The Fall of the Last Patrón.
Even by South Texas standards, the undoing of Starr County sheriff Eugenio Falcón, Jr., was one for the books.
Even by South Texas standards, the undoing of Starr County sheriff Eugenio Falcón, Jr., was one for the books.
Except for the time she spent as a police officer in Plano and Tyler—when she couldn’t get past the “emotional shutdown” required by the job—Kim Wozencraft has always been a writer. She kept a journal as a child, as a student at Richland College in Dallas, and later, during a
In 1979, as an undercover cop in Tyler, I got hooked on drugs. Nearly two decades later I’m clean, but the consequences of my addiction haunt me still.
The cocaine goes north. The money goes south. And Mexican kingpins like Juan García Abrego laugh all the way to the bank—a Texas bank, that is.
Gangland-style executions are par for the course these days in Juárez, where drugs— and despair—flow freely.
A suburban mom’s patience is tested by drug testing.
Up on federal drug charges for the second time in fifteen years, the impresario of Antone’s nightclub in Austin may finally have to face the music.
What does McAllen’s Guillermo González Calderoni know about Mexican political corruption—and when will he start talking?
Now that Joe Chagra is dead, it’s time to clear his name in the 1979 assassination of San Antonio federal judge John Wood.
Texas’ top drug lawyer helps dope dealers and cocaine kingpins beat their raps—and he’s proud of it.
Steve Earle feels alright.
Kim Wozencraft meant to spend her life putting drug pushers behind bars—until she became an addict. Now, more than a decade later, she’s fighting against the justice system she once embraced.
Brig Marmolejo may have been convicted of bribery, but he is more than just another crooked cop in South Texas. His is the story of borders easily crossed—the ageless parable of the Rio Grande Valley.
The shocking story of Austin’s underworld, and how a state bureaucrat got in too deep.
Police officers Randy Harris and Swany Davenport were called heroes for busting Dallas drug dealers. But when they broke the laws they had pledged to uphold, the dealers cried foul—and the heroes got busted.
Agents target the flow of contraband on the border.
Steve Benifiel was an old-fashioned outlaw who practically owned the town of Ranger—until he was busted for running one of West Texas’s biggest drug rings.
Drug treatment seldom works: at many centers, greedy entrepreneurs prey on frightened parents and troubled kids. But one teenager’s parents decided to take one last, desperate step: they sent their son to the toughest program in Texas.
When crack comes to a neighborhood, it infiltrates, it corrupts, and it destroys—and there is nothing the cops can do about it.
Dealing drugs along the border is a risky, illegal business—unless you happen to be one of the nine Texans licensed to sell peyote.
When he played for the Dallas Cowboys, Hollywood Henderson had everything. Here he tells how he lost it.
There are three secrets to Miguel Felix Gallardo’s multimillion-dollar empire of drugs and power. Corruption, corruption, and corruption.
I smoked marijuana all day every day for several years. It took me almost a year to quit—and now I wonder if I’ll ever get straight.
Skinner Brown, a 63-year-old farmer and business man, was a pillar of his small-town society until he was busted for possessing $12 million worth of marijuana.
The life—promising beginning, overripe middle, bloody end—of Lee Chagra, the biggest drug lawyer in El Paso.
The Denton millionaire hated drugs and liked cops. He also liked Muscles Foster, a footloose cowboy who was one of Texas’ biggest drug runners.
Bob Doherty was a Texas ranger who believed in the myth of the Old West; Greg Ott was a college dope dealer, a child of the sixties. When they met, it destroyed both their lives.
The secret life of the man who tells the Man.
What’s good for marijuana is good for Starr County.
How a doctor got hooked on drugs, and how he got off.
Dope sellers obey the law—of supply and demand.
What is it like to miss the sexual revolution (and some others) by a mere handful of years?
Those who enforce our narcotics laws often use the stuff themselves.
In which Texas comes into the 20th century, barely.
At least 90 are already dead as drug lords fight for routes into Texas.