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Provided by Rob Jerrard LLB LLM
University of Texas Press
One Ranger A Memoir
Authors: H.
Joaquin Jackson with David Marion Wilkinson
ISBN: 0292702590
Publishers: University of
Texas Press
Price $24.95 (£12.99)
Publication Date: Feb 2005
Prologue
Most everyone has heard the story in one
form or another.Some say
it's a myth. Others claim it's as certain as Noah's flood and
Sherman's march to the sea. Doesn't really matter because the tale
speaks to the truth. The definitive version
is sometimes attributed
to one man, but I've always felt like it
pertains to us all.Of the
countless variations told and celebrated
since I was a boy, this is
the one I always liked best:
The sheriff paced up and down the rail
depot, waiting for a train. A
few days before, a riot had broken out in
his Spindletop-era
boomtown. His bootstrap resources
overwhelmed, he placed a frantic
call to his governor in Austin. Don't
worry, he was told. We're
sending the Rangers down to sort it out. He
hung up the phone and
breathed a little easier, hoping he could
hold off the mob and the
looters just a while longer.
Finally came the day of the sheriff's
salvation. He stood at the
railhead, chain-smoked handrolls, and
compulsively checked his
pocket watch. He finally heard the whistle,
then the squeal of the
brakes. He stubbed out his cigarette with
the toe of his boot and
waited for the train to coast to a stop.
He waited for a dozen or more confident,
well-armed, hard-eyed men
to climb down from the passenger car,
assess the situation, and then
decisively restore order. Several unlikely
candidates emerged with
their luggage in hand and, without any eye
contact, drifted away
from the station. The sheriff's resolve
faded as he noted that the
last man to exit had a silver badge stuck
to his dusty lapel.
He couldn't believe his eyes. Had he not
explained the seriousness
of his situation to the governor? Surely
there were more officers.
The tall, raw-boned traveler could pass for
a cowboy if not for his
tie. His slacks were tucked neatly into the
shank of his boots. His
spurs were probably packed away in the
saddlebags he had slung over
his shoulder. He seemed oblivious to the
sheriff's despair as he
offered him his hand. His duster fluttered
open to reveal twin
engraved Colt .45's hanging on each hip.
"Only one Ranger?" the sheriff
said.
"Well, there's only one riot,"
the Ranger said.
That's one story. There are countless
others that belong to the
hundreds of men who are part of a proud
tradition close to two
centuries old. I am only one Ranger out of
those who came before me
and those who will ride on ahead. Only one
story belongs to me.
***
All rise! I snapped out of my trance when
the bailiff demanded our
attention. I stood as I've done a thousand
times before. Soon the
judge swept in, his black robes flowing. He
had an academic look
about him, accentuated by the horn-rimmed
glasses that saddled the
bridge of his nose. When he peered over the
top of his specs and
scanned the courtroom, I sensed a tinge of
arrogance that told me he
liked his job. He'd probably learned to
sleep well at night with the
power he lords over people. I never did.
Normally the judge and I are allies, equal
partners in the justice
system. My kind round them up and the
judiciary sorts them out. The
owlish New Mexico judge and I didn't come
close to seeing eye-to-eye
on this case, though we were both deeply
disturbed by the crime. I
could tell by the way he set his jaw and
spoke through clenched
teeth that he was angry about what
happened. But me, I was torn
apart.
I squirmed in a creaking chair that in no
way was designed to
accommodate my six-foot-five-inch frame.
I've spent years in these
places, and they all have the same stale
feel. The architects had
tried to warm this Albuquerque courtroom.
There were plenty of
lacquered wood paneling and trim to imbue a
reverent air; acoustic
ceiling tiles to absorb random wailing;
microphones everywhere to
make sure everybody heard the horror of
what was being said; padded
seats in the jury box like you'd find in a
fancy movie theater. But
the designers failed. This was a sad, cold
place where every day the
countless variations of human tragedy
played out their last act.
Build courtrooms as fancy and modern as you
like, I'd rather be
anywhere but inside one. Especially on that
day in February 1992.
Sitting at the defendant's table in his
prison coveralls was a
deeply troubled twenty-eight-year-old man
on trial for a senseless,
unpremeditated double homicide. Local
authorities had found two boys
shot to death in the desert, and they
wanted this third one to pay
for it. Both victims were homosexuals, which
allowed the prosecutors
to up the ante and classify the offense as
a hate crime. Local
authorities had apprehended two suspects.
One proved to be the
faster talker. The other sat in chains in
front of this judge. The
defendant and I flinched when the judge
pounded his gavel.
I've put hundreds of people in the
defendant's predicament, but
never in New Mexico, a place that has
always been special to me. In
the 1950s, I cowboyed on the Bell Ranch in
the state's northwest
corner. I worked cattle operations like it
on the sea of grass that
stretches across the Southern Plains. I
broke horses, branded
yearlings, and rode fence as I entered
manhood, steeped in the
culture and legends of the American West.
While Eisenhower was still
president, economic circumstances dictated
that I had to leave that
world behind.
Thirty years later I returned to the
lonesome places, the Big
Country of southwest Texas. I make my
living there now and I don't
expect I'll ever leave it. While I watched
this trial run its
course, though, I was hundreds of miles out
of my jurisdiction,
hundreds of miles from home.
I didn't know it, but I was about a year
away from retiring in
protest. I didn't see that coming any
better than I had imagined my
appearance at a murder case in New Mexico.
I was struck, despite years of my best
efforts to connect with the
defendant, by how little we had in common.
The only thing we could
agree on was that he had probably thrown
his life away.
I knew better than most how ruthless the
justice system could be.
The judge was going to drop the boom on
that kid. Still I prayed for
the court's mercy. In fact, I took the oath
and testified to several
reasons the defendant deserved it.
In 1992 I was an active officer in the
oldest and most legendary law
enforcement agency in the United States. As
a Texas Ranger, I have
always understood that I was part of a
rich, proud tradition. I'd
drain the last drop of blood from my body
to uphold it. The Rangers
have been the most effective, independent
law enforcement agency in
history. We evolved perfectly attuned to
our time and place—for
Texas has long been a sort of human
Galapagos, an unsettled country
of conflicting cultures and social
contradictions, a rugged, ragtag
region born with wars raging on two
disputed borders. Young Texas
battled her enemies for five straight
decades, pausing only to send
her sons to fight in America's wars. The
Tejanos, the pioneers of
Mexican descent, fought horse Indians for
over a century before
Anglos ever set foot in this country. Such
violence created a
special breed.
Unlike most of the American West, the Texas
frontier wasn't settled
by trappers, miners, and mountain men. The
family farmer settled
Texas, often in neighborhoods claimed in
blood by the Comanche,
Kiowa, and Lipan Apache, setting the stage
for one of the most
desperate and horrific racial and
territorial contests in human
history.
West of the Colorado River the rain played
out. After the farmers
defeated the plains tribes, the droughts
rose up and thunderheads
gave way to clouds of pale dust. Such harsh
conditions bred the best
and worst of humankind. Weary of all the
bloodshed, the people
demanded order before law. In a tradition
dating back at least a
thousand years, the young and the brave
hunted down their people's
enemies wherever they were. In the 1870s,
such men wore a silver
star cut from a Mexican cinco peso coin. In
1966, I pinned one on my
chest.
Change came quickly for the Rangers during
my tenure. Texas evolved
into an urban society. My children's
generation seemed to care less
about traditions that were sacred in the
house where I was raised.
In the 1960s, the long-disputed
Texas/Mexico border erupted in the
fight for civil rights. The drug culture
gave rise to drug lords,
ruthless killers with more money and power
than many Third World
countries. Nothing in my Depression-era
upbringing on the High
Plains had prepared me for any of this. And
yet there it all was,
snarling at every Texas Ranger straddling
the past and present.
Mix all that social commotion with your
run-of-the-mill crimes in
the Texas borderlands—contraband whiskey
and dope smuggling, armed
robbery, gambling, prostitution, livestock
rustling, burglary,
gangs, and murder—and you can see why my
plate was full.
Then this New Mexico murder case took
possession of my life.
Suddenly I was way out of my league. I
should have been consoled by
the many blessings that came my way. How
many country-boy cops make
it to the movies? I played the sheriff in
Tommy Lee Jones's
production of The Good Old Boys. I had a
cameo role as an air force
officer in Blue Sky. I posed for one of the
most successful covers
of Texas Monthly magazine. I was featured
in articles in Life and
Rolling Stone. I spent three weeks
preparing Nick Nolte for the lead
role in Extreme Prejudice. His costume for
that movie was an exact
replica of how I dressed every day for
work. I didn't care much for
the movie, but, by God, Nolte looked great.
Folks began to recognize
me after all this. I looked around and it
appeared that I had become
a little bit famous. My job as a Ranger
laid all of that at my feet.
In the mid-1980s I was transferred to the
Big Bend country. I
patrolled the largest and by far the most
beautiful jurisdiction of
any Ranger in the state. My family had
everything we had ever hoped
for. My wife and I bought a home with a
view at the base of the Del
Norte Mountains. She earned two master's
degrees and settled into a
fulfilling career in education. After
overcoming the tragic
accidental death of his best boyhood
friend, my oldest son was
thriving in the Marine Corps. My youngest
boy was a student athlete
and scholar, and would soon join me in law
enforcement.
My career was at a pinnacle. My life seemed
full. I felt like I had
accomplished something in this world, that
my work had made a
difference. I looked out my window and saw
God's hand at work all
around me in the form of an ocotillo cactus
in full bloom after a
rare summer shower or a black chin
hummingbird damn near pecking at
my nose. And I was a part-time movie star,
too. Who could ask for
more?
But being a good Ranger exacted a price.
The phone always rang. I
slept little. I drove a lot. I spent days
away from home on manhunts
and stakeouts. I slept under a canvas
saddle bedroll as often as I
did next to my wife. I missed far too many
important moments in the
lives of my handsome sons. As I sat in that
New Mexico courtroom
awaiting the judge's ruling, I was crippled
with guilt. I couldn't
help but wonder if maybe my job had asked
too much of me; if maybe
I'd been away from home too often; if I
loved being a Ranger more
than being a husband and father.
I don't believe this judge listened to a
word of my testimony. I
guess I don't blame him. As is so often the
case, the crime
contaminated the lives of people beyond its
initial victims. I
understood the anger of the families who
lost their loved ones. I
was certain that their terrible grief held
more sway with the bench
than my pleas for mercy. The judge glared
at the young defendant and
ordered him to rise.
It was a tough year for my family and me,
but I would soon see
worse. We were losing the War on Drugs. The
crimes on the border
grew more violent. My cherished Texas
Rangers were about to be
diminished by political meddling, a slap in
the face to me and my
fellow officers and to the Ranger tradition
itself. Before my head
cleared, a trusted colleague who I thought
was my friend—and who had
once been such a comfort to me when my
family was in crisis—betrayed
me. Because of our close association, his
crimes cast a long shadow
over my reputation at a time when I leaned
on it most.
Worst of all, my wife and I had to watch
helplessly as the justice
system was unleashed against our home. As
the judge leveled his
stare at that lost young man, I remember
thinking that maybe it
wasn't healthy for a kid to grow up in a
world where his dad's best
friends carried guns as often as they wore
shoes. Having failed at
balancing the two most important roles I
chose to play in this life,
I should be the one to pay for that.
The young man staring a death sentence in
the face was Don Joaquin
Jackson. He was my oldest son.
A lot happened between coming of age on a
farm on the Southern
Plains during the Great Depression and
waiting to learn if my boy
would go to the electric chair or spend his
best years in a New
Mexico prison. The weight of this and all
those other burdens
combined would drive me from a world I
loved more than my own life.
But even this is not the end of the story.
I got through it. I went
on.
***
On my first official day as a Ranger my
captain ordered me to report
at five A.M. sharp to his ranch home
outside of Carrizo Springs,
Texas. Captain Alfred Allee Sr. was almost
sixty-five years old by
then. He had been a Texas Ranger since
1931. But he was still a
human dynamo of energy, grit, and swagger.
In my day we would say
that he was a hell of a man. I don't know
how that plays anymore.
I slid into the passenger seat of Captain
Allee's tan unmarked 1966
Plymouth Fury I Pursuit state vehicle as he
hugged his wife, Miss
Pearl. Then, with his jaw set for business,
he stormed my way. He
groaned as he squeezed behind the steering
wheel, bit down hard on a
cigar, and cranked all eight throbbing
cylinders of that 383 cc V-8
Commando engine. Each piston sat cocked and
locked at a stout 10:1
compression ratio. A Carter AFB four-barrel
carburetor perched atop
the gasping intake manifold, mixing the
most potent combination of
air with 105-octane gasoline back when some
cops used to run down
bootleggers by goosing the gas tank with a
healthy splash of
airplane fuel.
The Pursuit Commando engine didn't idle as
much as it boiled like a
witches' brew. Dual sets of points ensured
that the spark plugs
fired long and hot. Dual exhausts shot the
spent fumes beyond the
rear bumper with a menacing hum. Once the
engine ignited, Captain
Allee reined back 330 wild horses chomping
at the bit to run. He
slammed the transmission into drive and
stomped his polished boot on
the accelerator, and one of the most
powerful automobiles to roll
out of Detroit exploded out from its parked
position. The sudden
thrust nearly gave me whiplash.
"Let me show you some of this
country," Captain Allee said as he
rocketed down the two-lane blacktop at
triple-digit speed toward the
breaking dawn. I already understood that he
intended to introduce me
to the thirty-nine-county jurisdiction of
Ranger Company D. The
surprise was that he meant to do it before
noon. He never bothered
to mention that we were on our way to a
riot. Nevertheless, new to
the job, I had arrived nervous. I felt only
terror by now.
Captain Allee blew past the cars on the
road as if they were parked.
He was giving me all sorts of good
practical advice based on his
three decades of Ranger service, but it
wasn't really registering.
For all its power, the Plymouth Fury
Pursuit didn't handle well. The
frame was cursed with a long, narrow,
unstable wheelbase, and was
burdened by too much American steel
fabricated with nine welds to
the inch. The rudimentary suspension system
waffled under all its
weight. There were no power steering and no
power brakes. You didn't
drive the Pursuit; you sailed it. There was
an art to keeping it
between the lines at high speeds. At
Allee's rate, safe navigation
was nothing short of a miracle. Although I
was proud to have made
Ranger, I had hoped that the position would
last for more than one
day.
Captain Allee was passing yet another
rancher petering along in a
lumpy old Dodge pickup when another vehicle
emerged from around the
bend heading straight for us. I clamped
both hands on the dash to
brace myself for a head-on collision and
glanced over at my captain.
His boot never touched the brake. Instead,
he moved his cigar to the
other side of his mouth and plowed ahead at
120 miles per hour. The
distance between us closed in three frantic
beats of my heart.
Captain Allee refused to yield. The other
car, horn blaring, swerved
onto the shoulder at the very last second.
I saw clearly the horror
in that man's eyes at the peak intensity of
the Doppler effect.
I whipped my head around as the driver
skidded into the bar ditch.
He fought to keep his rear bumper from
overtaking his front grill
and hurling his vehicle into a death roll.
After a few hundred yards
he finally came to rest and stayed there.
Captain Allee tooted his horn to signal his
displeasure. The sun was
nearly up now, driving a gray haze to horn
depth on the Black Angus
cattle grazing in the South Texas pastures.
It was a beautiful day.
And I was still alive to enjoy it. Captain
Allee said nothing as he
hurled on at blinding speed, still puffing
on that stubby cigar. We
had thirty-eight more counties to see.
"Never let the sons of bitches bluff
you out, Joaquin," he said
after several minutes of silence.
"Amen to that, Captain," I said.
I had already accepted the fact
that I was in for a long, wild ride.
Captain Allee chomped his
dentures around a fresh spot on his
disintegrating cigar and plunged
deeper into the ranch country that had
spawned his special breed.
Looking back after retirement on my career
as a Ranger, I still
recall the value of Captain Allee's advice.
Whenever personal and
professional problems closed in on me, I
always heard those few calm
words echo in my head. Never let the sons
of bitches bluff you out,
Joaquin. I'd like to think that I never did.
Prologue
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One. Ice in August
Chapter Two. Rider through the Storm
Chapter Three. Order before Law
Chapter Four. The Ghost and the Great Bear
Hunt
Chapter Five. The Reconquest of Aztlan
Chapter Six. The Things I Carried
Chapter Seven. For Love and Horses
Chapter Eight. Earth, Fire, Water, and
Blood: I
Chapter Nine. Earth, Fire, Water, and
Blood: II
Chapter Ten. My Heroes Have Always Been
Rangers: The Captain
Chapter Eleven. A Goat and a Guitar
Chapter Twelve. Just Folks
Chapter Thirteen. My Heroes Have Always
Been Rangers: Just a
Ranger
Chapter Fourteen. Desperadoes and Dumbasses
Chapter Fifteen. With Friends Like These
Chapter Sixteen. Moving Pictures
Chapter Seventeen. A Slow, Cold Rain
Chapter Eighteen. Saddle My Pony, Boys . .
.
Chapter Nineteen. El Último Grito
Appendix One. In Black and White
Appendix Two. Letter from the Reverend
Acknowledgments
LINKS