Pubdate: Sun, 21 Apr 2013
Source: New York Times Magazine (NY)
Contact:  2013 The New York Times Company
Note: The New York Times Magazine is a section of the Sunday edition 
of the New York Times
Author: Damien Cave
Note: Damien Cave is a foreign correspondent for The Times based in 
Mexico City. Editor: Joel Lovell


Early on a December morning, Robert Coogan pulled his red Chevy 
hatchback into the parking lot of the state prison in Saltillo, 
Mexico. It was frigid outside, the sun had not yet cleared the 
reddish mountains, and Coogan lingered, staring at the tall black 
letters on the prison's high walls: "CERESO" - Centro de Reinsercion 
Social, the place where criminals are supposed to be reformed.

Coogan, who has served as chaplain at the prison for a decade, slowly 
pulled himself from the warm car. In dark jeans, brown boots and a 
thick gray sweater, he looked more like a factory foreman than a 
Brooklyn-born priest.

He wore no clerical collar, just a necklace of pendants with images 
of the Virgin Mary and Christ on the cross.

Inside the prison's main building, Coogan tossed his keys onto the 
counter, and the guard on duty shook himself awake. "Buenos dias, 
Padre," the guard said, placing the keys on a hook as Coogan, 60, 
walked through a metal detector that failed to register his large 
silver belt buckle. "Buenos dias," Coogan said. He headed up a flight 
of stairs and down an empty hallway toward a thick steel door that 
opened into the general prison population. A heavyset guard let 
Coogan in, and with the morning chill aggravating an old running 
injury, he marched to the chapel just off the prison's central plaza.

A few minutes later, he was at the altar for the 7:40 a.m. Mass.

As usual, only a dozen or so prisoners showed up. Most of the 700 
inmates - murderers, rapists, thieves, drug dealers and the innocent 
among them - were heading to work in one of the prison's factories or 
carpentry shops.

A crew of musclebound Zetas - Mexico's most feared criminal 
syndicate, which runs the Cereso from the inside - sat on red plastic 
chairs outside the chapel and watched the prisoners pass by, making 
sure they went where the Zetas' comandante wanted them to go.

As soon as the Mass was over, Coogan grabbed his portable priest kit 
- - a red laundry basket with wrinkled vestments, hosts in Tupperware 
and holy water and wine in plastic soda bottles - and quickly made 
his way to the maximum-security unit, a separate building at the 
prison's southeastern corner, where a prisoner whom I'll refer to as 
M. stood waiting for him on the other side of a gate. There wasn't a 
guard to be seen. They rarely venture inside, Coogan explained, 
preferring to leave the job of discipline to the Zetas. A few minutes 
later, a prisoner working for the cartel, in dark sunglasses and 
cargo pants, showed up to let us into the unit.

M. had been in prison for about three years.

He was normally a regular at morning Mass, skinny and skittish, with 
light eyes, and he had recently grown a scruffy beard. "You look like 
you belong on 'Lost,' " Coogan said when he greeted him. Unlike other 
prisoners, M. actually had a family of some means, and in a prison 
system without uniforms, his style often seemed more appropriate for 
an indie rock club. His sneakers were clean and hip; his jeans had 
designer labels.

Inside maximum, M. shared space not just with hard-core Zetas but 
also with inmates too insane to be kept anywhere else - including one 
who refused to wear clothes and spoke to angels.

He slept little, like any prey encircled by predators, and that 
morning he anxiously greeted Coogan's arrival, signaling immediately 
with darting eyes that he needed to talk privately.

Coogan followed him into the yard, where M. pulled out a Bible for 
cover and positioned himself near a faraway wall. There, he explained 
that the Zetas wanted him to pay them 2,000 pesos ($165), with the 
first half due at noon the next day. Coogan, brightening the dusty 
pen with his purple robes, nodded as M. spoke.

He had paid small ransoms to keep M. safe from the Zetas twice 
already, but this latest demand was larger, more than a week's pay. 
He wasn't sure whether the Zetas were serious or if they were just 
toying with M. He also didn't know if M. could be trusted.

M. claimed to be locked up because a friend stole a television and he 
was taking the rap, but other inmates doubted his story and said he 
was a schemer.

Coogan considered his options. Paying the Zetas would encourage 
extortion, but ignoring the threat, or confronting the Zetas 
directly, could get M. beaten or killed.

"Why don't you talk to your parents?" Coogan asked.

"I don't get any support from my parents," M. said. His eyes widened 
with doubt; the priest wasn't going to help? He flipped through a few 
pages of the Old Testament. "I don't want any problems," he said. 
"They said, 'If you don't pay, you know what's going to happen.' I've 
seen them kill people."

Coogan gently pushed the dirt around with his boots, then bent down 
and picked up a piece of petrified wood, turning it over in his hands.

On the wall behind him loomed a painting of a giant clown with 
blood-red shoes and a demented smile, the tag of the comandante. All 
over the Cereso, images of the demented clown appeared.

The symbolism was obvious: the Zetas were always watching.

Mexico's federal ombudsman for human rights said last year that 
around 60 percent of the country's prisons were run by inmates.

More than 1,000 prisoners have escaped since 2006, often dozens at a 
time, and hundreds more have been murdered along with an untold 
number of guards.

When I asked the warden at the Saltillo Cereso about the power 
structure inside, even he did not deny it. Standing near his office, 
unshaven and exhausted, he emphasized that peace was the priority, 
not control. "Estamos tranquilo," he said. "We're calm."

Officially Mexico maintains far loftier goals.

The 1917 constitution requires that the penal system be organized "on 
the basis of labor, training and education as a means of social 
readjustment." But the rhetoric has never matched reality, and now 
the correctional system is widely described as a disgrace.

Since 1992, when drug traffic began to shift toward Mexico from the 
Caribbean, the country's prison population has nearly tripled, to 
about 240,000 inmates.

While the government has done little to shore up a notoriously weak 
justice system, sentences have become longer and jails have become 
increasingly packed as officials send more soldiers and police 
officers into the streets to attack drug gangs.

Kingpins are usually extradited to the United States. Midlevel capos 
come and go. Those left behind tend to be repeat criminals and 
low-level offenders. The most reliable surveys of Mexico's prison 
system - conducted every few years by two social scientists, Elena 
Azaola and Marcelo Bergman - have found that a majority of Mexico's 
inmates are incarcerated for stealing items worth less than $400 or 
for selling small quantities of drugs.

Many claim to be innocent.

Some no doubt are. A majority of Mexican inmates did not have a 
lawyer present when they made statements to the police. "It's usually 
the poor and the last links of the chain," Bergman told me. "They're 
the ones who are getting caught."

Saltillo, a sprawling industrial city a few hours south of Laredo, 
sits in a wide valley surrounded by toothlike mountain ridges.

It once served as the capital of a vast desert region that included 
most of Texas. These days its earlier ambitions can be seen only in 
the 18th-century cathedral that rises over downtown with its hulking steeple.

The other obvious landmarks are smokestacks from the factories 
pumping out heaters and toilets, diesel engines and Chrysler trucks - 
- - and the pink guard towers of the Cereso, a campus of concrete, 
steel and earth nearly half a mile wide, on the eastern edge of the city.

The Zetas are relatively new arrivals to the area, having worked as 
enforcers for the Gulf Cartel until splintering off around 2007. The 
gang's founders were mostly corrupt former soldiers who appear to 
have chosen the state of Coahuila, with Saltillo as its capital, 
because it sits between the Pacific smuggling routes controlled by 
the Sinaloa Cartel and the eastern coast controlled by their former employers.

The area has the added advantage of being close to the U.S. border, 
and for all these reasons, it is now a major operating base. When 
Heriberto Lazcano Lazcano, one of the Zetas' top leaders, was killed 
by Mexican marines in October, the shootout occurred in Coahuila (as 
did the theft of his body while the government was still trying to 
confirm his identity).

At first, the Zetas had no relationship to Colombian cocaine 
suppliers, so they amassed power through creativity and intimidation, 
using extortion, kidnapping, migrant trafficking and the theft of 
resources, like coal and oil, to help supplement their smuggling income.

In the process, they have taken public brutality to new levels.

In March, three days after five bodies - naked and wrapped in sheets 
like mummies - were found on a Saltillo street, the local paper ran 
an editorial declaring it would stop publishing information on 
organized crime because "there are no security guarantees for the 
full practice of journalism." Prison officials gave in earlier than 
that. Sixteen months ago, the Saltillo Cereso warden who was in 
charge when the Zetas took over was shot 10 times in his car, in 
broad daylight, as a school let out a few yards away.

Since then, the prison has become just another revenue source.

New arrivals are often little more than hostages, like M., trapped 
inside and forced to wait and see if their parents can find the 
ransom money to keep them alive.

Access to work and education, or even food and soap, have also been monetized.

Prisoners selling candy for the pittance they need to survive must 
pay the Zetas a tax of 100 pesos a week ($8.25). Jobs in carpentry 
shops, at prison bodegas or in factories inside the prison all come 
with a fee, as do materials like lumber, which the Zetas provide for 
triple the going price.

Drugs and alcohol, sold on Saturday nights, cost about what they do 
on the outside, though inmates must pay $1 for the right to exit 
their cells and buy them. For as long as the comandante is in charge, 
all that money flows to him, a mysterious figure believed to be in 
his 30s, whom no one dares name. Several inmates told me that he was 
rarely seen but universally feared, running the operation from his 
comfortable quarters in the conjugal-visits building, where the rooms 
lack bars but not air-conditioning, which was installed by the Zetas 
themselves. Right next door sits Coogan's Catholic chapel.

Coogan did not come to Mexico to save anyone.

He first arrived in Coahuila in 1988 through a job with the campus 
ministry of his alma mater, Fordham University. The second oldest of 
14 children born to a corporate lawyer with a degree from Harvard Law 
School, Coogan spoke no Spanish and had never traveled outside the 
United States. But he appreciated the sense of community he found in 
Mexico and the effort to survive collectively. "It was like the 
Brooklyn I grew up in, with people out in the street," he said. "You 
go for a walk and you see your neighbors. You talk. I found that 
incredibly appealing."

The local priest recognized Coogan's ability to connect with young 
people and asked him to stay, and for the next seven years, Coogan 
acted as his lay assistant, opening a drug-rehabilitation center for 
young men in the town of Nueva Rosita. About a year after he moved to 
the region, he noticed that one of the guys who usually hung out on a 
popular corner had disappeared. When he asked some of the other 
chavos where he went, they told him, "The hotel."

"What hotel?" They laughed and told him the hotel was the local 
prison, a place that held about 100 inmates in the middle of rugged 
country some miles out of town. Coogan began visiting every week, 
driven by something born in the dangerous and drug-infested New York 
of his youth, "for seeing how people in crisis give meaning to their 
lives." The inmates were surprised that Coogan paid attention to 
them, and he was just as surprised by their appreciation of his 
presence. "Sometimes," he said, "just people being interested in us 
is all we need to do a lot of things."

In 1996, when Coogan was 43, his father died. The loss sent him on a 
quest for stability, and Coogan, who had grown used to a life of 
service after a wild youth while working as a graphic designer for 
The SoHo News during the late '70s and '80s, entered the Immaculate 
Conception seminary on Long Island. Six years later, after Pope John 
Paul II moved one of his heroes - Bishop Raul Vera Lopez, who had 
been fighting for the poor in Southern Mexico - to the Saltillo 
Diocese, Coogan returned to Coahuila and was ordained.

At first, Vera rejected Coogan's request to be the prison chaplain, 
but Coogan persisted, and Bishop Vera finally agreed in 2002. Now, 
Vera says, it's impossible to imagine anyone else in the post.

But both he and Coogan also say the job has grown more dangerous.

When the Zetas killed the warden and took control of the prison in 
late 2011, Coogan asked for a transfer.

He was worried about not being able to help prisoners survive under 
such a severe threat.

Several of the men he knew were killed once they left the prison and 
returned to their neighborhoods. "It was like, How much can you do?" 
Coogan said. "And where do you get the energy to do it?" Two weeks 
after the warden was murdered in his Volkswagen, Bishop Vera visited 
the prison to say Mass. It was Christmas Day, and he told Coogan that 
he - the prudent outsider - was the only one capable of bringing hope 
to such a dark place.

Coogan decided to stay. "He's a man of enormous compassion," Bishop 
Vera says. "He knows how to do this."

As we walked slowly through the prison yard one morning, it became 
clear that while voluble out of the prison, Coogan keeps mostly quiet 
on the inside. He let people come to him, and they did, one after 
another approaching him as we walked toward the chapel.

One especially eager young man in a baseball cap stopped Coogan 
halfway across the plaza. "I think they moved them," the man said. In 
a quiet voice, he explained that a group of Zetas had recently 
demanded 40,000 pesos ($3,300) from his family. "My father works at 
Chrysler," he said, nodding toward the smokestacks in the distance.

Then he thanked Coogan for helping him secure what appeared to be the 
transfer of the men who had been threatening him. "It just happened," 
Coogan said, loud enough to be overheard by anyone who might be listening.

Moments later, a half-dozen young Zetas lieutenants appeared on the 
plaza, laughing and strutting.

One wore dark sunglasses and a black satin jacket with an American 
flag on the back. Most of them had shaved heads and wore new clothes.

Later I saw them running sprints up and down the plaza.

To the extent that Coogan has influence within the prison, it is in 
part because he grasps their motivations. He not only comes to the 
aid of those being victimized by the gang, but he also offers the 
Zetas what no cop or judge ever would - an open mind. While Mexican 
officials describe the gang members as coldblooded killers, Coogan 
prefers to see them, as he sees everyone else in the prison, as 
vulnerable, flawed and capable of change. "These guys who enter the 
Zetas become part of a system where they find their dignity," he 
said. "It's a terrible way to do it, but I respect them for doing 
what the church should be doing: giving meaning to people's lives."

When we first met in December, Coogan was counseling a 32-year-old 
called B., who joined the Zetas in his 20s and worked mostly as a 
midlevel soldier, moving drugs and doing whatever else needed to be 
done. Before a group rosary session one day, B. told me that he had 
been in and out prison since he was a teenager.

He started with stealing before getting hooked on cocaine and heroin.

At 14 or 15, he stabbed someone outside a bar while he was high. He 
wept as he told the story, thrusting his hands forward as if he could 
still feel what it was like to push a knife into someone's chest.

B. was worried that his wife and daughter might never forgive him. 
They lived in one of the poorest parts of Saltillo, and he was 
constantly asking Coogan to bring them a photo to prove that he was 
doing well. In some ways, he was. He shared a clean corner cell with 
two friends in one of the more stable cellblocks; he attended Mass 
often and could usually be seen carrying a Bible. B. praised Coogan 
for helping him overcome his past by comforting him with what he told 
other inmates suffocated by shame: "God doesn't humiliate; he just forgives."

Coogan figured B. had a shot at survival on the outside, because he 
never rose high enough in the Zetas for the leadership to insist that 
he stay in. Privately, though, he worried that B.'s addiction was not 
yet beaten and that it would take very little for him to be lured 
back to the Zetas. Even B. knew his chances of success were slim. "I 
don't want to go," he said one day as we sat under a tree outside the 
chapel. "Here I'm O.K."

"If you get out, we'll go out to a restaurant," Coogan said. "We'll 
have a great meal. You can come to my house and stay with me until 
you're ready to move on."

Mostly B. comforted himself by knowing that he had time, his release 
date was still years away. M., on the other hand, could be let out at 
any moment, and Coogan knew there was no one on the outside to 
protect him. He needed to step in, he said, and so he began asking 
other prisoners whether the Zetas were seriously threatening M. He 
asked quietly in cellblocks and then loudly in the plaza.

He asked people close to the Zetas and those who feared them. He did 
this even though he knew almost immediately the threat was real. The 
point of his questions, he later explained, was not to get 
information but rather to send a message: "I'm interested and paying 

The subtle strategy seemed to work. The Zetas eventually lowered 
their demand to a more affordable fee of 300 pesos ($25), which M. 
told me he paid, and then he was safe. The money was beside the 
point, Coogan explained. The real reason they had taken the pressure 
off M. was that, as he put it, "the Zetas don't want God to put the 
whammy on them."

It's true that for all their infamous cruelty ---- - beheadings, 
kidnappings, the mass murder of 72 Central and South American 
migrants in 2010 - - the Zetas are also known for their respect of 
the Catholic Church. After I wrote in 2011 about a chapel that 
Lazcano, one of the cartel's founders, built in his hometown, word 
trickled back to Saltillo's Zetas, who insisted on doing something 
similar for Coogan. "What color would you like the chapel painted?" 
one of the leaders asked him. Coogan said he liked it the way it was 
and told them not to bother because the roof leaked. "Two hours later 
they had people on the roof," he said. "There was nothing you could 
do about it. They made a decision."

Occasionally there have been more significant moments of solidarity 
between the cartel members and the priest.

In January 2012, dozens of soldiers and police officers raided the 
Saltillo Cereso. In addition to confiscating drugs and alcohol and 
electronics, they ransacked the chapel and broke apart the 
tabernacle. Coogan called it a sacrilege as he showed me the 
destruction. But the raid ultimately deepened his relationship with 
the Zetas, who see the Mexican military as villains, not because they 
represent law and order but because they are presumed to be in the 
pocket of the Sinaloa Cartel. A few months later, when Coogan 
strongly resisted a Zetas request to bless a building that included a 
shrine to Santa Muerte, the idolatrous saint of death, the Zetas 
moved the shrine and replaced Santa Muerte with Pancho Villa, the 
revolutionary hero. "To call the Zetas evil, I wouldn't want to do 
that," Coogan said. In a country where the government is corrupt, the 
church is weak and business tycoons exploit workers while protecting 
lucrative monopolies, he said of the group's vicious behavior, "It's 
what they were taught."

"This is a society that oppresses people," Coogan went on. "If the 
economy worked for the common good, there would be no Zetas. There 
would be no cartels." But that, of course, is a vision no amount of 
faith could produce.

When I returned to Saltillo this past January, armed soldiers had 
been posted at the airport and the Cereso. When Coogan entered the 
prison gate, he and the Zetas' lookouts exchanged predictions about 
whether there would be another raid. The last time he saw the prison 
so full of tension, he said, was in the fall of 2012, when a rivalry 
among four or five Zetas leaders set the prison on edge, with inmates 
unsure about who was in charge.

One of the leaders was a man whose infant daughter Coogan baptized, 
bringing the entire family to the prison chapel for the service.

In Coogan's photos, the Zetas leader looked tough but proud in a 
shiny black shirt, standing near his mother. A few days later, he and 
the others in a power struggle with the comandante were transferred 
to prisons outside Zetas territory.

Soon after that, word filtered back: they were all dead.

For all the tensions inside the prison, Coogan struggled more 
intensely with those trying to survive on the outside.

When I visited in January, he filled casual conversation with a 
stream of tragedies, from the neighbor who robbed his house on 
Christmas Eve ("he left footprints on the bed") to the addict who 
left rehab only to overdose on paint thinner he shot into his veins.

Coogan also spoke often of a young man called El Chino, a friend of 
B.'s, who had been out for a year trying to stay out of trouble.

Coogan had done everything he could to help Chino get on his feet. He 
offered to let him stay at his house, he helped him get access to 
social services, he set up job interviews. But Chino was a loner and 
an orphan, and instead of seeking full-time work, he scavenged for 
scrap metal and did odd jobs for people he met in church.

B. had told me that his daughter lived right next to Chino, and one 
day Coogan suggested that we check in on them. Chino lived in an 
abandoned tannery on the edge of a slum, and as we pulled in around 
lunchtime, a Zetas halcon wearing huge wraparound sunglasses watched 
us from inside a black Volkswagen. Coogan knocked on the door, and a 
neighbor peeked outside. "We're looking for Chino," Coogan said. "Is he here?"

"He was arrested last night," the man said.

Coogan threw his hands to his head. "For what?"

"Drinking beer on the corner."

Chino's door suddenly opened.

It was B's mother-in-law. She confirmed that Chino had been picked up 
for drinking, and I asked if B.'s daughter was there.

She stepped outside seconds later, a lanky 9-year-old with her 
father's cheekbones, wearing sneakers with pink laces.

I told her that her dad missed her and wanted her to know that he 
cared about her. She smiled and looked down, clearly embarrassed.

B.'s wife stepped outside."He needs to see his daughter, I understand 
that," she said. "But he's so aggressive. Last time he was here, he 
had a knife to my throat right here on the street with all the 
neighbors watching." She looked toward the black Volkswagen. The 
Zetas' lookout had turned his car around to face us. I wanted to ask 
her more questions, but the halcon, glaring while talking on his 
cellphone, made it clear that it was time to go.

We headed toward the police station to try to get Chino released. "I 
wish I had better tools," Coogan said as we drove past bodegas and 
homes painted the shades of colored chalk. "I wish I could do this 
better." He worried that he was doing his job "on autopilot." There 
were activities he no longer hosted with the same regularity - movie 
screenings, meals and Masses outdoors - because of the hold that the 
Zetas had over the area. Even arranging a birthday cake became 
impossible. When he asked the prison bakery for one to celebrate his 
60th, he was told he needed permission from the comandante.

And now Chino, the guy he thought he could save, was right back where 
it all started, inside a grimy jail, among other prisoners whose 
families gathered in a cold, dark hallway near their cells, crying 
and waiting to talk to someone who could get them out. A thick black 
door suddenly opened, and a police officer appeared.

Coogan stepped forward and asked about Chino, using his formal name, 
Manuel. The officer looked straight past us and closed the door 
without giving an answer. "If he's in there long enough," Coogan 
said, "they can pin anything they want on him."

A few minutes later, the door opened again and a young man with a 
swollen face emerged, covering his head with the hood of his white 
sweatshirt. He was followed by another, with a bruise above his left 
eye. Coogan asked again for Chino, and this time the officer 
confirmed he was inside. "It's 620 pesos," the officer said (about 
$50). Coogan, distraught, said he needed to get money at the bank. I 
lent him what he needed, and when he finally walked out with Chino 10 
minutes later, we went next door to a gas station, where Chino bought 
a jug of sugary orange drink that he insisted on paying for even 
though he barely had any money.

Then he walked back into the station and delivered it to the guards. 
"Give this to the guys in the back," he said. "They don't have 
anything to drink."

It was a small act of kindness that Coogan would have normally 
highlighted, but he didn't now. He looked exhausted, and he was late 
for a visit to a girls' detention center.

He dropped Chino off downtown and then rushed away.

The next morning, a Sunday, Coogan sipped coffee and petted his 
dachshund, Little Pup, as he prepared for Mass. Rays of sun poured 
through his open front door, and as he placed a pile of hosts into a 
chalice on top of an empty pizza box, I dug through his CD collection.

Most prominent in the mix was Lou Reed. What some priests would have 
considered off limits, with its cursing, junkies and transvestites, 
Coogan saw as vital to understanding the world.

He pointed me to one of his favorite songs, "Street Hassle," partly 
the tale of a woman about to overdose, and the lyrics he often 
returned to: "You know, some people got no choice/And they can never 
find a voice/To talk with that they could even call their own/So the 
first thing that they see/That allows them the right to be/Why, they 
follow it./You know, it's called bad luck."

"That's it," he said. "That illuminates for me the situation they're living."

I wondered how he had spent all these years in such a depressing 
place, but then I thought of all the other determined, quiet souls 
I've met in Mexico - the teachers helping children who saw their 
fathers shot and killed; the human rights advocates who go on despite 
repeated death threats; the lawyers fighting for families of the 
disappeared. All of them are up against dark forces, deeply ingrained.

In Saltillo, the image that haunted me the most was exceedingly 
banal: a series of old, dirty, beige doors.

They were the entrances to the courts attached to the prison, and 
every time I walked by them, they were closed. It was a clear sign of 
the secrecy that goes on inside: paperwork produced in private, 
devoid of transparency and reliable justice. "The war against 
narco-trafficking isn't going to be won in the streets," Bishop Vera 
told me. "It's going to be won in the courts."

As we drove through his neighborhood on our way to Mass - this one at 
a small church that he and his neighbors are building 5 and 10 pesos 
at a time - it was hard not to think of how much would be lost if 
Coogan ever decided to move on. His sermon seemed to be a pep talk 
directed as much at himself as the crowd that filled the rough little 
church with pine benches for pews. He explained that people used to 
believe they had to buy their way to God's love, but that Jesus' 
message was that God did not need our money.

He then emphasized that when the wine ran out, Christ did not punish 
the family. "He discreetly took care of the failure," Coogan said. 
And best of all, he added, Jesus did not simply create more of the 
mediocre wine they were drinking. " 'No,' he said, 'If we're going to 
offer wine, we're going to offer the best wine.' " He looked out over 
the heads of his parishioners. "How great is it when things fail," he 
concluded, "because it shows us what we are capable of."

Two hours later, he parked his car in the usual spot outside the 
prison and walked slowly back inside.

Near the main door, a new group of inmates had just arrived, their 
eyes heavy with lack of sleep.

Coogan looked at them, and at their families saying their final 
goodbyes, and then walked straight toward the yard, past the 
comandante's quarters and into his chapel.
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MAP posted-by: Jay Bergstrom