Going it alone In one of the poorest counties in Texas, at the center of the U.S. border crisis, one deputy must do the work of many
Story by Eli Saslow
Photos by Ricky Carioti
Published on August 9, 2014

ENCINO, Tex. — Elias Pompa had a thousand square miles of backcountry to patrol by himself, but now all he could see was the red Texas clay coating his windshield. “Damn dirt,” the sheriff’s deputy said, turning on his wipers, trying to follow the road as dusk closed in on him 11 hours into his shift. The gravel lane turned into two trail ruts, and the trail disappeared in sand and mesquite. He checked his location on a map, but the nearest marked road was three miles away.

He had been dispatched to this part of Brooks County to investigate an open window at an abandoned ranch building — another potential break-in in the nation’s busiest corridor for illegal immigration, where break-ins could mean any number of things. He had driven this way before to investigate robberies where the only item missing was water, stolen by groups of migrant children crossing the desert alone. He had come to confront drug cartel members carrying backpacks loaded with knives and 70 pounds of marijuana. He had come to rescue immigrants dying of dehydration and he had come when it was too late, carrying a state-issued body bag.

Now he quieted the engine and rolled down his window, hoping a sound might guide him. He listened to the wind and the cries of the buzzards and then, off in the distance, the creak of a rusted windmill. He followed the noise over a hill and through the brush until he saw it, a ramshackle, unoccupied house with a bedroom window cracked open on the second floor, and then, from inside that window, a sudden flutter of movement.

“Something’s definitely in there,” Pompa said, reaching for his gun. “Let’s see what it is.”

Here in Brooks County, in the center of an ongoing U.S. border crisis, it is usually Pompa alone who must respond in person when a crisis occurs. President Obama is sending more money, Gov. Rick Perry is sending the National Guard to help U.S. Customs and Border Protection, and Congress is debating, always debating, how best to manage the humanitarian and security implications as a record 6,000 unaccompanied children cross illegally into the United States each month.

But whenever an immigration-related emergency prompts someone here to dial 911, as happens a few dozen times a day, the call rings to a nearly bankrupt sheriff’s office in one of the poorest counties in Texas, where on this day the only available solution to an international crisis was a 37-year-old deputy who earns $11.50 an hour.





“Officer 807, going in,” Pompa said into his radio, and when the dispatcher didn’t respond he repeated himself. “Going off my unit to investigate,” he said. “Do you copy?”

Still nothing. The department’s radio communication system had gone down again. There was no cellphone service in this part of the county. Pompa’s nearest backup was at least 10 miles away. He had no body armor, no Taser, no tactical gear, no binoculars or GPS. He holstered his gun and grabbed his department-issued cowboy hat off the dashboard. It was a ridiculous white bucket of a thing with a tacky badge that rubbed his forehead raw, but still he wore it whenever he left the car, for luck and for courage. It closed the distance between the fabled Texas Ranger he imagined himself to be and the deputy he was, a former greeter at a Drury Inn who had never shot anything but a rabid pit bull, and who texted his mother at the end of each shift to let her know he was safe.

He climbed a fence guarding the property and walked quietly up a hill toward the house. A scarecrow stood at the entrance, and he crept past it and continued up the stairs. He reached the bedroom landing, pressed his back to the wall and pulled his gun. It was more than 100 degrees, and sweat ran down his palms to his fingers. A few months ago, he had found 42 people hiding in a room like this, and in the complicated universe of illegal immigration there was never any way to anticipate whether they might be drug traffickers or children or something in between.

Pompa put his left hand on the door and counted down with his fingers. Three, two, one, go. He pushed open the door and heard a noise that sounded like a scream, followed by a rush of cold air. “Hey!” he yelled, and looked up to see a white owl soaring through the door and flying over his head. Pompa hurried into the room, searching in the corners and the closets. Empty.

He walked back outside, leaned against a tree and took a few breaths, trying to slow his heartbeat. Only then did he notice the ground all around him: It was covered with backpacks, empty food cans and discarded clothes — evidence of another worn trail in a county that local officials estimate 600 to 1,000 illegal immigrants cross through every day in the busy summer season. The air smelled like sweat. A water bottle sat nearby, uncapped and half full.

“Someone was just here,” he said, and he began counting dozens of footprints scattered in the sand. “Ten, maybe 20 people,” he guessed. The trails ran in every direction, too many to follow, and the only choice that made sense was to walk back to his car.

“Ten-four, all clear,” he said, talking again into the radio, and all that came back was static.


He had been dispatched to this part of Brooks County to investigate an open window at an abandoned ranch building — another potential break-in in the nation’s busiest corridor for illegal immigration, where break-ins could mean any number of things. He had driven this way before to investigate robberies where the only item missing was water, stolen by groups of migrant children crossing the desert alone. He had come to confront drug cartel members carrying backpacks loaded with knives and 70 pounds of marijuana. He had come to rescue immigrants dying of dehydration and he had come when it was too late, carrying a state-issued body bag.

Now he quieted the engine and rolled down his window, hoping a sound might guide him. He listened to the wind and the cries of the buzzards and then, off in the distance, the creak of a rusted windmill. He followed the noise over a hill and through the brush until he saw it, a ramshackle, unoccupied house with a bedroom window cracked open on the second floor, and then, from inside that window, a sudden flutter of movement.

“Something’s definitely in there,” Pompa said, reaching for his gun. “Let’s see what it is.”

Here in Brooks County, in the center of an ongoing U.S. border crisis, it is usually Pompa alone who must respond in person when a crisis occurs. President Obama is sending more money, Gov. Rick Perry is sending the National Guard to help U.S. Customs and Border Protection, and Congress is debating, always debating, how best to manage the humanitarian and security implications as a record 6,000 unaccompanied children cross illegally into the United States each month.

But whenever an immigration-related emergency prompts someone here to dial 911, as happens a few dozen times a day, the call rings to a nearly bankrupt sheriff’s office in one of the poorest counties in Texas, where on this day the only available solution to an international crisis was a 37-year-old deputy who earns $11.50 an hour.
LEFT: Brooks County Deputy Elias Pompa stands by his patrol SUV on the side of the road in Falfurrias after a vehicle chase last month. Pompa had been involved in more than 50 chases in the past six months. RIGHT: Downtown Falfurrias at night.

“Officer 807, going in,” Pompa said into his radio, and when the dispatcher didn’t respond he repeated himself. “Going off my unit to investigate,” he said. “Do you copy?”

Still nothing. The department’s radio communication system had gone down again. There was no cellphone service in this part of the county. Pompa’s nearest backup was at least 10 miles away. He had no body armor, no Taser, no tactical gear, no binoculars or GPS. He holstered his gun and grabbed his department-issued cowboy hat off the dashboard. It was a ridiculous white bucket of a thing with a tacky badge that rubbed his forehead raw, but still he wore it whenever he left the car, for luck and for courage. It closed the distance between the fabled Texas Ranger he imagined himself to be and the deputy he was, a former greeter at a Drury Inn who had never shot anything but a rabid pit bull, and who texted his mother at the end of each shift to let her know he was safe.

He climbed a fence guarding the property and walked quietly up a hill toward the house. A scarecrow stood at the entrance, and he crept past it and continued up the stairs. He reached the bedroom landing, pressed his back to the wall and pulled his gun. It was more than 100 degrees, and sweat ran down his palms to his fingers. A few months ago, he had found 42 people hiding in a room like this, and in the complicated universe of illegal immigration there was never any way to anticipate whether they might be drug traffickers or children or something in between.

Pompa put his left hand on the door and counted down with his fingers. Three, two, one, go. He pushed open the door and heard a noise that sounded like a scream, followed by a rush of cold air. “Hey!” he yelled, and looked up to see a white owl soaring through the door and flying over his head. Pompa hurried into the room, searching in the corners and the closets. Empty.

He walked back outside, leaned against a tree and took a few breaths, trying to slow his heartbeat. Only then did he notice the ground all around him: It was covered with backpacks, empty food cans and discarded clothes — evidence of another worn trail in a county that local officials estimate 600 to 1,000 illegal immigrants cross through every day in the busy summer season. The air smelled like sweat. A water bottle sat nearby, uncapped and half full.

“Someone was just here,” he said, and he began counting dozens of footprints scattered in the sand. “Ten, maybe 20 people,” he guessed. The trails ran in every direction, too many to follow, and the only choice that made sense was to walk back to his car.

“Ten-four, all clear,” he said, talking again into the radio, and all that came back was static.

Brooks County Sheriff Rey Rodriguez holds a photo of his office staff. These days, his staff is a lot smaller.
'Do we have anything left?'

Twenty miles away, in a building attached to the jail on the outskirts of tiny Falfurrias, Tex., the Brooks County sheriff’s station was nearly deserted. The 911 dispatcher had taken his lunch break. Sheriff Rey Rodriguez walked past a row of empty desks adorned with the nameplates of employees who had recently been laid off. “Where’s Pompa?” he wondered, because there were two 911 calls on hold and 17 pending investigations from the past week alone.

“How far behind can we get?” he said.

Rodriguez had been elected sheriff five years earlier, inheriting a stable, seven-figure budget in a county of 7,200 people, where most emergencies related to livestock loose on the roads. He had expected to close out his career chasing cattle and writing traffic tickets. “A sunset job,” he called it then, before the local oil wells dried up, the county lost a quarter of its tax base and his budget was cut in half.




Meanwhile, record numbers of Central Americans had begun crossing into South Texas, four times as many as in 2009, migrating through the desolate ranchland that was their closest geographical entry point to the United States. Now most emergencies in the daily 911 call log related to immigration problems: “illegal on road,” “illegal lost,” “illegal on private property,” “illegal deceased.” In 2012, the sheriff’s office spent a third of its diminished budget on the recovery and burial of 129 immigrants found dead in the brush.

The first budget cut was to eliminate the tactical unit, three deputies who used night-vision goggles to chase immigrants on the ranchland. Next went the department’s only investigator, followed by four of the eight remaining deputies, followed by the janitorial staff, because whoever was left could empty the trash.

The remaining four deputies agreed to take 3 percent pay cuts, patrol without a partner and work 48-hour weeks. The county eliminated overtime pay and then health benefits, which meant the deputies had become border crossers, too, making regular trips to doctors in Mexico to treat injuries they incurred on the job. The weekly staff meeting had become a gathering of two men, the sheriff and his chief deputy, who on this day sat down to talk about managing another round of budget cuts.

“Do we have anything left?” asked Bennie Martinez, the chief deputy.

“Gas?” the sheriff said. “How about limiting their mileage? Maybe 200 miles a shift?”

“We could,” the chief deputy said. “But why bother having a deputy on duty if he has to park the car instead of patrol?”

“How about sending them home at night?” the sheriff said. “On-call only.”

“In this county? With our problems?” the chief deputy said. “That’d be asking for trouble.”

The two men had traveled to California and Washington in an effort to raise money, applying for grants and meeting with members of Congress to ask for support. The federal government spent more than $18 billon on border security in the past year, including covering some immigration costs for border counties. “We are outmanned and over-run,” the sheriff wrote in one request, only to be told that, because of its location, his county did not qualify for federal aid.

It was a curse of geography: Brooks County is 40 miles inland from the Rio Grande, not officially on the border, and yet one of the busiest Border Patrol checkpoints in the nation sat on a highway at its center. If immigrants wanted to get from the Rio Grande Valley to the interior of the United States, they had to get past the highway checkpoint, which usually meant hiking 10 or 15 miles around it through the vast ranchland of Brooks County, creating a trail of emergencies that county officials had compiled into an annual stats sheet.

More than 150,000 illegal immigrants trafficked through the county. Seven hundred rescued from dehydration and turned over to Border Patrol. Two hundred cars seized in the act of human smuggling. Six school lockdowns as a result of immigration activity.

And one deputy on duty at a time, responsible for policing it all.


Moving in darkness

Pompa awoke for his 12-hour shift at 5 a.m. and put on the hand-me-down uniform he’d inherited from the officer he replaced, a size-44 waist that his mother had taken in to a 38. He checked his e-mail to see whether there were offers on the coin collection or the scrap metal he was selling online to help supplement his salary. Then he grabbed an energy drink and drove away from the ranch house he rented for $250 a month.

“This is 807, heading out,” he said into the radio.

Brooks County Deputy Rolando Gutierrez detains two migrants, at top -- a Mexican, center, and a Honduran -- while patrolling last month in Falfurrias. The two had given up on their quest to make it to Houston and were simply waiting at a roadside shelter hoping to be picked up by authorities. Gutierrez snaps their mug shots before they are delivered to Border Patrol.

The pre-dawn hours were always his favorite, when the heat finally yielded to a breeze off the Corpus Christi Bay and the only light came from the hazy glow of the Milky Way. In daytime, Brooks County was a forbidding place: tangled mesquite, sand pits, rattlesnakes and thick cacti, with vultures circling lake beds parched by the heat. But darkness softened the landscape and obscured it in mystery, and mystery was why Pompa had taken a pay cut six months earlier to transfer here from the city police force in nearby Falfurrias. Anything could be out in the brush at night. If only he could find it. There were coyotes, wild boars, javelinas, mountain lions and people, too, all of them nocturnal, moving in darkness to avoid being seen.

He encountered most immigrants on ranches or dirt roads, moving in groups of 10 or 15, dressed in dark clothes and with their water bottles painted black. A few months earlier, he had been patrolling one of those roads when he felt a thud against his front bumper that shook the car. In the rearview mirror, he saw a lifeless black shape lying in the road. He had killed somebody. He was sure of it. “Hurry, I need EMTs,” he had called into the radio, and then he ran back to administer CPR to what he discovered was a tire.

He had driven cautiously at night ever since, 30 mph with the windows down, scanning the brush and enjoying the silence until the sun rose over the live oaks and the day began.

“Two illegals, males, in bad condition on the shoulder of Highway 285,” the county’s 911 dispatcher said, just after sunrise, but by the time Pompa arrived with two gallons of water, the men were gone.

By noon, Pompa had driven 300 miles. By 2 p.m., it was 400, and his eyes grew heavy and the roads blended together as the heat index rose to 110. “It’s like hell out there,” he said, surveying a place where for most of its history nobody wanted to live. Spaniards had explored Brooks County and left. American Indians had camped and then moved farther south, where the soil was better for farming. The place had always belonged mostly to transients — vaqueros grazing their livestock and Indian traders heading to Mexico — and it still looked as it always had, open and undiscovered. Except the land had been divided and sold to families from Houston and Dallas, who used the property for hunting. They had built fences to keep livestock in and people out, and now those fences had been worn down from repeated abuse by the latest generation of passers-through.

Tracking cameras had recorded as many as 150 people each night coming through a single property, and ranchers had been forced to devise their own solutions to compensate for having only one sheriff’s deputy on duty. One bought an AR15 after a series of break-ins, another electrified his fence and trained attack dogs, and another installed 30 water fountains with directions in Spanish and Mandarin.

The Poco Grande Ranch had hired its own security firm, and now one of the private guards was leaving a message on Pompa’s cellphone 11 hours and 427 miles into his shift.

“Got one,” the guard’s message said. “Can you hurry?” continued...
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