The Sheriff Who Went to Pot
Hidalgo count’s top cop, brig marmolejo, was a champion of law and order—until mexican drug smugglers made him an offer that even he couldn’t refuse.
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At other times, however, the children and the food were not present. Only Beltran and his wife were; and, according to both the Beltrans and Hidalgo County officers, these one-on-one meetings took place behind the sheriff’s closed door, with either Marmolejo or his chief jailer, Mario Salinas, guarding the door. By November 1992, Beltran was enjoying conjugal visits with a second woman: 25-year-old Mariadalia Huerta-Solis, his secret girlfriend from Morelia. Guardado faithfully transported Huerta-Solis across the border without the knowledge of Beltran’s wife, whisking her into the jail on weekends and taking her directly to the sheriff’s office, where Beltran would then be summoned. Marmolejo would leave his office, close the door behind him, and let the two sweethearts have full run of the place. “It was well known that the sheriff let couples have closed-door meetings in his office,” a former deputy says. “The problem was, he kept a lot of weapons in there. He had a submachine gun, a .45, his personal revolver, and several shotguns. It scared the shit out of me.”
Marmolejo admits that he granted Beltran contact visits in his office but insists that the door was never closed, that the visits were not conjugal, and that he never received money for these favors. When at the sheriff’s trial the Beltran camp produced a ledger detailing payments to Marmolejo, the sheriff’s supporters scoffed at the ledger’s authenticity. Yet it is well known that major drug dealers—including, as a raid revealed, Ramon “El Lechero” Martinez—frequently keep books of their transactions, as there is no other way to maintain an accounting of their cash-only business. Beltran’s ledger, which was maintained by one of his daughters, listed the daily expenses incurred by Guardado on his trips to Edinburg: hotels, cabrito, gasoline, commissary funds for Beltran, and payoffs for “Sr. Marmolejo.” These notations correspond precisely with records gathered by the federal government. In other words, for Beltran’s ledger to be falsified, the conspirators to this scheme would have to include his family, federal agents, the Border Patrol, the telephone company, two Edinburg hotels, and the commissary staff at Brig Marmolejo’s jail.
Homero Beltran had made a mockery of the jailhouse; it had become his brothel. In the meantime, Marmolejo had received thousands of dollars, and now and again Beltran had sweetened the pot with a few juicy noncash morsels. On October 16, 1991, Guardado paid $5,000 for a Marmolejo campaign billboard featuring the slogan, “It takes a mighty big man to fill these boots.” Three months later, while Beltran and Guardado were visiting with Marmolejo in his office, Guardado unveiled eight Rado watches, each worth more than $1,000. Beltran’s brother-in-law explained that the watches were late Christmas gifts for Marmolejo, chief jailer Mario Salinas, two captains, and their wives.
I don’t wear a watch,” Marmolejo told Guardado and Beltran. Still, he took the watch home anyway, along with the watch for his wife. When the three other officers asked the sheriff whether they should accept the watches, their superior shrugged and said, “It’s up to you.” The law says otherwise: Accepting a gift from an inmate is a state misdemeanor for police officers. But at the Hidalgo County jail, everything, including the penal code, was negotiable.
The seduction of Brig Marmolejo continued. When Guardado offered to give the sheriff a 1989 Trans Am, Marmolejo politely declined; after all, a man of his girth might find things a little tight inside a sports car. Beltran’s brother-in-law then offered the TransAm to Marmolejo’s daughter Irma as a wedding gift. Irma was excited, but she looked to her father for guidance. “It’s up to you,” he said. Marmolejo’s daughter took the car in November 1992. That same month, she took it to a used-car dealer and traded it in for another car worth $10,000.
In early 1993 the relationship between Marmolejo and the Beltran camp went one fatal step further. During one of the sheriff’s many chats with the trafficker, Beltran happened to mention that there was a produce shed near Edinburg that he would like to sell. The shed had been purchased in the name of a Beltran relative as a means of laundering drug money. When Beltran said he had never actually seen the shed but knew that it was on Alamo Road, Marmolejo’s eyes lit up. “I believe I know right where you’re talking about,” he said. “If I find anybody that wants to buy this shed, I’ll tell you.”
It was an awfully kind offer, even coming from un jefe muy simpatico. In the spirit of things, Beltran dangled an incentive: If Marmolejo helped sell the shed, he would receive a cut. Specifically, he could pocket the down payment, which was figured to run in the neighborhood of $20,000. Thereupon the sheriff set out to work on behalf of the Valley’s biggest marijuana supplier. He drove Guardado to see the produce shed, which was being leased by a lemon and lime dealer named Joe Garcia. Guardado collected the month’s $3,000 rent from Garcia, who was instructed to make the check out to Marmolejo. The sheriff would later insist that the checks were made out in his name because Guardado didn’t have a bank account, and that he reimbursed Guardado with $3,000 in cash that he happened to have stashed in his office desk.
Garcia didn’t quite know what to make of the arrangement. Still, if the sheriff was involved, surely things were on the up-and-up. While visiting with Garcia, Marmolejo mentioned that the shed was for sale. “If you want to buy the shed,” the sheriff added, “the owner is incarcerated here. I’ll put you in touch with him.”
The sheriff’s accommodating ways had reached new heights, but he wasn’t through yet. Marmolejo arranged for a contact visit between Garcia and Beltran to facilitate the sale. Then he visited an Edinburg appraiser and asked him to assess the value of the shed. Finally, on the date of the appraisal, Marmolejo personally delivered the $450 fee. He had become, in effect, a realtor—though only for a single client.
The energy that Brig Marmolejo devoted to assisting a convicted drug dealer’s business ventures wasn’t what one expected of a sheriff, not even in the Valley. On the other hand, it was the same sort of energy he used to display in the early days—at the expense of crooks, rather than on their behalf.
IN APRIL 1993 AGENTS received a tip about the sale of a produce shed on Alamo Road. When confronted by three agents. Produce vendor Joe Garcia acknowledged that he was buying it from a Hidalgo County inmate named Homero Beltran. But, added Garcia nervously, he was srue nothing illegal was going on. After all, Sheriff Brig Marmolejo was involved in the deal.
A tingle went up the federal agents’ collective spine.
The agents wasted no time in interrogating Beltran. “We’ve got you on another money-laundering deal, Homero,” the inmate was told by assistant U.S. attorney Greg Surovic. “Tell us everything there is to know about this Edinburg produce shed or we’ll file new charges.”
Beltran could see right through Surovic’s bluff. The trafficker had all the leverage on his side. He had been fishing for a modified-sentence deal from the feds for some time. Now he could see what they were hungry for. Since he didn’t need favors at the Hidalgo County jail anymore, it made perfect sense to throw Brig Marmolejo overboard. Beltran sent the feds away that first meeting, saying he would have to discuss things with his attorney. He remained coy during a second meeting with Surovic, while at the same time dropping a few tantalizing hints. By the third meeting, he was apparently given reason to believe that a reduced sentence with imminent. Homero Beltran then commenced to sing Marmolejo’s swan song.
Beltran ordered Guardado to cooperate with the feds, who promptly equipped Guardado with a wire and his truck with a video camera. On July 15, 1993, he arranged for a meeting with marmolejo to discuss business. While the two men drove aimlessly through Edinburg in Guardado’s truck, Guardado handed Marmolejo several thousand dollars, which the sheriff had asked for so he could build a pavilion on his ranch for his daughter’s wedding reception. Marmolejo stealthily snatched up the money and slid it down his boot. As he did, he looked up and saw a familiar building. The sight made him laugh. “Look, the courthouse!” he exclaimed.
The cash was referred to by both men, rather guardedly, as a “loan.” Of course, the longtime sheriff of Hidalgo County didn’t have to hit up an alleged Mexican cop for money: He had any number of banker friends who frequently approved loans for him without so much as a credit check. But this was a special kind of loan—one that, as Guardado assured Marmolejo when the two men met again four days later, he need not pay back. The sheriff protested mildly. Then he relented, saying, while the tapes rolled, “Damn, you’re all right!”
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