{"product_id":"confessions-of-a-cartel-hit-man-isbn-9781101984628","title":"Confessions of a Cartel Hit Man","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe true confession of an assassin, a \u003ci\u003esicario\u003c\/i\u003e, who rose through the ranks of the Southern California gang world to become a respected leader in an elite, cruelly efficient crew of hit men for Mexico's \"most vicious drug cartel,\" and eventually found a way out and an (almost) normal life.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Martin Corona, a US citizen, fell into the outlaw life at twelve and worked for a crew run by the Arellano brothers, founders of the the Tijuana drug cartel that dominated the Southern California drug trade and much bloody gang warfare for decades. Corona's crew would cross into the United States from their luxurious hideout in Mexico, kill whoever needed to be killed north of the border, and return home in the afternoon. That work continued until the arrest of Javier Arellano-Félix in 2006 in a huge coordinated DEA operation. Martin Corona played a key role in the downfall of the cartel when he turned state's evidence. He confessed to multiple murders. Special Agent of the California Department of Justice Steve Duncan, who wrote the foreword, says Martin Corona is the only former cartel hit man he knows who is truly remorseful.  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Martin's father was a US Marine. The family had many solid middle-class advantages, including the good fortune to be posted in Hawaii for a time during which a teenage Martin thought he might be able to turn away from the outlaw life of theft, drug dealing, gun play, and prostitution. He briefly quit drugs and held down a job, but a die had been cast. He soon returned to a gangbanging life he now deeply regrets.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e How does someone become evil, a murderer who can kill without hesitation? This story is an insight into how it happened to one human being and how he now lives with himself. He is no longer a killer; he has asked for forgiveness; he has made a kind of peace for himself. He wrote letters to family members of his victims. Some of them not only wrote back but came to support him at his parole hearings. It is a cautionary tale, but also one that shows that evil doesn't have to be forever.\u003cb\u003eAdvance Praise for \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eConfessions of a Cartel Hit Man\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Corona’s engaging story offers an insider’s peek into gang and prison life, providing insight into how a seemingly average boy can become a drug kingpin and a murderer. Recommended for true crime lovers.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Library Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In the world of LA crime writers, the late great Tony Rafael was ahead of his time. He perceived truths and stories that others couldn’t, or wouldn’t. The world he helps Martin Corona take us to here is one that few writers would have dared enter, much less known how to navigate. Don’t miss this--the latest and last work of a great crime writer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Sam Quinones, author of \u003ci\u003eDreamland: The True Tale of America’s Opiate Epidemic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Martin Corona takes you inside the scary world of drug gangs and killers as only a man who walked those streets can. His book is courageous, and a gripping read. It should be required reading for anybody concerned about gang violence, street crime and border security.”  \u003cb\u003e—Fred Burton, Vice President for Intelligence, Stratfor, former State Department special agent, and author of \u003ci\u003eGhost: Confessions of a Counterterrorism Agent\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Martin Corona has written a raw, gritty first-person account of the dark world of the cartel enforcer. His book is a rare and very personal look into that universe, drawn from his own experiences of brutal violence. Corona spent so long in the belly of the beast that’s it is nothing short of a miracle that he has returned to tell this shocking tale.” \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e--Ricardo Ainslie, Director, Mexico Center, University of Texas at Austin\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eMartin Corona\u003c\/b\u003e, after serving as an enforcer in the Tijuana drug cartel, turned state's evidence against the organization and made possible the federal prosecution that brought an end to it. He lives with his family in witness supervision. He speaks to law enforcement organizations on the subject of his crimes and to at-risk youth on the importance of avoiding his mistakes.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Letter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was in Sandstone Federal Correctional Institution in Minnesota.      It's a low security facility that houses mostly nonviolent      offenders-white-collar criminals who commit their robberies with      gold-plated pens and computer spreadsheets and snake their way      through the SEC systems with the hope of getting away clean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In addition to the financial hustlers, crooked politicians, and      their bagmen, there were also people like me at      Sandstone-confidential witnesses who testified in court against      their former criminal associates. We weren't white-collar guys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Some people call Sandstone and places like it White-Collar Country      Clubs. And in some ways, that's accurate, at least compared to the      supermax facilities. At least in Sandstone. You don't have the      hard-core gangsters, the unrepentant racists, the cold-blooded      killers, and the various sociopaths that could go off without      warning like a stick of dynamite. You don't have to fight for your      life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In my case, I'd like to say it was doing easy time. But it wasn't.      The real prison I inhabited wasn't Sandstone. It was my own      conscience. It was the guilt. Although I'm now technically free, I      still carry my prison with me. There's no escape from this one.      There's no crashing through the wall or even receiving a pardon.      In every legal way, I've paid my debt, done my time, and fulfilled      all the obligations of testifying against the people who sent me      out to kill. But the freedom that most people take for granted,      the freedom of an easy conscience, is something that I'll never      again experience.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My handler at the time, Steve Duncan, was one of the first people      in law enforcement who I could talk to and not feel like he was      just trying to get some more information out of me for his case.      By 2008, I'd spent a lot of time with him. He spent time with my      parents and helped to get them someplace safe out of the reach of      the Arellano-FŽlix assassins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One day I asked him if it would be okay for me to try to write a      letter to the survivors of the people I killed and the ones who      survived my attempt to murder them. He thought about it for a      while and then said he thought it was a good idea. Not that it      would reduce my sentence or get me any better deal with the US      Attorney. That was all behind me at that point. My deal had been      made. I knew I would be getting out of prison by a certain date      and there was nothing I would get out of this except, hopefully,      communicate my sense of remorse to the people I wronged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There's no manual on how to do this. I started and stopped a      number of times. And I tore up the first few tries because it      literally made me sick to think of the harm I'd done. But those      people deserved . . . something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This letter is addressed to all those whose lives I've affected      personally as well as all humanity. I apologize for not addressing      you by name, but I don't feel worthy of that intimacy. Please      don't mistake my humility for lack of respect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My name is Martin Corona and I am a murderer. It's . . . something      I live with daily in shame and disgust.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I once worked for the Arellano-FŽlix Drug Cartel. I served as one      of their many puppets who were dispatched at the whim of the      Arellano brothers to take the lives of those who posed a threat to      their business . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can begin by saying I'm sorry. But I can't help wonder what      would that mean to me if someone took one of my loved ones away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don't seek forgiveness or empathy. Only an opportunity to tell      you that I despise the man that I was and whom I must face each      morning when I look in the mirror. I may have had a change of      heart in my life, but it's still the same evil some of your loved      ones had to look upon as they drew their last breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There is nothing I can do to repay the sins I've committed. I can      literally offer you my life and it's one thing I would freely lay      down if it would reverse the past. I've tried to take it by my own      hands on more than one occasion but for some reason, I've been      spared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My other alternative is to continue the mission that I've set for      myself. That is, to speak out against the people and the beliefs      that I once claimed loyalty to. I never had any personal intention      to harm you or anyone. I never woke up one day and decided to go      on a killing spree . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm sorry,\" is all I have to say . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Respectfully,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Martin Corona\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Duncan forwarded the letter to some of the people I indicated.      Most of them did not respond. One of them, a young female,      contacted Duncan and told him she would like to meet me one day.      But not just yet. Not enough time had passed and she wasn't ready      to relive the nightmare I'd put her through. But the one thing      that she wanted me to know was that she forgave me. She didn't      blame me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'll tell you, it was the first time in decades that I was truly      humbled and felt like a member of the human race again. To know      that at least in her eyes I wasn't this subhuman monster seemed to      lift at least a little of my guilt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It wasn't long after her response that I began thinking about      writing about my life. If I could make her understand, it was      possible to make other people see that evil isn't always forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don't believe anyone is born into the world to be evil.      Something significant had to come along to be a turning point.      Sometimes it's a circumstance like poverty, drug-abusive parents,      sexual abuse, physical abuse, or maybe the overwhelming feeling      that you just don't matter to anyone. And if you are finally      convinced that you don't matter, it can cause you to do      extraordinary things that finally get you noticed. What makes a      kid want to commit suicide at the age of twelve? Or bring a gun to      school? Or rebel so bad that their parents \"don't even know who      you are.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I've heard that one. Who knew who I was back in the nineties when      I leaned down low, focused, armed, looking for the right moment to      act? I mean, is anyone going to tell me that I was born to be      sitting in a car, living my own version of a Mack Bolan novel?      Watching three dealers serve dope fiends in the middle of the      street in Los Angeles, in broad daylight, and I'm doing my best to      figure out how to kill them without getting caught? And at the      same time make sure that everyone connected to those three knows      that my bosses, the Arellano FŽlix brothers, don't take no shit      from their enemies?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two days after that initial recon, two of those dealers will have      clocked out permanently and the other would die six months later      from mercury poisoning from the mercury-tipped slugs that I had      fired into him. The fact of the matter is that my crew was crazier      than anything Mack Bolan could have done and we were not fictional      characters. We were for real and we didn't play at being      assassins. I was one of the Arellanos' top hit men and that day I      was making good on the contract the Arellanos had put out on Chapo      Guzman and anyone connected to him. What brought me to that      particular street with my machine gun loaded with mercury-tipped      bullets? I wasn't born evil, but my life is what I made of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Posole\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The family situation I was born into looks unremarkable from the      outside. My father, Fred, was a career US Marine master gunnery      sergeant who wore the uniform for thirty-three years. The anchor      and globe they gave him when he finished boot camp was just      acknowledging the code that he'd operated under for his entire      life. In my mind, he had sprung full-blown as a Marine. I was      insanely proud of my father. It didn't go the other way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My family on my mother's side arrived in Oceanside, California, in      1917. They drove from Texas in a car and an old truck. In 1916,      Pancho Villa stopped a train in Mexico and killed eighteen      American citizens in cold blood to register his displeasure that      President Woodrow Wilson was not backing Villa's faction in the      revolution. That same year, Villa invaded the town of Columbus,      New Mexico, burned it to the ground, and left another nineteen US      citizens dead in the streets. When I think about that, I wonder if      the violence I would eventually inflict in Mexico and the US drove      some of the hundreds of thousands of illegal border crossers into      California and the Southwest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My grandmother's family found whatever jobs they could in an area      that was still heavily agricultural and predominantly Mexican. My      father's family had migrated from Mexico and settled in Texas. As      soon as he could enlist, he did. He was assigned to Camp      Pendleton, just north of San Diego, California. Oceanside is      basically a bedroom suburb of Camp Pendleton. They used to say,      \"You can't swing a dead cat in Oceanside without hitting a      Marine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When my grandmother was young and living in Oceanside, she did      field work. She picked oranges, lettuce, and strawberries. To make      a few extra dollars, my great-grandmother and great-grandfather      began cooking in the evenings for the unmarried workers who didn't      have families. After a day stooped over cutting lettuce, they and      my grandmother would go home and cook massive amounts of posole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The British have their steak and kidney pie and boiled beef. The      Italians have pasta, and the Germans have their sausages and      sauerkraut. Mexicans have posole. It's a corn-based stew that      originated in pre-Columbian Central America. It's as much a      sacrament in Mexican life as Communion and baptism. You eat posole      when you're sick to make you feel better. You eat it when you're      well to stay healthy. And you eat it in honor of a culture that      seems to have dissipated and dissolved under the hooves and      flintlocks of Western European immigration. The woman who produces      posole isn't exactly worshipped, but pretty damned close.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My grandmother became the \"Posole Lady\" in Oceanside. She sold the      stew out of her kitchen and often delivered it. She became so      connected to her cooking that the area in Oceanside she lived in      eventually came to be known simply as Posole. For most of the      twentieth century, Posole was just the name the locals called the      area. By the 1960s, when neighborhoods began giving birth to      street gangs, Posole became the name of our gang as well. Posole      was my home gang. It was under the Posole umbrella that I began my      criminal career. In a strange way, I felt like I owned the      neighborhood because my family had been there longer than anyone      else. My grandmother's cooking gave the entire neighborhood its      name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e By the time a teenager is ready to be jumped into a gang, he is      literally prepared to kill and die for his neighborhood. To an      outsider, this level of commitment to the gang and the      neighborhood seems insane. Maybe you need to have been raised in      the varrio to understand how young men can turn their backs on      their families and, frankly, the entire noncriminal world, and      volunteer for a suicide pact with their homeboys. I was probably a      lot more committed to the gang than most of my homies. I lived the      gang life right up to the point that it was going to kill me. I      bought the ticket to the horror show and stayed for the entire      nightmare performance. And I was one of the leading players.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Blood connections to the barrio weren't limited to young males.      The girls had their own little cliques and groups. When my mother      was growing up, she belonged to the Tangerines. It wasn't a gang      in the strict sense of the word. It was more a social club or what      would pass for a sorority in college. They had their own      Tangerines jackets and they wore the same kind of hairstyle and      makeup. The friendships they made as teenagers would last a      lifetime. They would marry their girlfriends' brothers or cousins.      And a lot of them would get pregnant with guys they never married      but never really stopped socializing with in the neighborhood.      Decades later, the whole neighborhood would basically become a      huge extended family where everyone knew everyone else's history      and we were all connected one way or another. I guess this social      system played out in every Hispanic neighborhood in California.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I was eight, my father was ordered to Camp Lejeune, North      Carolina. Prior to this, the only place I'd been outside of      California was to Mexico for holiday trips. In those days, Mexico      wasn't the free-fire cartel killing ground that it became. There      was always drug dealing and smuggling, but nothing on the scale      that I would witness in the 1990s.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Once, smuggling was almost considered an honorable profession on      the Mexican border. Old-school paisas (Mexican villagers) hauled      turquoise, mescal, gold, and silver into the US on donkeys. During      Prohibition, they smuggled liquor imported from Europe, or      Mexican-brewed tequila. These farmers and traders had no ambition      of becoming internationally celebrated criminals. They were      subsistence smugglers who knew their way across the desert and      could pick out their route over the mountains and across the      desert by moonlight or a Zippo lighter. Those routes used by the      mescal haulers are still in use today, but the subsistence      smugglers were replaced by cartels like the Arellano FŽlix      brothers, who became rich enough to buy the Mexican government.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I remember sitting in the rear bench seat of the Ford Torino      station wagon we had and watching the Baja California landscape      roll by the tinted windows. That was the brief time in my life      when I was still a goofy kid who liked reading and writing, was      good at math, and could not resist taking mechanical things apart.      Years later, as a freshly released convict from the California      Department of Corrections, I was driven down the same Highway 1D,      the Tijuana to Ensenada road, in a blacked-out Chevy SUV armed      with a full-auto AK-47. We had hand grenades and pistols too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My parents and I made the trip to Camp Lejeune in that Torino. To      save money, we slept in the car. In North Carolina, we lived off      base in military housing. There was a clear, fast-running creek      behind the house that held fish and frogs. Beyond the creek, there      were dense woods that went on for miles.","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303981666533,"sku":"NP9781101984628","price":36.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101984628.jpg?v=1767724037","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/confessions-of-a-cartel-hit-man-isbn-9781101984628","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}