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Border agent's family waits, worries
Sentencing only a day away for convicted pair
Sara A. Carter, Staff Writer
Article Launched:10/18/2006 12:00:00 AM PDT


Jurors say they were misled to convict agentsJustice Department asked to review border agents' caseBorder agents denied delay Agents ask judge for delayCongress letter expresses need for review of agents' caseLeaders push for delay in border agents' caseBorder agent Ramos visits Ontario for radio showBorder agents get congressional supportAgents' case prompts call for probeConvicted border agents finding a lot of supportersTroubling aspects to case against 2 border agentsSupport for border agents floods inConvicted border agent tells his storyEL PASO, Texas -- Virginia Orwig stood in the kitchen, preparing homemade apple and cherry pies. With each turn of the crust, tears fell from her eyes.
Cooking is her therapy.

She was baking for her son, Border Patrol Agent Ignacio "Nacho" Ramos, and his family. It might be more than 10 years, even as many as 20, before she bakes for him again, and before the family reunites.

Ramos and his co-worker, Jose Alonso Compean, are to be sentenced Thursday for the nonfatal shooting of a Mexican national, Osbaldo Aldrete-Davila, who allegedly was trying to smuggle nearly $1 million in marijuana into the United States on Feb. 17, 2005, when he was shot.

For more than 20 months, the families of the two El Paso Border Patrol agents have been struggling to cope with what they believe was an unjust prosecution and conviction. Both men have proclaimed their innocence.

Ramos' family is numb. At Orwig's home Tuesday, their faces were somber from worry and lack of sleep.

Orwig shuffled through stacks of letters she had written to local, state and federal leaders, pleading for her son's life. Many yielded only canned responses. She also made more than 50 phone calls to her local congressman, Sylvester Reyes, R-El Paso, and never got a return call.

Photos of better times hang from the walls of the home, almost mocking the family with memories of times when life was simpler and sweeter.

Orwig smiled at pictures of Nacho when he was in elementary school. Then she shook her head in disbelief, and held her husband Wes -- Ignacio's stepfather -- close.

Just then, Ramos' three children came through the front door, their voices carrying from the downstairs to the upstairs kitchen.

"My biggest concern is for the children," said Orwig of her grandsons -- 6, 9 and 13 -- as she continued to bake pies. The house was filling up with family.

"What is left of their childhood?" Orwig cried. "Can you imagine what my son must feel, knowing that he will not be around them to watch them grow up, to share their lives together?

"What has happened to us is more than an injustice. It is a nightmare."

Just then, Ignacio Ramos walked through his mother's front door. He walked up to the kitchen, saw his mother baking pies, and hugged her.

"It will be OK," he said.

His wife, Monica Ramos, came in shortly after.

It was Tuesday. Only two days left before the sentencing. For everyone close to Ignacio, it was as though death was waiting around the corner.

The kitchen fell quiet.

'WE'RE STILL HERE'

Ignacio Ramos relived the day when he went to help his co-worker, Compean, pursue a vehicle that had tripped Border Patrol sensors near the Rio Grande in Fabens, Texas, just 40 miles southwest of El Paso.

Ramos doesn't second-guess himself about leaving his lunch behind to help Compean when the call came through on his radio. Ramos said he had no choice but to protect his partner and himself from Aldrete-Davila, who had what Ramos believed to be a weapon in his hand after ditching the van filled with marijuana.

During the ensuing foot pursuit, as the smuggler reached the Rio Grande, Ramos said Aldrete-Davila turned and pointed what Ramos believed to be a weapon at him. Ramos fired one shot. He hit Aldrete-Davila in the buttocks, but the smuggler made his way back into Mexico and fled in a van on the other side.

"No matter how hard this has been, no matter what anybody has said or thought, we are still here," said Ramos, looking at his wife. "Nobody's thoughts or ideas about that day have torn us apart as a family. Nobody will ever break us -- we're still here."

Ramos remembers seeing Compean on the ground after a scuffle with the smuggler. He didn't know if Compean was injured. Ramos' first thought when the smuggler turned to him was of his wife and three young sons. He shot at the smuggler to save his life and his partner's, he said.

What he couldn't have known is how that day would change the rest of his life, and his family's. And what he doesn't understand is why the Texas U.S. Attorney's office was so adamant about prosecuting him, and why the U.S. government went to such lengths to grant immunity to a drug smuggler to testify against him.

In the past few weeks, Ramos has not slept more than a few hours every night. The lack of sleep is evident on his face, where heavy lines are visible.

His heart is breaking, he said.

He can't look at his children without feeling a flood of tears well in his eyes. His voice becomes choked.

"I know I'm going to have to talk to them soon," he said. "The boys know what's going on, but I don't have it in my heart to look at them and tell them. I have to tell them that now they'll only have each other."

For Monica Ramos, the emptiness has been almost unbearable. Her love for her husband is evident in the way she looks into his eyes and touches his hand.

For months, they haven't even had an hour alone, she said. The children have become so dependent on them that even staying at their grandparents' for the night has ended. Their 9-year-old -- whose name and the names of his brothers is being withheld to protect their identities -- broke down in tears after football practice last week and asked his mother: "Are they really going to take Daddy away? I don't want Daddy going to prison."

"Our son is withdrawing," Monica Ramos said. "He's becoming very quiet. We try to stay as positive as we can around them. But they know that time is drawing near. Nobody can understand the pain we are feeling as a family."

Monica now is the sole provider for her family. They have almost lost their home on several occasions, they no longer have medical insurance, and most of the money raised for them will go to attorneys when they appeal the case on Thursday.

Their families have helped keep them afloat. Joe and Ernestina Loya have taken loans against their home and stopped plans for retirement to provide for their daughter and grandchildren. Ramos' mother quit her job at Raytheon Corp. to help her son with the children. Times have never been tighter for the families.

"This is almost worse than a family death," said Ernestina Loya as she stood next to Orwig in the kitchen. "In death there is closure. This is more like torture, to take innocent men and condemn them for doing their jobs."

Threats from associates of Aldrete-Davila have left the Ramoses fearful for their children's safety. The El Paso Sheriff's Department has had deputies monitoring the Ramos home since the threats came by e-mail and phone.

'IT DOESN'T SEEM REAL'

The wind howled Tuesday afternoon, its force almost frightening, the feeling of winter hanging in the air.

Ramos can barely stand to think of the upcoming holidays. He's already told his wife what he would like to give the children if they can manage to scrape up the money, he said.

"I didn't want them to wake up Christmas morning without anything personal from me," he said. "It doesn't seem real. Everything feels like it's slipping from my hands."

His closest cousin, Peter Valdez of Austin, drove to El Paso this week to be with Ramos. Valdez said his biggest concern is for Ramos himself.

"I really feel that the government has made him a scapegoat for a dysfunctional system," Valdez said. "They have ruined his life.

"But my concern is mainly for Nacho right now. ... I fear for my cousin's safety if he goes to prison. I fear for his safety even if he doesn't go. He is dealing with very powerful criminal forces -- and how will his life ever go back to being what it was?"

Ignacio and Monica understand this as well. They have already written their wills, fixed power of attorney papers and spent months transferring documents into Monica's name.

And although what has happened to them doesn't seem real, their love for each other is unquestionable.

In Orwig's kitchen, they looked into each other's eyes, not saying a word. Their eyes did not move. Each was transfixed, as though appreciating a special gift.

Then Ignacio, Monica's hand in his, smiled.

"I was never willing to sign my life away for anything," he said. "There is nothing they can do to tear this family apart. We have not given up, and we will never give up.

"My children and my wife will always know in their hearts that I did the right thing."

Sara A. Carter can be reached by e-mail at sara.carter@dailybulletin.com or by phone at (909) 483-8552.

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