventually be solved?
Yes, I did, because of Phil Jordan’s clout. But that was my naivete. When you finish the book, you know what happened, you just don’t have the proof. That’s how the drug world works. There are some stones that can’t be upturned. Jesus, if the head of DEA intelligence, if he can’t pick up the phone and get the FBI or the CIA to help out–of course that was Jordan’s awakening. He thought he’d get help. I mean, he’s a guy who briefed Janet Reno! And none of that helped.
You haven’t always written these novelistic nonfiction books. What’s your career arc been like?
I actually used to work for a daily newspaper, and back in 1984 I just up and quit. I founded my own monthly news magazine [City Magazine], which was successful, but eventually not successful enough to survive a recession. And for the last decade, I’ve essentially lived my life as a freelancer, writing for magazines, writing books. I just finished a 250-word piece for GQ on a bar in El Paso that’ll get me $500. I made a decision to do what I wanted to do. The tradeoff is total insecurity, but I believe in the things I’m doing. In fact, a lot of times I’ll just go out and do the f–king story and then sell it once it’s done. I’m finishing up a story I’ve spent the last 18 months on that I haven’t submitted, a story about essentially a real-life Rambo, a professional narc. He’s killed three people, shot a bunch more and my story is about what this does to his head. When you’re in that world, he can’t find many people who can relate to that. So we started out as adversaries, because on a fundamental level he wants to keep information secret and I want to get it out. But I got down to that level of experience. He’s not a psychopath–what he is is a natural-born killer. He’s had two or three partners blown away already.
It seems like a dangerous story to be working on.
Well, it’s not as if I’m some tough guy. I like to garden and cook. But I’ve been working with and writing about this world for so long, it’s hard to leave–it’s a variation of Sy Hersh, with his sources in intelligences. People just keep showing up with suitcases full of stuff, of information. I didn’t set out to be the historian of the drug world; it was inadvertent. And I’ve always been attracted to the stories that go to the edge because the only way you can ever understand the middle is by going to the edge. It’s the way societies reveal themselves more when they’re under heavy stress, when they go to war. You could learn more about New York on September 12 [2001] than you could earlier that month, right?
Were there times working on “Down by the River” when you felt threatened? Or when you were threatened?
There were times when technically I was in danger. But when you’re on a story, everything becomes calculation. Objective danger simply becomes an obstacle. I learned years ago I could do things on a story I simply wouldn’t do on my own. At one point, the DEA told me there was a contract on me, but I don’t know if that was true. I mean, if it was a serious contract, logically I’d be dead. I just thought to hell with it–I’m gonna finish it.
Did this book change your views about the war on drugs?
The book takes no position. Partially that’s out of good manners–I’m not going to use Bruno Jordan’s body as a pulpit. But interdiction is a failure. What we’ve accomplished during the last 30 years is to make every drug more available and cheaper. Now, Phil Jordan still believes in what we call the war on drugs. And he’s a friend of mine; I just think the game isn’t worth the candle. And I also think we’re helping to destroy Mexico by creating a huge new power base that’s an enemy of civil society. It’s hard to find a good argument against legalization. Besides, we’re a drug nation anyway. There are drug trades advertised on TV every night. And, let’s be real, if there’s a dangerous drug in our society, it’s alcohol. We don’t have shelters full of battered women because of illegal drugs. There’s no woman with a black eye because her old man had a joint on Saturday night.
