The phone call came at 8 a.m. "Don't eat breakfast," advised Gilberto Rodriguez Orejuela. "I'm planning a big lunch for you so we can get to know each other."
Thus began a nine-hour public relations blitz by the man who allegedly serves as a patriarch of the Cali cartel. Rodriguez consented to see reporter Tom Quinn and me -- "the first and only interview I've given in my 52 years" -- in order to clarify what he insists are lies about his involvement in cocaine trafficking. Along the way he tried to raise doubts about the motivations of two enemies -- Medellin cartel boss Pablo Escobar Gaviria and the U.S. government, which wants him extradited to face numerous counts of drug peddling.
We had first asked for an interview with him last year through a source connected to the Cali drug organization. Finally came the invitation. Also a warning from Rodriguez: "I don't want my family's name damaged. My brother Miguel Angel and I are the only members of our family to be linked to this business."
As befits a fugitive from the law, Rodriguez insisted on stringent security arrangements. After Quinn and I arrived in Cali, we waited until noon the next day for a Rodriguez intermediary to pick us up. "I apologize in advance for the inconvenience I have to cause you," Rodriguez said. "But you understand. It's for my safety as well as yours."
Rodriguez's envoy turned out to be a hefty fellow who spoke passable English in a near whisper. After a meandering 30-minute tour of Cali to ensure that no one was tailing us, we followed a blue Mazda out of town. Trailed by two of Rodriguez's bodyguards on motorcycles, our motorcade entered the grounds of a house set back from the road and guarded by a white thick-gauge steel sliding door.
As we stepped out of the car, a beautiful young woman welcomed us with a broad smile and handshake. Behind her stood a man about 5 ft. 7 in., wearing a faded pink-striped cotton shirt and dark pants. Gilberto Rodriguez's appearance has changed dramatically since the last pictures of him were taken five years ago. His curly jet-black hair has turned a distnguished salt-and- pepper and covers the tops of his ears. He sports a closely cropped < mustache and has gained at least 30 lbs. But the glistening brown eyes were unmistakably those of the "Chess Player," his nickname in the drug world. He wore a gold-and-stainless-steel Cartier tank-style watch, and a hefty gold crucifix dangled around his neck. His hands were small, almost feminine in their softness, and fastidiously manicured.
From greeting to goodbye, Rodriguez acted like a charming host. Enthroning himself behind a built-in Formica desk, he said, "My time is yours. Ask anything you want. I won't be offended."
The house was comfortable but hardly posh. A white-coated butler floated silently into and out of the various rooms where we talked throughout the afternoon and evening, offering water, beer, coffee, soda. As a moonfaced secretary transcribed our formal interview, Rodriguez picked his words carefully, frequently consulting and reciting verbatim from typewritten notes.