Like the Sicilian Mafia, Los Lenones are based on family hierarchies, Caballero explained. The father controls the organization and the money, while the sons and their male cousins hunt, kidnap and entrap victims. The boys leave school at 12 and are given one or two girls their age to rape and pimp out to begin their training, which emphasizes the arts of kidnapping and seduction. Throughout the rural and suburban towns from southern Mexico to the U.S. border, along what traffickers call the Via Lactea, or Milky Way, the agents of Los Lenones troll the bus stations and factories and school dances where under-age girls gather, work and socialize. They first ply the girls like prospective lovers, buying them meals and desserts, promising affection and then marriage. Then the men describe rumors they’ve heard about America, about the promise of jobs and schools. Sometimes the girls are easy prey. Most of them already dream of El Norte. But the theater often ends as soon as the agent has the girl alone, when he beats her, drugs her or simply forces her into a waiting car.
The majority of Los Lenones — 80 percent of them, Caballero says — are based in Tenancingo, a charmless suburb an hour’s drive south of Mexico City. Before I left Mexico City for Tenancingo in October, I was warned by Mexican and U.S. officials that the traffickers there are protected by the local police, and that the town is designed to discourage outsiders, with mazelike streets and only two closely watched entrances. The last time the federal police went there to investigate the disappearance of a local girl, their vehicle was surrounded, and the officers were intimidated into leaving. I traveled in a bulletproof Suburban with well-armed federales and an Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent.
On the way, we stopped at a gas station, where I met the parents of a girl from Tenancingo who was reportedly abducted in August 2000. The girl, Suri, is now 20. Her mother told me that there were witnesses who saw her being forced into a car on the way home from work at a local factory. No one called the police. Suri’s mother recited the names of daughters of a number of her friends who have also been taken: ”Minerva, Sylvia, Carmen,” she said in a monotone, as if the list went on and on.
Just two days earlier, her parents heard from Suri (they call her by her nickname) for the first time since she disappeared. ”She’s in Queens, New York,” the mother told me breathlessly. ”She said she was being kept in a house watched by Colombians. She said they take her by car every day to work in a brothel. I was crying on the phone, ‘When are you coming back, when are you coming back?’ ” The mother looked at me helplessly; the father stared blankly into the distance. Then the mother sobered. ”My daughter said: ‘I’m too far away. I don’t know when I’m coming back.”’ Before she hung up, Suri told her mother: ”Don’t cry. I’ll escape soon. And don’t talk to anyone.”
Sex-trafficking victims widely believe that if they talk, they or someone they love will be killed. And their fear is not unfounded, since the tentacles of the trafficking rings reach back into the girls’ hometowns, and local law enforcement is often complicit in the sex trade.
One officer in the P.F.P.’s anti-trafficking division told me that 10 high-level officials in the state of Sonora share a $200,000 weekly payoff from traffickers, a gargantuan sum of money for Mexico. The officer told me with a frozen smile that he was powerless to do anything about it.
”Some officials are not only on the organization’s payroll, they are key players in the organization,” an official at the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City told me. ”Corruption is the most important reason these networks are so successful.”
Nicolas Suarez, the P.F.P.’s coordinator of intelligence, sounded fatalistic about corruption when I spoke to him in Mexico City in September. ”We have that cancer, corruption,” he told me with a shrug. ”But it exists in every country. In every house there is a devil.”