Wednesday, Aug. 29, 2018
WASHINGTON – A civil rights watchdog group that tracks elections said it was greatly concerned that 62 Maricopa County polling stations failed to open on time Tuesday, and “very disappointed” that county officials refused to extend voting hours to let people cast a ballot.
Maricopa County Recorder Adrian Fontes said the problems, which he blamed on understaffed technology contractors, were fixed and polling places were operational by 11:30 a.m.
But by that time voters across the county had already reported to the Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law hotline that they were unable to cast ballots.
“We know that many people, especially those that are working long shifts may only have an hour or two in the morning to cast a ballot,” said Laura Grace, the committee’s election protection manager. “Or they may not have transportation options to travel from their home precinct to a bonus voting center, and we did have voters that called the hotline and said that wasn’t an option for them.”
Grace said her group was also “very disappointed that the County Board of Supervisors refused to extend voting hours or look for remedies for voters that were impacted.”
But Maricopa County Board of Supervisors Chairman Steve Chucri said he was “disappointed” in Fontes, who had been given “no shortage of resources to run a successful election” after the county drew national attention in 2016 for polling place cuts that left people standing in line for hours to vote.
Chucri said he first learned of Tuesday’s problems in the afternoon when he was shown a tweet from Arizona Secretary of State Michele Reagan said the county should “seriously consider” asking for court approval to extend voting hours. Chucri said Fontes called his office “almost simultaneously” with the same request.
“The secretary of state and the county recorder bringing this to our desk more than halfway through a voting day, expecting us, as a board, to intervene, was not leadership in my opinion. And it was not professional, especially the way it was tweeted out,” Chucri said.
Fontes blamed the failure on insufficiently staffed county contractors hired to prepare the voting equipment. He said he only found out about the issue Monday, asking election workers to step in and complete the set-up.
“Flat out, we could have done a lot better this morning,” Fontes said in a Facebook video update minutes before Tuesday’s 7 p.m. poll closures. “Look, this is a rough business and we work really hard to make things happen.”
But Chucri said the request to extend voting hours put supervisors in a tough spot.
“When we didn’t know what effect extending it could really have, when no one could account or find in recent history something of that magnitude being done. … In this very sensitive and difficult situation, I chose not to extend the voting hours,” Chucri said.
Problems for voters, however, were not limited to the late openings, Grace said.
“In some cases, they (voters) were instructed to go to a neighboring station that was open and cast a provisional ballot in that location,” she said. “It’s unclear to us if that should have been guidance that was given, or if that was following policy or not, so we’re concerned that some voters may have been casting ballots that may be challenged or have problems.”
Voting-by-mail is increasingly taking the place of in-person voting in Maricopa County, and most races were settled by substantial margins Tuesday. But Grace said her groupremains deeply unsatisfied with the handling of elections in the county, and she urges anyone who encounters issues at the polls in November to call its election protection hotline immediately at 866-OUR-VOTE (866-687-8683).
Grace said her office did not get reports of significant problems in any other county in the state Tuesday. And Chucri vowed the supervisors will get involved to make sure Maricopa County does a better job in the future.
“We rise together and we fall together as Maricopa County, and yesterday Maricopa County could have done better,” Chucri said. “We’re going to get auditors who do a great job and we’re going to find out exactly what went wrong to protect against it happening again in the fall. And we are going to effectively insert ourselves in the management process thereof.”
By Brendan Campbell, Angel Mendoza and Tessa Diestel | News21
Published on August 15, 2018
EUGENE, Oregon — Sergio Reyes and two other Mexican immigrants were busy landscaping at their worksite in early 2018 when they were accosted by a man hurling racial epithets and threatening to cut off the head of one of them.
“It doesn't matter if I become an American citizen,” Reyes said. “If your skin color is not white and your English is not perfect, you don't blend. Bottom line.”
The man’s later acquittal of all charges was seen by the three men as yet another in a long string of injustices they, and many immigrants to America, say they experience regularly.
More than one in five suspected hate crimes victimized Latinos, according to a News21 analysis of responses to the National Crime Victimization Survey data from 2012 to 2016.
Hate incidents targeting Latinos and immigrants often go beyond name-calling and intimidation. Victims and advocates also say they are too often the targets of assault, robberies and even murder.
As targeting of their communities is on the rise, Latinos and immigrants are increasingly fearful of reporting racially motivated crimes and incidents to law enforcement, according to victims, experts and advocates interviewed by News21 in Florida, Oregon, California and Texas.
“In immigrant communities, the fear is palpable,” said Monica Bauer, director of Hispanic affairs at the Anti-Defamation League (ADL). “It’s so much fear that I think the word doesn’t really convey. It’s almost terrified, like it’s beyond fear. It’s paralyzing fear.”
Latino victims made up only 11 percent of racial-bias crimes reported to the FBI in 2016, but studies have shown the FBI substantially undercounts such crimes. Of 15,254 agencies providing statistics to the FBI in 2016, 88 percent reported zero hate crimes.
Hate-crime experts, victims and witnesses told News21 that two major factors have exacerbated the problem recently: a perceived climate of anti-immigrant animosity encouraged by the election of President Donald Trump; and fears of reporting to authorities, especially among undocumented immigrants who fear deportation.
Nationwide, a 2018 report by the Center for the Study of Hate and Extremism at California State University, San Bernardino, found 34 anti-Latino hate crimes were reported in America’s largest cities in the first two weeks after the 2016 election, a 176 percent increase over the year-to-date daily average.
“Post election, I could tell that there was a change,” said Pricila Garcia, 20, the daughter of Mexican immigrants living in Cleburne, Texas. “People became a little more brave with their words, especially when it came to hateful things that they said.”
The word “emboldened” came up repeatedly in interviews with victims and advocates who say immigrants, particularly those from Mexico and other Latin American countries, are being singled out with an impunity unique to this political moment.
But U.S. Rep. Ruben Gallego, a democrat from Arizona, said that anti-immigrant and anti-Latino sentiment started merging after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, and today they’re one and the same.
“By 2010, there were Latino families in Arizona that were being told to go back to their country, to go back to Mexico — these are people that have lived in Arizona for generations,” Gallego said.
Gallego, who was in the Arizona Legislature in 2010, said he was receiving death threats from white supremacists for trying to fight anti-immigrant legislation.
A 2018 report by Janice Iwama, a sociology researcher and professor at the University of Massachusetts in Boston, said the doubling of the immigrant population in the U.S. from 1990 to 2015, to more than 43 million, prompted anti-immigrant legislation at the state and federal levels.
Iwama’s study also said there is “the common misperception that all Latinos are immigrants.” In fact, two-thirds of the 57 million Hispanics living in the U.S. in 2015 were natural-born citizens, according to a 2017 Pew Research Center study.
Advocacy groups, law enforcement and government officials across the country say they’re trying to educate Latino community members and police to properly and sensitively identify and document hate incidents.
The ADL has been working with Mexican consulates in the U.S. to create an alternative method for vulnerable immigrant communities to report hate crimes. ADL’s Bauer said the league will create a new database from these reports to share with law enforcement. To date, the ADL has trained hundreds of people in consulates across 23 states to understand hate crimes and anti-immigrant extremism.
Detective Christopher Keeling, coordinator of the hate crime unit of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, said the department is reaching out to immigrant communities, emphasizing that hate-crime victims shouldn’t fear consequences for their documentation status, and that officers “will help you stay here.”
The California State Auditor has also recommended that law enforcement better educate “specific targeted communities, such as Muslims and immigrants” on hate crime, something the LA Sheriff’s Department is already doing.
“They have to first see us as an equal, as a friend, as a partner. And that takes time,” Keeling said. “We can’t protect what we don’t know.”
In picturesque Eugene, home to the University of Oregon, the city is building strategies and resources to protect its residents, but the experiences of Latinos show that change comes slowly.
“Sadly, hate-motivated crimes are a growing phenomenon throughout Oregon,” Oregon Attorney General Ellen Rosenblum said in a May 23 press release announcing the formation of a task force to tackle the problem.
The Southern Poverty Law Center, an advocacy group in Montgomery, Alabama that tracks hate and bigotry, has identified at least 10 white supremacist or nationalist groups in Oregon. In addition, Oregonians for Immigration Reform, has an initiative on the November ballot to reverse Oregon’s three-decade-old sanctuary law, which prevents local governments from using resources to enforce federal immigration law.
An annual report from Eugene’s Office of Human Rights and Neighborhood Involvement said hate crimes nearly doubled from to 44 to 87 in 2017. Three violent anti-Latino attacks were reported in that time. The report noted, however, that some of this increase may be in response to city programs encouraging crime reporting.
One event on Jan. 16, which Reyes witnessed, illustrates the complicated dynamics of such situations.
Reyes, 39, recalled that he and his landscaping crew were working outside a shopping center in Eugene when a man later identified as Brandon Scott Berry, 27, approached and began yelling. “I’m going to cut your head off and nobody will care because I’m white and you’re not!” Reyes remembered him saying.
A police report said Berry shoved Edu Martinez, 28, multiple times, and pushed his cellphone camera into the face of Victor Herrera, 48. Herrera slapped Berry, knocking his phone out of his hand.
“He said that he was going to get us in trouble,” Martinez told News21, “that we did not have any rights here ... that we didn’t belong in this country. And then he called the police.”
The responding officer determined there was probable cause to arrest Berry for intimidation, according to a police report. “Berry’s verbal insults, conduct, and threat to cut off Victor’s head was a serious threat to cause serious physical injury and made in a heated, racially motivated manner,” the officer wrote.
Police referred Martinez to the city’s Office of Human Rights, which brought in Centro Latino Americano, a nonprofit providing services to the immigrant community in Lane County, Oregon, to support the three landscapers and their families.
Prosecutors charged Berry with three counts: menacing, and two counts of intimidation. On May 31 in Eugene Municipal Court, a one-day trial resulted in a jury finding Berry not guilty on all counts, court records show.
“It was horrible,” Reyes said. “It was a horrible thing to go through, you know.” He blamed the verdict on bias by the jury, which he said was “all white.”
Trevor Whitbread, assistant director for Centro Latino Americano, who sat in on the trial, agreed.
“A lot of white community members are still not familiar with issues of hate,” he said. “I think the jury was not prepared to be as receptive as other groups of people could be.”
Berry saw the situation differently.
“(Martinez) was calling me gringo and all sorts of stuff, trying to instigate me to fight him,” Berry said in a telephone interview. In response, he called Martinez a beaner, which also was noted in the police report.
Berry denied using intimidating or threatening language, particularly to cut off Herrera’s head.
Berry said he felt intimidated in the courtroom, noting there were “a lot of cops” in the courtroom that day.
“You could tell there was a bias, and the reason why this cop arrested me was he has a prejudice against me from the start,” Berry said. He said the arresting officer may know him because of past incidents and his recognizable tattoos, adding that he’s been harassed a lot by Eugene police.
Berry also credited his attorney, John Kolego, for persuading the jury and the judge to not hold any bias against him. When bias is removed, he said, the “justice system works every time.”
As an immigrant, Reyes said he has faced many injustices over the years, including harassment, abuse, and wage theft by employers. One refused to pay him, put a knife to his throat and told him to go back to Mexico, Reyes said.
Mayor Lucy Vinis said Eugene is taking steps to protect Latinos, who represent 7 percent of the population. She pointed to the work of the city’s Human Rights Office and its police auditor, who reviews the department’s handling of sensitive cases, as well as a 2017 ordinance preventing city officials from sharing documentation information with federal agents.
Herrera, Martinez and Reyes agreed they felt support from police and their community, but they were disappointed, if unsurprised, they didn’t get justice.
Outside the shopping center that day, Reyes said, he recalled Berry telling him: “I have more rights than you do and I'll never get in trouble because I'm white and you're not.
“You know what happened? We went to court and he's a free man right now,” Reyes said. “He was right.”
Train tracks bisect Cleburne, a sparse, rural town in north Texas, named in honor of a Confederate general. Its population is 66 percent white and 28 percent Hispanic, according to U.S. Census data.
“On one side,” said Pricila Garcia, “you have the rental houses that are falling apart, and it’s nothing but minorities, and on the nicer side of town you have the kids that have the nice houses, the pools, the big yards.”
The tracks symbolize Cleburne’s identity as an agricultural railroad center. But Garcia, 20, said they mark a deep, insidious racial divide in a town where everyone knows each other but few know the struggles of immigrants.
Garcia, a daughter of Mexican immigrants, said she has experienced firsthand the fear and isolation that many immigrants feel with the justice system in America today.
“I really truly believe that the majority of us are victims of (hate) crimes,” she said. “We’re told not to draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves — even if you get robbed or exploited or you’re in danger.”
Cleburne is an hour drive south from Dallas, and lies in an area of north Texas that saw a 71 percent increase in arrests by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement from 2016 to ’17 — second only to Florida, according to Pew Research Center.
Garcia and Blanca Reyes, who also is a 20-year-old daughter of Mexican immigrants, said they and their peers constantly fear losing their parents to deportation if they report crimes or even apply, as citizens, for college student aid.
“Less involvement with state, local government the better because you’re just trying not to give any red flags off,” Garcia said.
She said her family is often the target of hate speech, and she recalled how her mother was called “a stupid (expletive) Mexican” at a store parking lot.
“Words make you feel inferior, subhuman — almost like you’re not worthy enough to be here,” she said. “It’s never really physical violence, but it’s always aggression. It’s always people yelling in your face ... you get called disgusting names.”
Since the 2016 presidential election, she said, many immigrant families, including her own, are in a state of fearful silence. One of the worst conversations of her life was with her parents after the election.
“They sat me down and said, ‘Hey, we’re putting you as the main on all of our bank accounts,” she recalled tearfully. “If anything happens to us, sell our stuff. The furniture, our clothes, everything, go sell everything, go live with your uncle and take care of your brother and your sister.”
She said she’s became even more concerned after Trump administration began to detain and separate immigrant families at the Arizona border.
Reyes said normalization of anti-Latino rhetoric even made her afraid to call out her former manager for saying racist things. She declined to identify her workplace but said she quit after dealing with several racist incidents over a span of months.
“I would get anxiety attacks every single time I had to go to work,” she said.
On July 4, Reyes chose to watch fireworks from outside her home, rather than joining the city-sponsored festivities near Lake Pat Cleburne.
“It’s really hard to celebrate a holiday where we’re supposed to celebrate our country when our country really isn’t celebrating our existence,” she said.
Florida, the third most populous state, where one in five — about 4 million — are immigrants, has one of the worst records in the nation for reporting hate crimes, according to experts. The Florida Attorney General’s Office reported just 52 hate crimes related to race or ethnicity in 2016.
Mike Shively, senior associate at Abt Associates, a research group that produced a 2014 report on hate crimes against Latinos for the National Institute of Justice, said Florida’s numbers “really knocked our socks off.”
“It’s a very populous state with a very large percentage of the population that has Latin roots of some kind,” Shively said. “Really miniscule numbers.”
In Palm Beach County, one case broke through the reporting blackout, but only for its extreme nature, said Bauer of the Anti-Defamation League. The case, she said, showed the culture of hate targeting the isolated, almost invisible, Guatemalan immigrant community.
On April 18, 2015, Onésimo Marcelino López-Ramos, 18, was confronted outside his home in Jupiter by three men who beat him with a rock, a metal rod, and an ax handle — crushing his skull, prosecutors said. Assistant State Attorney Jill Richstone said the men were “Guat hunting,” referring to a practice of robbing and assaulting Guatemalans walking home on paydays.
“The reason we know what happened to Onésimo is because they killed him,” Bauer said. “And my fear is that things are happening every single day, all the time, without us hearing about them because people are so terrified to come forward.”
In May, one of three defendants, David Harris, 22, was convicted in a county court of first-degree murder, as well as a hate-crime charge, and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Trial is set to begin Nov. 5 for co-defendant Austin Taggart, 22. His brother, Jesse Harris, 21, will be tried later.
Even as Jupiter police pushed for hate-crime charges in López-Ramos’s case, the city did not report any hate crimes in 2015, according to FBI statistics.
An analysis by ProPublica, a nonprofit journalism organization in New York, showed Florida had four of the top-10 largest cities in the country that did not report significantly, or at all, hate crimes to the FBI in 2016. The largest, Jacksonville, has not reported a single hate incident since 2014.
Tim Gamwell, assistant executive director of the Guatemalan-Maya Center in Lake Worth, near Jupiter, said the decision by prosecutors in the López-Ramos case to pursue hate-crime charges was pivotal.
“It's an acknowledgement that this community deserves protection, deserves recognition,” he said. “It's a very difficult thing to report a crime in Palm Beach County if you're an immigrant.”
Gamwell said López-Ramos’s murder should serve as a wake-up call for the community, although he said there needs to be more focus on the culture that gave rise to “Guat hunting” in the first place.
“People used to call them walking ATMs” because Guatemalans are often paid in cash and don’t have access to banking, said Suzanne Cordero, executive director of El Sol, a community center in Jupiter that hosted a memorial for López-Ramos.
Maya from Guatemala have fled to south Florida since the 1960s, at the beginning of the country’s four-decade-long civil war in which 150,000 indigenous Maya were “disappeared” or killed by government forces, according to the Center for Justice and Accountability.
Maya sustain much of the local agricultural sector, but cultural factors and language barriers — many only speak one of several Mayan dialects, rather than Spanish or English — have kept the community isolated, even invisible, Gamwell said.
Esperanza, an undocumented Guatemalan who preferred not to use her real name, said she immigrated to Florida in 1997, and has feared interaction with authorities since. Florida had a 76 percent increase in ICE arrests from 2016-17 - the highest in the nation, according to a Pew Research study.
Gamwell said Esperanza, a client of the Guatemalan-Maya Center, drives her kids less than a mile to school every day, and constantly fears being stopped, deported and separated from her children.
“Sometimes the police are behind me, I say, ‘Please God, put his eyes on the side,’ ” Esperanza said. “Maybe they catch Mom.”
Esperanza has forged a new life away from the poverty and violence in Guatemala, but she said she’s harassed everywhere in her daily life, whether because she has four children or because of the language she speaks.
After the murder of López-Ramos, Jupiter police reached out to the Guatemalan community. Cordero of El Sol community center, said former Police Chief Frank Kitzerow gave an important and emotional address at the center shortly after the incident, and the police work closely with the center and its clients, even playing regular soccer matches there.
In California, the state with the largest Latino population — more than 15 million — reported that incidents of anti-Latino bias increased from 83 in 2016 to 126 in 2017, according to the California Department of Justice’s annual hate crime report, released in July.
In Los Angeles County, violent hate crimes targeting transgender Latinas accounted for 20 of the 31 crimes motivated by gender identity, according to the 2016 Commission on Human Relations report. Ninety-seven percent of anti-transgender incidents were violent crimes, such as simple and aggravated assaults, a proportion higher than for any other group the commission tracks, including Latinos. And the actual number of hate crimes targeting trans Latinas may be higher, according to Marshall Wong, the principal author of the report.
Trans Latinas are doubly reluctant to call police, experts say. Latinos overall fear reporting due to possible deportation, and trans Latinas also say that law enforcement rarely takes crimes against their community seriously, often blaming them for their own victimization.
Robin Toma, the Commission on Human Relation’s executive director, said its 2017 hate crime report featured a trans Latina’s story to highlight the exceptional threat to this group of Latinos.
In January, Viccky Gutierrez, a trans immigrant from Honduras, died after she was stabbed multiple times in the Pico-Union neighborhood of LA. Her home was set ablaze, leaving her body unrecognizable. Kevyn Ramirez pleaded not guilty to first degree murder and two counts of arson, and awaits trial in Los Angeles County Superior Court, according to court records.
Toma said “there is every reason to believe that it was hate motivated.”
Those who knew Gutierrez say they have no doubt she was killed for who she was, and they hold out hope for a conviction with a hate-crime penalty enhancement.
“I was born and raised in Mexico and came here trying to find a better way of life and seek the American dream, only to find the American nightmare,” said Bamby Salcedo, founder and CEO of the TransLatin@ Coalition, a nonprofit that provides resources for trans Latinas, many of whom are immigrants. Salcedo said Gutierrez was a sister to her, who “was one of our clients, but also an up-and-coming leader” of the nonprofit. Her murder was hate motivated, Salcedo said.
“Stabbing someone, obviously, is not good, but the fact that he went the extra mile to make sure that there was no way for us to recognize her — it was very intentional,” Salcedo said. “When we walk out into the streets, violence follows us everywhere we go — whether it’s because we’re Latinas, whether it’s because we’re immigrants, whether it’s because we’re trans, or maybe because we’re all of those things.”
Angel Mendoza and Brendan Campbell are Donald W. Reynolds Fellows.
This story was reported in partnership with ProPublica’s Documenting Hate Project, which is collecting reports about hate crimes and bias incidents. If you've been a victim or a witness,tell us your story here.
Much was made of the historic cooperation between the U.S. and Mexico in the September signing of Minute 323–a newly amended agreement on Colorado River-sharing–in Ciudad Juarez, Chihuahua. Conservation is becoming an existential issue on both sides of the border, but Mexico has recently ceded some ground on its binding claims, and U.S. politics has brought into question the sustainability of fair agreements between the two countries in general.
For now, the perspective from the U.S. is pretty optimistic.
“I think it’s important to know that the two countries, regardless of other things that are seen or heard in the media, at least on the water side, and the Colorado basin, and in the Rio Grande, they’re working very closely together," said Daniel Bunk, hydrologist at the Lower Colorado Bureau of Reclamation (LCBR). “We’ve got really good cooperative relationships with Mexico, and we feel like both countries are in on it together.”
Tap water for roughly ten percent of the U.S. population is sourced, in whole or in part, from the Colorado River, according to the U.S. Department of the Interior (DOI). As the population of Western states like Colorado, California, Arizona, and Nevada has undergone rapid expansion in the last couple decades, this precious resource has been dwindling on both ends; supply and demand.
DOI records dating back more than a century show that the drought conditions experienced in the Upper Basin, where the Colorado is sourced from mostly surface water and snowpack, have not been seen in almost a thousand years.
For 17 years now, the water levels at vital reservoirs like Lake Mead and Lake Powell have been either dropping, or carefully maintained by various measures, and this has spurred both contentious battles and proactive cooperation. As they say, water is life.
The beleaguered Colorado River, though, has not just been stretched across those states subject to the 1922 interstate compact on water rights, but also to Mexico and several American Indian tribes. A 1944 U.S.-Mexico Water Treaty promised 1.5 million acre-feet to Mexico annually, in perpetuity.
In response to the drought, Secretary of the Interior Dirk Kempthorne set 2007 guidelines based on levels of shortage measured in the largest reservoir, Lake Mead. They called for progressive cuts in shared allocations between the states.
The next step, as American officials saw it, was to get Mexico on board with this rationing regime. Although negotiators take a very positive view of the latest agreement, the degree of its fairness remains far from consensus between citizens and officials on both sides of the border.
Amendments to the 1944 Water Treaty are referred to as ‘minutes,’ and are fully binding. The turning point from direct delivery of Mexico’s 1.5 million acre-feet was the 2010 Minute 318, originating from catastrophic infrastructure damage due to that year's devastating magnitude 7.2 earthquake that had its epicenter at Guadalupe Victoria, Baja California. Under 318, it was agreed that Mexico would defer delivery of a portion of its allotment, to be stored in Lake Mead while repairs were made.
Minute 319 followed in 2012, and was a five-year agreement that instituted pilot provisions of an exchange program under which surplus from conservation efforts on both sides of the border would be stored in the U.S. reservoir. In return, Mexico would receive U.S. funding for water infrastructure, as well as environmental restoration including “pulse flows” to revive the long-desiccated delta south of the Morelos Dam at the border near Yuma, Arizona.
Minute 323 formally brought Mexico fully into the water-sharing and shortage regime agreed to by the U.S. states in 2007. This was a dramatic agreement for a couple reasons.
Importantly, it laid the groundwork for fully integrated collaboration as the droughts persist, and probably worsen. On the other hand, Mexico gave away the solid guarantee it was entitled to under the Water Treaty, to a permanent sustaining supply of water for its northwestern states.
Amy Witherall, the Bureau of Reclamation Binational Program Manager based in Los Angeles, pointed out that the seven-year-old damage done by the Guadalupe Victoria earthquake has still not been fully recovered from, and that Mexico is still in need of this storage capacity.
The timing of 323, and Mexico’s conceding to future shortage rationing, was not coincidental, though. The Compact states were quickly approaching the expiration of Minute 319, and were facing, for the first time, imposition of the 2007 DOI shortage rations.
"The water that Mexico has put in Lake Mead from Minute 319–it’s about 250,000 acre feet–has been absolutely critical in keeping out of implementing shortage in the Lower Basin,” said Jennifer McCloskey, Deputy Regional Director of the LCBR.
As much as Mexico may have still needed to temporarily store water in Lake Mead, the U.S., dangling more investment in the infrastructure needed to resolve this issue, was pushing to maintain the status quo at Lake Mead into the future, and at least further forestall rationing in the Compact states.
The height of negotiations for Minute 323 fell in the midst of the 2016 U.S. presidential elections, and there was a feeling that American negotiators were not getting as much movement out of Mexico as they needed.
That all changed when, to almost universal surprise, Donald Trump was elected President by virtue of the Electoral College, on a platform that included renegotiating or withdrawing from NAFTA, forcing Mexico to pay for a fantastical, monolithic border wall, and generally squeezing concessions out of every relationship between the two countries.
“I think it’s actually helped,” McCloskey said of the election at a November conference of water professionals and academics in Tucson, Arizona. “It was a key turning point in the negotiation. No risk of NAFTA, or the Wall, has taken us back per se, and to some degree it maybe even has helped to fuel some urgency in the negotiation.”
“Our water careers are a lot of memories, right? There are these amazing days that you have,” McCloskey said to a panel audience. “One of the most significant days that I’ve had in my water career so far was the day that President Trump was elected. We were all negotiating in San Diego. Everybody was absolutely shocked and surprised. We had just had a day of negotiation, then there was the election, and we all came back to the table. We made a lot of progress right after the election.” Her comments drew knowing laughter from the audience.
The implication was clear: Mexico would acquiesce more to U.S. goals, now that it faced an openly hostile President-elect that was threatening to severely undermine its entire economy.
U.S. water negotiators are dedicated, highly-trained bureaucrats and scientists that refer to their "water careers" as proudly and purposefully as any foreign service officer would invoke their ‘diplomat’ moniker. The problem is that they are often thrust into highly political situations, and this can diminish the underlying goodwill of an international agreement as important as the 1944 Water Treaty.
Aside from any imbalance in international negotiations, American officials and negotiators face nowhere near the domestic pressure that those in Mexico do. McCloskey, for example, pointed to one of her counterparts, Mexicali Office Director Francisco Bernal, as an indispensable partner in the formation of Minute 323.
Bernal did not respond to requests for an interview, but he does have his hands full these days. He and his colleagues at the Mexican section of the International Boundary and Water Commission (known as the CILA) are primarily responsible for negotiations involving all international water issues in their region.
Two days after the signing of Minute 323, Bernal’s Mexicali office was swarmed by protesting farmers, outraged at a new agreement for water sales to San Diego. Baja California is just as dependent on the Colorado as Arizona. The Los Angeles Times reports that over half the state is also in severe drought, and 85 percent of its guaranteed allocation is used for agriculture. These farms largely sustain the economy, and provide much of the produce harvested for U.S. import every year.
There is simply a more complex, and powerful bureaucratic and political structure handling negotiations on the American side. Its section of the International Boundary and Water Commission oversees agreements regarding the Rio Grande, Colorado River, and Tijuana River, and works in congress with five Bureaus of Reclamation under the DOI on international negotiations. Their decisions are both subject to final State Department approval, and thereby–if improperly–obviously subject to the President’s opinion and influence.
Even the best trial attorney never likes to see the proverbial ‘army of corporate lawyers’ coming.
Nonetheless, Mexican negotiators and diplomats dismiss the pleas of Baja California farmers, and insist they are happy with the outcome of Minute 323. It is also true that the vital infrastructure and environmental initiatives that have been pledged by the U.S. were probably impossible for Mexico to achieve on its own.
Previous to the Trump Administration, DOI documents had referred to the Colorado River shortages in terms of historic droughts caused by, and expected to intensify due to, climate change. Setting aside weedy hydrology statistics, and rosy diplomatese, this is the 800-pound gorilla on the border.
As the U.S. builds a football stadium in Las Vegas, and corporate water-bottling plants using municipal water in Phoenix, the people in Baja California and Sonora mostly depend on their promised share of the Colorado River for subsistence–to maintain their way of life and their own comparatively meager economy. Water is indeed life, and the question will be whether Minute 323 proves out to be a mutually beneficial act of self-preservation, or the rather benign beginning of a winner-take-all competition of scarcity.
Arizona wine is defined by its exceptionally unique landscape, and the men and women who produce it reflect this singular character.
There is no wine-growing region on Earth like the Grand Canyon State, and the mysteries and pleasures of Arizona wine remain largely a secret to many. Nonetheless, the trailblazing winegrowers toiling on rocky hills and arid fields are quietly building a world-class movement, from the dirt up.
Terroir is what the initiates call it: the soil, climate, and terrain that determine the expression and flavors of wine grapes. While Arizona’s landscape invokes stereotypes such as hot, dry, and nothing but desert; Eric Glomski, founder and owner of Page Springs Cellars and several other vineyards and wineries across the state, debunked these assumptions.
“Our challenge is cold and wetness, it’s the exact opposite of what everybody thinks, and people just need to remember that Arizona is amazingly diverse elevationally,” said Glomski. “We have a little slice of all of North America somewhere in this state, so I think we can grow any grape on the planet here someday, we just need to find that right little niche.”
Across the state’s three wine growing regions; Sonoita, Willcox, and the Verde Valley; a growing family of vintners are reaching back to Old World traditions, learning from each other, trailblazing with new varietals and techniques, and generally undermining the conventions of ‘modern wines,’ championed by California’s Napa Valley.
“As more people live here, and the industry is growing, they’re kind of growing together,” said Chris Beelendorf, a former sommelier and current account manager for wine at the boutique Phoenix distributor, Quail.
According to the last U.S. Department of Agriculture report, the upstart state reported at least 64 vineyards planting almost a thousand acres, and bringing in over $2.2 million in 2014. And wine tourism is creating over $56 million dollars in revenue annually, growing 50 percent since 2011, according to Northern Arizona University.
This does bring with it its share of detractors.
“For Californians, the rest of America does not exist as a wine-producing state,” said Sam Pillsbury, owner and winegrower of Pillsbury Wine Company, whose vineyards are seated in 100 acres in Willcox, in Cochise County.
Pillsbury was familiarized with California and its wine culture as a Hollywood producer, although he may be best known for his 1984 award-winning New Zealand cult hit The Quiet Earth, which celebrity astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson lists in his top ten favorite sci-fi films.
Pillsbury brought this signature creativity to the Arizona wine scene in the late ‘90s, when his imagination was captured by a $12 bottle of Cochise County wine, bought on a whim.
“I opened that bottle that night, and in 25 years of drinking chard, I’d never tasted anything like it. And I knew it was terroir,” Pillsbury said. “I literally went down the next day and bought 40 acres next to that vineyard. That’s where my vineyard is now, and 75 percent of Arizona wine is now grown in the area right around my vineyard. It’s one of the most perfect places on Earth to grow wine.”
In 2000 Pillsbury launched his first venture, in partnership with Al Buhl of Dos Cabezas WineWorks, and later sold to Glomskiin order to focus on his own vision. His new career would also win many awards, and is helping to build an international reputation for Arizona among more boutique connoisseurs.
“Goddammit, my 2015 Syrah just won a double gold in the San Francisco Chronicle, which was one of three double golds out of 55 entries from all over the United Sates. From my little piece of cheap dirt, down by the Mexican border,” Pillsbury declared in a mischievous New Zealand accent.
Pillsbury had re-discovered something Spanish Conquistadors stumbled on in the 16th century, when they used native grapes to produce Communion wine.
In the 1970s, pioneers like Dr. Gordon Dutt, of the University of Arizona, and founder of Sonoita vineyards, revived this tradition and began to modernize it. So-called Old World grapes, especially those identified with France’s Rhône Valley and Burgundy region, thrived in the high desert, with all its limestone and volcanic rock.
Today, science and experimentation have only begun to unravel the full potential of Arizona wine. On Nov. 11th, Dutt was among honorees at the inaugural Festival at the Farm and Founders Dinner at the University of Arizona Campus Agriculture Center. The two-day celebration, hosted by the Arizona Wine Growers Association, showcased 20 wineries and more than 120 wines, and raised funds for the university’s Arizona Wine Library and Research Center.
“This is still the first big step,” said Glomski, “we don’t even know what grapes to plant here yet.”
Among favorite Arizona varietals: Grenache, Syrah, Pinot Gris, and Viognier; all highly nuanced grapes that serve best to compliment food, and are often blended for maximum effect.
“Eric Glomski is a master blender… It’s like everybody else is painting in black and white, and Eric has, like the full palette,” said Beelendorf.
Glomski indeed sees his work as an art. He said his “epiphanal moment” came when an actual artist, living off the land outside of Prescott, helped him make a batch of apple wine from a small local orchard, and the magic of Arizona terroir first struck him.
“I smelled the wine at first, obviously, and then I tasted it. And the coolest thing happened, which was it really, really reminded me in this kind of deep, spiritual way, of that orchard,” he said. “I just realized that I could be an artist too, and I could capture landscapes in these liquid bottles. And after that I was possessed.”
Glomski left a master’s program in river ecology at Northern Arizona University, and went to volunteer in the wine harvest in California. He earned himself a job, and cut his winemaking teeth under the Santa Cruz Mountains’ “Prince of Pinot Noir,” David Bruce.
But he always intended to return to Arizona, and when the time came he began a succession of growing projects from his Page Spring Cellars. Among them, possibly Arizona wine’s biggest claim to fame–especially among millennials–the 2007 Arizona Stronghold joint venture with the world-famous frontman of the rock bands Tool, A Perfect Circle, and Puscifer; Maynard James Keenan.
The two parted ways in 2014, and Glomski now leads Arizona Stronghold himself, but the project achieved an entirely new level of success for Arizona wine, at its peak distributing in 35 states, four Canadian provinces, and Australia. It also brought the wine, and its terroir, to some of the world’s greatest palates.
“I don’t think California’s doing many Sangioveses like that,” said renowned wine critic and former editor of Wine Spectator, James Suckling, tasting a blend in the breakout 2010 documentary “Blood into Wine,” which centered on Keenan.
Suckling also compared the geography and volcanic soil of the Willcox region to “parts of the Rhone Valley,” and said it “reminds me of vineyards I’ve been to a number of times in Sicily.”
Current Stronghold head winemaker, Matthew Reica, also sees Arizona’s terroir as the heart of its industry, and the key to its success. He explained why, even at its scale, Arizona Stronghold relies on Old World techniques to bring out the best in their grapes, and doesn’t expect to drastically expand anytime soon.
“If anywhere in Europe has a similar profile, in a winemaking sense, it would be Tuscany,” Reica said. “Arizona is not currently capable of making big, bold, modern-style wines… So it’s much easier, much more applicable for us to look back to our European cousins and how they do it, because we match up much better.”
While overseeing operations at Stronghold, Glomski continues to make breakthroughs from Page Springs Cellars today, where a 4,000 gallon-per-minute natural spring irrigates all the fields, and produce is grown on-sight for the tasting room’s menu. Over the years, Page Springs Cellars has become known as a premiere destination for experiencing wine in Arizona.
Alongside traditional connoisseurs from around the state and far beyond, the original Glomski project also draws many millennials to its adventurous program, aligning perfectly with Glomski's mission for education and innovation.
“Paige Springs has probably as beautiful a winery as anywhere; if you were in Sonoma, if you were in Napa, could be in France, Paige Springs Cellars is stunning. The wines are fantastic, and the setting is amazing,” said Beelendorf.
“For my 21st birthday I went there, so it was a really cool experience,” said Alexa Avila, a senior at Arizona State University’s downtown campus. She said her first flight of all-Arizona wine, along with the Southwestern hospitality, made the event a great memory.
At his home winery, Glomski himself embodies the connection between the land and the winemaker. On a sight that he surveyed years before for one of his river ecology projects, he produced 70 different wines last year, and is constantly testing the boundaries of the gorgeous Verde Valley.
Meanwhile, Arizona Stronghold remains Arizona’s largest vineyard and winery. Last year, it even took home the Arizona Republic Wine Competition’s Best of Show, and swept almost every category.
“People who have tasted the wine recognize it as completely legitimate, world-class wine,” said Beelendorf, noting that Sonoita is very similar in altitude to most Washington vineyards, although it surprisingly gets about an inch more of annual rain. “California is known more for big, bold wines, and Arizona is more about finesse.”
“How Arizona’s going to compete is not going to be head to head,” said Beelendorf. “You know, it’s going to be more like a quick boxer fighting a power boxer. So you’re going to have some big Napa cabs versus maybe, a refined, refreshing Grenache and Viognier that you can’t find in California... Viognier is an example of an expensive wine to make that we have a much better value of production for."
As for quality, Beelendorf compared Arizona’s rise as a national competitor to the movie “Bottle Shock,” about the 1976 “Judgement of Paris,” when California bested French wine on its own soil in a blind taste test.
“That’s kind of what Arizona is going through now, except that it’s against Napa, it’s against Oregon," he said. "There’s no way that Arizona is ever going to produce Pinot and Cab. It’s not the right climate, and those are really what drive the market in California. What we’re going to be able to produce are different varietals with a whole different style, and I think it will just really compliment extremely well!”
…Just nobody tell that to Eric.
A small Phoenix dog shelter has been quietly taking on the most challenging rescue work as a community-oriented labor of love for almost a decade. Due to the growth of the Phoenix metro area and the steadily growing reputation it has earned–now internationally– among shelters, advocates, and vets, now it is facing more need than ever, and struggling to convert ‘click-tivism’ into revenue.
Mayday Pit Bull Rescue & Advocacy is a shelter and foster-care network that saves abused, traumatized, or disabled pure-bred and mixed-breed pit bulls, as well as some others, from euthanasia in shelters from right here in the Valley, to as far as Cairo, Egypt.
The Phoenix non-profit also networks with other organizations and local events, and uses its large social media following to increase awareness and acceptance for the breed, which remains the most stigmatized and vulnerable to abuse.
Most Mayday dogs come from county shelters or the Humane Society, both of whom often seek out Mayday’s help with dogs they don’t have the resources to save. The group has become well known in professional communities for going beyond extraordinary lengths to save its dogs.
“Why not? These dogs have value,” is co-founder and current President Jennifer Mazzocchi’s philosophy. She works tirelessly to sustain the group of driven volunteers, but says it needs help from the community to which it gives so much to serve; now more than ever.
“She just is a ray of brightness in a world that is looking pretty dim sometimes to me,” said Shari Mulvehill from Scottsdale, of Mazzocchi. Mulvehill has adopted two Mayday dogs herself since 2014, and, like a lot of other adopters, began volunteering at the shelter soon thereafter.
“That’s where I met Timmy, and this just shows, I think, Mayday at its best,” said Shari, who went on to describe the remarkable recovery her second Mayday dog Timmy made from paralysis due to a crushed pelvis, to near fully-regained mobility. “Timmy was going to be euthanized, and they went down and recovered him. He was a six-month pup…And the doctor said it’s like a miracle how he recovered,” Mulvehill said.
“What I particularly like about Mayday is they take the ones of last resort,” Mulvehill said, “You know, there’s never enough money to save everybody, or enough space, or enough people to help–that’s their only shortcoming is there’s just never enough. Their hearts are huge.”
Surgeries are a large expense for the organization, that has been operating on a very tight, roughly $100,000 budget for the last couple years–almost all of which goes directly to operating expenses.
“Knight,” an extremely friendly and energetic two-year-old pit bull who was left for dead after a dogfight in Egypt, is just one example. Mayday was asked to take him and he was flown to Phoenix, where it arranged for immediate facial reconstructive surgery and several other procedures to save Knight’s life.
Today, only some scars, and a Two-Face-style sneer where part of his lip is missing, hint at the trauma he survived. Yet Mayday’s organizers have to sit down and pick only a very few candidates at a time that it can afford to expend those resources on.
Knight is also a perfect example of the dilemma Mayday faces as its profile grows. It is called on by more and more public and private organizations to save dogs that nobody else can or will, but its donor base hasn’t seen the growth one would associate with its 150,000 strong Facebook following.
Shelter manager Ashley Blase of Phoenix recalled going on a cross-country drive in January to save one of Mayday’s residents, Monk, from a Rhode Island shelter where he had been put on a euthanasia list after twice being returned due to behavioral issues from trauma.
Luigi, a fifteen-year-old brindle greyhound-pit bull mix lounged in a sand box as Blase showed off the large, meticulous, dog-park like backyard of the shelter. Luigi was being attended by another volunteer, Tricia Schmoyer, who has been working at the shelter for three years, and works in finance in Sun City.
“Once these dogs trust you, they are truly your best friend. We all have too many,” Schmoyer laughed.
The small shelter houses about 10 dogs that are awaiting adoption or are residents, while Mayday’s foster program usually supports closer to 50 dogs as they receive necessary medical treatment, physical and psychological rehabilitation, and behavioral work. The dedication and professionalism of the all-volunteer organization has become known as world-class. It has about twenty volunteers whom have undergone extensive vetting and training.
“Training usually lasts about one to two months, and you usually shadow a trainer over that time, until you can handle the dogs on your own. It’s a lot more serious than other shelters,” said Blase.
Considering the enormous cost of care for its extreme special-needs dogs, Mayday adoptions are a cheap $250. The application process is extremely rigorous, though, to ensure the commitment that Mayday makes to its dogs will be upheld by prospective adopters. A “Mayday Dog” forever has a home at the shelter, regardless of its circumstances
October marks the tenth anniversary of National Pit Bull Awareness Month, and Mayday is hoping more than ever that the awareness raised will translate into a lot more investment of life-saving time and money from its own community.
Pig & Pickle, an off-beat, locally-owned restaurant in Scottsdale, hosted a celebration on Saturday of the life of its most unique customer and friend, and it was a community event to be remembered.
Richard P. Best was a patriot in the highest sense, and the kind of guy you would love to have a… martini with. Something of a real-life, Yankee James Bond, much of his story may never be told publicly, but he lived a life that touched more people every day than many do in a year.
Best passed away on August 26, 2017, at the age of 92. At least 50 people gathered to remember him at his favorite Friday happy hour haunt, where he left yet another indelible imprint on his community, as he’d done his whole life.
“Time and a pleasant smile" was all Best ever claimed to want from people, and he wrested some of both from even those most resistant to his unorthodox charm. He also hurled George Carlin-like insults and one-liners, indiscriminately dubbing anyone he pleased monikers like “Bonehead,” “Short Stuff,” and much worse.
“He had names for everyone and everything,” said his son, Mike.
And when he’d had his fun, he’d give you the warmest hug you ever felt, and leave you waiting to see him again. Sometimes he’d pull you down close to him to deliver a few quiet words of personal encouragement that you’d never forget.
Best and Pig & Pickle found each other at just the right time. In 2012, The newly-opened, chef-driven gastropub with a soulful vibe was trying to find a foothold in South Scottsdale, and tap into a new community of local drinkers, foodies, and good-hearted miscreants. Best qualified as all three, although he would undoubtedly have challenged such slander–possibly excepting ‘drinker.’
“We were just starting and so wet behind the ears, and he’s looking at us like, these are good souls and they’re doing a good thing, and I want to support it. And he did till the end. I mean he had his wake here,” said Pig & Pickle owner Clayton MacGregor of Gilbert.
For his part, Best was recently devastated by the sudden December 2011 loss of his beloved wife of 55 years, Hanni.
“I truly thought that her death would be the death of him. But, in true R.P. fashion, he began to rebuild his world,” said Best’s daughter, Nancy. She and her two brothers, Mike and Steve “counselled him that the only way to get back to a normal life was to create a routine and stick to it. So, he went about creating a routine for himself.”
To its great benefit, Pig & Pickle became a regular part of that routine.
“He kind of signifies for us what we set out to create, a place that, you know, you could come and have a good time no matter what age you were. You have a 90-year-old guy sitting at the bar, joking with 25-year-old girls, next to a 30-year-old bartender. And still so young, relating to current affairs, and they were into what he’s into,” MacGregor said.
“The thing that I liked most about Richard is the way that as soon as he walked in the door–albeit, slowly– how the whole place just changed and everybody was just in a good mood and wanted to go talk to him, and his infectious smile. He could look at ya and smile, he’d just make you melt,” remembered former bar manager Dustin “Skot” Boettcher, now living outside of Denver.
Still, as much as the owners, staff, and regulars loved Best, most only had bits or pieces of his history, which only served to grow the legend of “King Richard.”
Best was born in Paris, Illinois, on September 7, 1924. At 19-years-old, he enlisted in the Army in the last year of World War Two and trained for clandestine operations at Stanford. When the war ended, he was sent, along with only twelve other soldiers, to another Paris–this time at an invitation to Sorbonne by President Charles de Gaulle.
His stint in France would be but one of many official and unofficial postings in the post-War and Cold War periods, and well beyond. He worked as an intelligence officer in the Army until 1968, when he returned to the U.S. and went to work with the highly-secretive Air Force Foreign Technology Division (FTD).
“The technology that was being developed for use in the Air Force arsenal with their secrets secured by the FTD, would lead Dad to another place, Los Alamos New Mexico,” said his son Steve. Best remained “part of the L.A. family for almost 30 years.”
Across an immense career, Best traveled the world, from divided Berlin, where he met young Miss Johanna “Hanni” Schwaighofer; to Austria, which he and Hanni both visited annually until they were unable to; to Greece where their children were raised for some time.
“Dad worked in an innocuous office near downtown Athens, none of us had any idea what he was doing,” Steve said. “Oddly and coincidentally, the government of Greece in the mid-60s, was being swayed by the influences of the Soviet Union, and with swift and thorough secret action on the part of Dad and his colleagues, that government fell apart in a coup, and our stay in Athens ended a year later.”
After his work at Los Alamos, Best Went on to hold roles with Pentagon counterintelligence leadership, and didn’t retire until 2007 when he was a spry 82-years-old. All told, Best put in roughly six decades of service at the highest levels of counterintelligence.
“Even though Dad thought that any temperature above 75 was incredibly uncivilized, they made the decision to move to Arizona. That May, my parents moved to Scottsdale and began to embrace desert living,” Nancy said.
So it came about that, half-way through his retirement to the Valley of the Sun, Best stopped in to check out a hip new bar in the neighborhood. Bond rarely took his martini alone.
Through the duration of Best’s patronage, most of the incredible revelations of his life and career didn’t become common knowledge at Pig & Pickle until his passing, but it seemed to explain quite a bit.
Knowledgeable on almost every subject, and incredibly well-read, he recommended books in the restaurant constantly, and was delighted when his tips were taken up.
He once made sure that a cook received a copy of Kevin Powers’ poetic, jarring rumination on war and its consequences, “The Yellow Birds.” The young man was a veteran who had witnessed his brother’s death at the hands of an IED in Afghanistan, was injured himself, and struggled with PTSD and depression. He was imminently grateful to be so understood and connected to by someone who barely knew him.
Skot Boettcher–at a large six feet–recalled being man-handled by the never-tall nonagenarian.
“I’ll never forget, I was shaking his hand when he was driving home once, and he almost pulled me right in to his Chevy window. You know, like that guy still had it, and we all loved him and it was great having him around. Yeah, he was a great one,” Boetcher said.
Many–perhaps most–of Best’s quotes aren’t quite fit for print, just like much, if not most of his work isn’t easily talked about. He was a man alive on so many levels that he seemed to have one to match any individual, and yet those who met him usually got a notion they couldn’t quite match his.
“Every time I saw him, he put a smile on my face because, not only was he genuinely caring in his soul, but I mean, he really enjoyed his time with us. Nancy said we added years to his life and we didn’t even know it, and it just seemed like he gave just as much back to us,” MacGregor said.
Best sent a letter to more than 300 people every Christmas, and kept a birthday calendar with a card to be sent for almost every day of the year. When he passed, his son Mike found 30 of them waiting to be mailed in his desk.
Someone who spends so long doing such important work, hidden from the world it is shaping, tends to speak to, and move people with force. At the end of “King” Richard Best’s life, that force was one of sheer willful love, and it was simply overwhelming.