Why Did I Write the Dos Putas Trilogy?

Over the past two years four editors have reviewed one or more of the books in the Dos Putas Trilogy. After reading a book or books everyone asked the same question: “How did a former scientist, university administrator, teacher and author of a history book come to write a historical fiction trilogy, and why a female cartel?”

In 2000, I began accumulating references and photographs which became the foundation for the Ghosts Of The Guadalupes. My research focused on a group of families that left Texas in the 1890’s and settled in the Guadalupe Mountains of what was then the New Mexico Territory. Below the Guadalupe Mountains, the Pecos River and associated fertile valleys stretched from Roswell, New Mexico to Pecos, Texas. While families of Texans, who had fought in the Civil War and lost everything, were moving into the mountains, thousands of other Americans were settling along the Pecos River and on surrounding plains.

The first town established was called Eddy and was named for the first cattleman to enter the area. As population increased, local businessmen noted the value of land surrounding the river and built an irrigation complex. This activity brought in thousands of settlers including a portion considered as undesirable. As lawlessness increased, the good people of Eddy passed laws to prevent the riffraff from living within Eddy and destroying the new town. Immediately, the towns of Phenix and Wolf Town sprang up around Eddy. The unruly occupants of Phenix and Wolf Town included saloon owners, gamblers, prostitutes, murderers, and young men looking for a good time.

In the late 1890’s, a young female of no more than fifteen years walked into the Eddy Sheriff’s office and told Sherriff Bell she had been kidnapped and forced into the “tenderloin” trade. Sherriff Bell had heard such stories and was skeptical. Nevertheless, the Sherriff sent a telegram to a prominent family living forty miles north of El Paso, Texas. To the Sheriff’s surprise, the family responded. Inside an envelope was a photograph of a girl who the Sheriff instantly recognized and a letter. The father and writer of the letter asked the Sheriff to determine if the girl had a round scar on her left hip, and if so, would the Sheriff immediately place the girl in jail so she would not be forced to return to prostitution. Next, the father requested a return telegraph be sent to him.

A month later, a newspaper article reported the father and mother were in town, and the girl had been reunited with her family. Some weeks later, within the same newspaper, was a two-sentence entry, “The girl from Las Cruces is safely home. The girl believed she was abducted by a group of females, and in passing the girl mentioned dos putas.”

The fact that two evil and dirty females may have contributed to the abduction of a young female did not seem unusual. It was an interesting fact, but I had no additional information to make the fact significant. Apparently, my mind tucked the information into a far corner.

In spring 2005, I was investigating the death of a former Guadalupe Mountain resident killed on December 13, 1904 in Central, a small mining town near Silver City, Territory of New Mexico. The more I read the newspaper and court documents, the more I became convinced Victor Queen was accidently shot in the back by his friend when a gun battle erupted. Several months later in a different local newspaper came several sentences, “It appears Victor Queen’s friend shot Queen in the back. The friend has now disappeared and is thought to be in Mexico with Queen’s former wife.” The writer, whose name was not provided, went on to say, “The former wife was believed to be a member of a female gang, and the gang committed unlawful activities on both sides of the border.”

Suddenly, I had two sources which mentioned a group of females that conducted unlawful activities in both the United States and Mexico. In late fall 2005 I finished the book, Ghosts Of The Guadalupes, and between 2006 and 2008 I sold the book. During this period, I was busy at work during the week and traveled selling the book on most weekends.

In summer 2009, I was reviewing references used in the Ghosts Of The Guadalupes before gifting all information and photographs to Jed Howard and the Southern New Mexico Historical Society. As I scanned many references, my mind locked onto the two previous newspaper accounts and would not let go.

In the 1980’s while working for the U.S. Department of Agriculture in Tucson, Arizona, I frequently traveled and worked in Mexico. My boss at the time insisted that I take time from a busy work schedule and conduct large non-replicated studies on the ranches of several powerful Mexican politicians. I had never called any of these individuals, but I did retain telephone numbers.

After several days of digging in old files, I found a telephone number for a remote ranch in north central Chihuahua. After several rings, a male voice answered. I explained who I was and who I was looking for. The male on the other end of the line laughed and said, he many years before had spent an afternoon on a tractor with me. The male went on to say his father had passed and was there anything he could help me with. I will never forget the response when I spoke the following two sentences, “Are you aware of a female cartel with activities on both sides of the border? And, I believe this female cartel has been around for 100 years or longer.”

There was silence. Finally, after what seemed an eternity I asked, “Nondo, are you on the line?”

From the receiver came, “Dr. Cox, I don’t believe we should discuss such matters over the phone. When can you come to Mexico?” I thought but did not say, that is a bit paranoid. Why the concern? Is he genuinely concerned about him, me or both of us? Then, I remembered an afternoon many years before and a twelve-year old boy that sat on my lap while I drove a tractor and plowed a field on his father’s ranch. The boy arrived in a pickup truck with the ranch foreman and his father at a remote area where I was driving a D6 Caterpillar. When I stopped the tractor to fill the tank with diesel, the boy ran to the tractor and sat in the operator’s seat. When I was ready to resume plowing and seeding, the boy asked if he could ride with me. I looked at his father and replied, “Sure.” The boy was all smiles as I continued, “Son I won’t be returning to the ranch house until I finish this field, and that will likely be long after dark.” The boy’s reply, “Not a problem Dr. Cox. Father, may I stay?” A tall, elderly man with graying hair and a kind face looked at me and asked, “Are you sure it’s okay?” I smiled, nodded my head, slid a lever into a gear slot and the D6 began to move. When the boy and I returned to the ranch house several hours after dark, he disappeared. After eating supper, I went to bed. The next morning at sunup, I entered a U.S. Government truck and drove to Tucson, Arizona.

I was jolted back to reality when the male voice on the line spoke, “Dr. Cox I will send the corporate jet to El Paso next month.” He then provided instructions on the jet’s arrival time and where I was to find the jet at the El Paso International Airport.

On the appointed day at 1 pm, I was standing in a small building far from the El Paso Air Terminal when a small corporate jet landed and taxied up to my location. At 1:30 pm I was in the air, and moments later the pilot informed me of our estimated arrival time at Ciudad Chihuahua.

I was driven from the airport to downtown Chihuahua in a 1980’s version of a white, full-sized Ford Bronco. When the white Bronco stopped, the driver pointed to a door on the ground floor of a three-story building. As I exited the Bronco, to my right and across the plaza was a large sign with two words, and all letters were black capitals, AMERICAN EMBASSY.

As I reached for a handle on the glass door attached to a building, the door swung open. Standing in the void was a tall thin male, and on his face was a beaming smile. As a large right hand came forward the man spoke, “Dr. Cox I am Nando, please come inside.”

With Nando’s large, right hand in the small of my back, I was directed across a large lobby. Surrounding me were males and females of all sizes and colors. All were typing on computers, talking on phones or talking with each other. Soon I was escorted into an elevator, and Nando pushed number 3.

When the elevator door opened, we stepped into a grand entry with mesquite wood walls and gray marble ceilings and floors. Three large chandeliers hung from the ceiling. As I counted lights on the nearest chandelier, I felt Nando’s hand guiding me to matching open, double, mesquite doors. I did not measure the dimensions of the doors but estimated each to be at least 4-inches thick, 9 feet tall and 4 feet wide.

As I stepped through the doors, there was a large wooden table and seated behind the table was a female with light skin, black curly hair and gray eyes. As the female stood, Nando spoke, “Dr. Cox this is Miss Grehalva. Miss Grehalva can read and write English, Spanish, French and German. Most of the documents are in either English or Spanish, but a few are in French or German.

For the first time, I looked past Miss Grehalva. The office was immense. I later paced the room and estimated the area at 1,600 square feet. In a rectangle around the room were 4 foot by 8 foot mesquite tables placed end to end, and on all tables were stacks of files and newspapers. When I looked to Nando, he shrugged and replied, “Dad’s filing system. I believe what you seek is within this room.” After a smile Nando pointed to a door and continued, “Dad’s bedroom and toilet are behind the door. You are free to stay as long as you wish.” After another pause and look at Miss Grehalva, Nando continued, “She will remain at the desk as long as you work. Let her know when you are going to bed and when you will resume work the following morning. She will bring food and drink for as long as you remain.”

I intended to stay two or three days, but after day five and the realization that I had only visited about a tenth of the tables in the room, I asked Miss Grehalva, “Would you please help me?” Her response, “I believe you are searching for the activities of female gangs in Mexico?” After I nodded, Miss Grehalva continued, “What do you wish me to do?”

At 8 pm on day fifteen, I pushed myself back from the final table. As I looked at the ceiling, Miss Grehalva entered the room with a cart and several dishes. After placing the dishes with food before me, Miss Grehalva sat and matter-of-factly said, “The facts support your hypothesis, the female gang exists. I noticed you franticly writing yesterday while reviewing joint U.S-Mexico court cases. Did you recognize the names of the American defendants?”

My reply, “Miss Grehalva several years ago I wrote a history book entitled, Ghosts Of The Guadalupes. Several of the individuals in that book or their children or grandchildren were defendants in U.S.-Mexico drug cases.”

The following morning Miss Grehalva accompanied me as I descended from the third to the first floor in an Otis Elevator. When the elevator door opened, Nando walked forward with an extended right hand. As we shook hands he said, “Miss Grehalva informed me your trip was successful. Dr. Cox I must attend an important meeting and will be unable to accompany you to the airport. Please call if you need additional assistance.”

Nando turned to walk away. After four steps, he stopped made a 180 degree turn and returned to me. As his right hand exited a pants pocket, I noticed a small card. As I took the card Nando spoke, “Dr. Cox you will want to call this man.” Without another word, Nando turned and walked away.

Several months later, I was in Albuquerque, New Mexico. After finishing my business on Saturday afternoon, I removed the card Nando gave me from my wallet and made a call to a 505 number. A male voice simply said, “Hello,” and waited for me to respond.

“Sir, my name is Dr. Jerry Cox. I was given a card with your name and telephone number by an individual in Mexico.”

“Very well Dr. Cox, Nando called and said he gave you my telephone number. Please be at my home tomorrow morning at 9 am.” After providing an address and directions, the line went dead.

I left my hotel in Old Town Albuquerque at 7:45 am and carefully followed the man’s instructions to a remote compound in nearby mountains. At 8:50 am, I parked at a black metal gate and as instructed pushed a white button. Seconds later there was a click, and the gate latch released. As I walked through the gate, there was an additional click, and in my peripheral vision I could see the gate closing.

After walking up steep cement stairs, I looked down towards the car. Between the car and me was a 9 foot adobe fence with glass from broken bottles embedded along the top of the fence. Moments later, I was standing before another black metal gate. As I pushed a white button, the door began to open, and a male voice came from a speaker to my left, “Dr. Cox, continue on up the stairs. There is one additional gate.”

As I approached the third and final gate, a camera panned above my head, and next to a black metal post where the gate attached was a silver speaker. When I could no longer move forward, there was a loud click and a third black metal gate swung open. Before moving through the final gate, a male voice told me, “Move forward to the white French doors.” When I was several feet from the French doors, the door on the right side opened, and a small, aging man stepped forward.

He was approximately 5 feet tall and both shoulders slightly drooped toward the floor under a red flannel nightshirt. Next, my eyes fixed on weathered and wrinkled skin covering his face and a balding head. I also noted a sparse covering of week-old whiskers on sagging jowls. As he said, “Come in Dr. Cox,” and stepped back, there was a noticeable limp in his right leg. Next, to enter my mind was an estimated age of 80 very, hard years.

“Dr. Cox would you like a beer?” To my reply of, “It’s a bit early for me and there a many miles between this place and Carlsbad”, came his reply, “You can’t trust a man who won’t drink a beer for breakfast.” Since he did not move or smile, I changed my response, “Sure, I will have a beer.”

As he walked from the room, I noted his red flannel, night pants seemed to jerk each time his right leg lifted from the floor. When he was out of sight, a writing pad and a Parker Sterling Silver pen my wife had presented me after my final college graduation were removed from a briefcase. I also removed the card given to me by Nondo several months before. There was a single name and telephone number on the card. Robert was the name and the number which I had called the previous day. I wondered aloud, “Is Robert a first or last name? I will ask.”

When Robert returned, a silver can was in each hand. One can was placed on a counter, and Robert popped the tab on a can in his left hand. I was surprised when he handed me a Pearl beer. I had not seen a Pearl beer since leaving Texas and thought production had ceased outside Texas around 2000.

As I took the beer and drank a long sip from the can, Robert sat in a large recliner with great difficulty. I reached for my pad and pen and was about to ask his full name when he said, “Dr. Cox, tell me a story.” I was astounded. I came all this way for verification and information which he alone could supposedly provide. Why in heavens name would he ask me to tell him a story? I was here so he could provide me information. He must have sensed my confusion and quickly added, “Dr. Cox, I know Nando allowed you to review his father’s files. You have had several months to digest the information. If all the facts you assimilated are correct, tell me what you think.” Without a second thought or another drink of Pearl, I began to talk.

For approximately ten minutes, information passed from my lips to his ears. While I spoke, I do not remember seeing or watching him, I just talked. When I stopped talking, I noticed he was watching my every move, and I could visualize the gears in his brain turning with great speed. After several moments, Robert struggled to stand. When upright he walked to me and took the beer from my right hand. Next, he walked to the French Doors and opened the left door. I interpreted his collection of my beer, and the opening of the door as it was time for me to exit. With great confusion, I stood and walked to the door. As I passed through the door, Robert’s right hand patted my left shoulder and these words passed from his lips, “Not bad Dr. Cox. Not bad at all.”

I do not remember my walk back to the car. I know there were three gates and three tall adobe walls. I also know the final adobe wall had glass imbedded along the top. I hate to admit this, but I do not remember anything until I exited I-40 at Clines Corners and was headed south on US Route 285.

Traveling at great speed in a vehicle without concentrating on the road is reckless and irresponsible. Nevertheless, I drove without concentrating on the road.

As I approached the top of a hill and entered Vaughn, New Mexico, my right hand retrieved a cell phone. While my right hand held the cell phone and both knees held the steering wheel, my left hand dialed a number. When my wife answered the phone at our home in Carlsbad, New Mexico, I simply said, “They are real.” Judy’s reply was a straight and to the point, “You already knew that. What are you going to do?” I had no answer.

Over the following 24 months, I viewed and reviewed information. For some reason, my mind kept returning to a group of seemingly unrelated murders in the southwestern United States. On a whim, I contacted several county District Attorneys and State Police entities in Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. In each instance, I asked if a specific case or cases were active. From twenty inquires, all contacted officials indicated the requested cases were inactive. Over following months, formal requests were sent to each entity. To my surprise each request was returned with no response. When I called each official, all informed me that the requested cases were currently active, and no official files would follow.

On May 3, 2012 I woke for some unknown reason at 3:30 am. After several cups of coffee, I moved from a large recliner to my desk and began to review information. According to a personal calendar, several hours later an active imagination began to organize information and fill in the blanks. At that point Dos Putas-The Beginning was born.

During the second week of April 2017, I finished the first draft of Dos Putas-The Beginning. Dos Putas-Martha Agent Of Change and Dos Putas-End Of The Beginning are the two additional books that form the trilogy. The second and third books of the trilogy would likely never have been written, if not for a call from my youngest son, Jeremy at 10:30 am on April 26, 2017. Jeremy’s first sentence, “Dad, Justin is dead.”

I have faced many adversities, and I have received several major blows in my life, but none prepared me for, “Dad, Justin is dead.” Justin, my middle son had always been a challenge. There were problems and in January 2017 I had traveled to talk with Justin. After a week, my 41-year old son looked me straight in the eye and firmly said, “Dad, go home.” In the following weeks and months came reports that incorrectly led me to believe Justin was improving. On April 26, all hope was gone, and I would never again talk with one of the three sons I had sired. For several days, the voice of my grandmother kept reverberating over and over in my mind, “Never out live your children.”

After the funeral, my wife and I returned home to an empty world full of sadness and despair. For months thoughts of Justin were with me every waking hour. There was no escape. Then one day I sat down at my computer and began to write Dos Putas-Martha Agent Of Change. While I wrote, thoughts of Justin moved to the back of my mind and there was peace. I finally found an escape. On March 25, 2018, I finished a first draft of Dos Putas-Martha Agent Of Change, and on April 2, 2020, I completed a first draft of “Dos Putas-End Of The Beginning“.

The process to make a book as perfect as possible is long and arduous. Finally, after three long years Dos Putas-The Beginning is ready for release. Individuals contributing to the review process are Diane Evans Clark, Judy Monet Lunsford, Judy Lynn Wilson Cox, and Annette Hardin. The individual most responsible for these books is my wife, Judy Lynn Wilson Cox. These books and Ghosts Of The Guadalupes would never have been published without her gentle and constant prodding. I have no idea why she believes in me, but I am fortunate she does.