Violent suspected MS-13 gang member with long rap sheet arrested after year on the run: police
A suspected MS-13 gang member with a violent criminal history has been arrested in Nashville, Tennessee, after a year on the run, police said.
According to the Metro Nashville Police Department (MNPD), Leonel Vargas Jr., 24, was arrested Wednesday afternoon.
Davidson County jail records show that he has been charged with felony aggravated assault by strangulation, felony aggravated burglary, felony probation violation, misdemeanor domestic assault and two counts of misdemeanor theft of property.
He is not eligible for bond.
MNPD said its Specialized Investigations Division (SID) detectives and federal Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF) agents, who have been investigating Vargas' association with the ultra-violent Salvadoran MS-13 gang, coordinated the surveillance that led to the arrest.
ATF confirmed to Fox News Digital that their investigation into Vargas' MS-13 ties is ongoing.
Vargas has a long criminal history stemming back to 2019.
In that year, he was charged with aggravated assault by strangulation, two counts of domestic assault resulting in bodily injury and one count of domestic assault with fear of bodily injury. He was sentenced to probation for those crimes.
In 2022, he violated his probation and was sentenced to a year in prison, and a year of supervised release. In the same year, a 2021 case for felony evading arrest by motor vehicle and reckless endangerment was reopened.
He was found guilty on those charges in 2023 and was sentenced to two years of supervised release.
Last year, he was charged with felony domestic aggravated assault, burglary and theft, and was on the run from police until they arrested him on Wednesday.
Earlier this week, FBI Director Kash Patel announced a $5 million bounty for information leading to the arrest of MS-13's leader in Honduras, Yulan Adonay Archaga Carías.
In the United States, the gang has recently been in the news after one alleged member, illegal immigrant Kilmar Abrego Garcia, was deported to El Salvador.
He was suspected of being involved in labor/human trafficking, according to a 2022 Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) report obtained by Fox News.
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The declaration was made at 3:53 p.m. The flights for El Salvador were scheduled for 5:26, 5:44, and 7:36 p.m. Prompted by an emergency motion from the American Civil Liberties Union and Democracy Forward, U.S. Judge James Boasberg ordered a virtual hearing on the matter for late that afternoon. Boasberg heard arguments, then ordered the government to halt the removals. 'Whether turning around a plane or not embarking anyone on the plane, or those people covered by this on the plane, I leave to you,' Boasberg told the DOJ. 'But this is something that you need to make sure is complied with immediately.' Yet two planeloads of migrants had already left ahead of schedule. A third one was still on the tarmac at a Texas airfield, but took off anyway. The Trump Administration has not confirmed the names of the Venezuelans on those flights. Nor has it shown evidence that all of the men belonged to the criminal gang Tren de Aragua. A review by the Cato Institute found that more than 50 of the Venezuelans sent to El Salvador had followed legal steps to enter the country. A CBS News investigation found that most of the Venezuelans had no criminal record in the U.S. or abroad. One of the men on the planes was Abrego Garcia, who the Justice Department would later admit had been mistakenly deported. Another was Franco Caraballo Tiapa, who worked as a barber in Venezuela. In 2023, Tiapa and his wife Johanny trekked across the Darién Gap, sleeping in the open and surviving on scraps of discarded food, until they presented themselves at the U.S. border and asked for asylum. The two lived together in Sherman, Texas, where they made money cutting hair. On Feb. 3, Tiapa visited an ICE office in Dallas for a regular check-in. This time he was arrested, according to Johanny. The Administration says his tattoos show he's a member of the Tren de Aragua gang. One is of his daughter's name. Others depict a lion; a rose; and a razor blade on the side of his neck—a symbol of his work as a barber, according to his wife. She says he has no criminal record in the U.S. or Venezuela. 'They were only looking at his tattoos,' Johanny says. Outside of CECOT's Module 7, Garcia, the warden, brings out a Styrofoam container with a hamburger, French fries, ketchup packs, and Milano cookies. This is a typical meal for the Venezuelan inmates, he says. Their diet was devised by Bukele, who instructed they be fed fast food to gain weight, as a way of trolling critics who argue CECOT's conditions are inhumane, according to Salvadoran sources. 'It's a cat-and-mouse game,' says one person close to Bukele. The maneuver is similar to the photo op Bukele staged when Democratic Senator Chris Van Hollen traveled to El Salvador to meet with Abrego Garcia. The pair were photographed sitting poolside with what Van Hollen said were 'fake' margaritas. (Abrego Garcia was returned to the U.S. in early June.) After the tour of the prison, Garcia allows TIME to interview one inmate in a holding area near the unit's entrance. The man says his name is Hector Hernandez. He appears to be the nightmare that Trump has conjured time and again on the campaign trail. He says he is an MS-13 member, and has tattoos all over his body, from his face and neck to his forearms. The prisoner claims that before he was deported in 2019 and apprehended by Salvadoran authorities, he murdered 50 people in Northern Virginia—more than three times the number of reported murders in Prince William or Fairfax counties for that year. TIME was unable to verify the details provided by the prisoner, including his name, his alleged crimes, or how he came to be there. Inside CECOT, the extreme terminus for Trump's deportation program, the truth, like everything else, is under the control of the authorities. What is clear, however, are the draconian conditions to which the Salvadoran inmates at CECOT are subjected. They are under constant surveillance. The lights never go off. They share cells with rival gang members. Prisoners who get out of line face up to 14 days in pitch-black solitary confinement, says Garcia. For the past 2½ years, the man who identifies himself as Hector Hernandez says, he's had no communication with the outside world. He hasn't spoken to family. He hasn't seen or read a news report. He doesn't know who the President of the United States is. — With reporting by Harry Booth, Leslie Dickstein, and Tharin Pillay Must-Reads from TIME As Trump Seeks Mass Deportations, Workplace Raids May Not Help Much As Trump Vies to Blows Up Border Deal, Migrant Crisis Could Get Worse How a Dead Border Deal Led to a Trump-Biden Border Duel Can One Agency Keep the U.S. Safe and Still Be Humane? 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Time Magazine
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Loading... Searching for Devils at CECOT World El Salvador CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. Philip Holsinger Story by Philip Holsinger CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this norm. Philip Holsinger To grasp why El Salvador built the Terrorism Confinement Center—the prison known as CECOT—you need to know about the killings that plagued the country before it existed. For more than a year, I have walked crime scenes, interviewed victims, and heard President Nayib Bukele himself describe the vicious murders perpetrated by the nation's gangs. In May, local investigators led me to one of the killing fields, and into a world of macabre rituals. At Mount St. Bartolo, an old farmer showed me a 'killing tree,' its trunk scarred by machetes. 'Farmers don't strike trees,' explained one of my guides, a man named Carlos. 'That's where a torso hung.' Advertisement Advertisement The ancient Amate tree leaned over a canyon like a broken metronome. In its limbs were rusty spikes where gangs once pinned human bodies in the shape of an inverted cross. As Carlos talked, I had to concentrate on the nails, counting them one by one, to keep myself from vomiting. Those nails follow me every time I enter CECOT. Built specifically to house the gang members that terrorized this country, the prison is spartan as a space station, grim as a gulag. Bukele has said no prisoner will leave the place alive, and that they will lead lives devoid of comfort. On June 10, 2024, more than 2,000 inmates, primarily convicted gang members, were transferred from Izalco prison to CECOT. Prior to the transfer, inmates were positioned on the ground in interlocking formations under heavy guard while awaiting their buses. Philip Holsinger A guard handcuffs an inmate through the bars of Module 7 at CECOT before escorting him to meet a visiting U.S. delegation. This cell block primarily houses Salvadoran nationals accused of gang affiliations. Philip Holsinger Inmates in Cell Block 7 stand silently at attention or sit on steel racks, adhering to the prison's strict behavioral protocols. Philip Holsinger Guards in riot gear stand on the road between Modules 7 and 8 during the U.S. congressional delegation's visit to CECOT on May 9. Philip Holsinger Module 8 is different. It holds the 238 Venezuelan men the United States deported on March 15 under an emergency order that branded them Tren de Aragua gangsters. Trump Administration officials insisted all were hardened criminals, which subsequent reporting has revealed to be untrue. I have visited Module 8 three times. Each time I braced for the eerie, enforced silence that envelops CECOT. But this unit is different. The Venezuelans chant 'Liberty!' and 'Venezuela!' They proclaim their innocence, so loudly you can hear them from outside. They climbed the bars and waved white shirts like flags of surrender. Some pleaded for phones to call home. A few screamed curses. No guard approached to stop them. But the guards did not allow visitors to approach them either. U.S. Rep. Andy Ogles (R-Tenn.) walks past Venezuelan detainees during a May 9 tour of CECOT. Confined to Module 8, these detainees—many deported from the U.S. under the Alien Enemies Act—expressed themselves openly, a stark contrast to the enforced silence in other blocks. Philip Holsinger Module 8 is unsettling not because it is cruel but because it is almost merciful in comparison to the rest of CECOT, and to the larger prison system of El Salvador. The detainees here have sleep pads, sheets, and pillows. They eat from an enhanced menu which sometimes includes hamburgers. They have some access to writing instruments; I saw a scrap of white sheet with a cross drawn on it. The rest of El Salvador's prisoners live in a world of steel and silence. I have asked Salvadoran officials why they make exceptions for the foreigners. No one has offered an answer. Maybe it's because they know these inmates will one day be let out. Maybe it's because they believe these are not the same demons. Read More: What the Venezuelans Deported to El Salvador Experienced. During a tour of Module 8 on May 9, I searched the faces for Andry, the 'barber' whose image ignited outrage on social media in the wake of my previous reporting for TIME. I thought about shouting his name, but we were forbidden to speak with the Venezuelan inmates. Their uniform crew cuts made it difficult to differentiate faces. Their fearful eyes left me afraid. I departed with only the echo of anonymous men, arms reaching through bars, begging for someone to take their number, to tell someone they were there, believing someone might come. Venezuelan detainees in Module 8 gesture and shout from behind bars during the congressional delegation's tour. Philip Holsinger I review my photographs and wince to think about what they mean. In every frame I see questions: Who are the devils today, and who gets to decide? El Salvador answered by pouring 236,000 square meters of concrete and steel onto the side of a volcano, to build a warehouse for the men they saw as devils. The U.S. answered by chartering three planes, exorcising their perceived foreign demons. On one side of CECOT, there is austere silence. On the other side, chaotic pleas. I think of the old rusting nails on a tree that once held human flesh. The nails tell a story. But I'm not sure it's the story of Module 8. Philip Holsinger Must-Reads from TIME Why Waymo's Self-Driving Cars Became a Target of Protesters in Los Angeles What to Know About RFK Jr. Removing All Experts From CDC Vaccine Advisory Committee Why Trump Sending the National Guard to L.A. Is Different From Its Deployment There in 1992 Appendix Cancer Has Quadrupled in Millennials Protests Spread Beyond Los Angeles as National Tensions Mount Over Immigration Raids Trump to California: Surrender
Searching for Devils at CECOT World El Salvador Story by Philip Holsinger CECOT enforces strict silence and order among inmates. But Module 8, which houses Venezuelan deportees, deviates from this Holsinger To grasp why El Salvador built the Terrorism Confinement Center—the prison known as CECOT—you need to know about the killings that plagued the country before it existed. For more than a year, I have walked crime scenes, interviewed victims, and heard President Nayib Bukele himself describe the vicious murders perpetrated by the nation's gangs. In May, local investigators led me to one of the killing fields, and into a world of macabre rituals. At Mount St. Bartolo, an old farmer showed me a 'killing tree,' its trunk scarred by machetes. 'Farmers don't strike trees,' explained one of my guides, a man named Carlos. 'That's where a torso hung.' Advertisement The ancient Amate tree leaned over a canyon like a broken metronome. In its limbs were rusty spikes where gangs once pinned human bodies in the shape of an inverted cross. As Carlos talked, I had to concentrate on the nails, counting them one by one, to keep myself from vomiting. Those nails follow me every time I enter CECOT. Built specifically to house the gang members that terrorized this country, the prison is spartan as a space station, grim as a gulag. Bukele has said no prisoner will leave the place alive, and that they will lead lives devoid of comfort. Module 8 is different. It holds the 238 Venezuelan men the United States deported on March 15 under an emergency order that branded them Tren de Aragua gangsters. Trump Administration officials insisted all were hardened criminals, which subsequent reporting has revealed to be untrue. I have visited Module 8 three times. Each time I braced for the eerie, enforced silence that envelops CECOT. But this unit is different. The Venezuelans chant 'Liberty!' and 'Venezuela!' They proclaim their innocence, so loudly you can hear them from outside. They climbed the bars and waved white shirts like flags of surrender. Some pleaded for phones to call home. A few screamed curses. No guard approached to stop them. But the guards did not allow visitors to approach them either. Module 8 is unsettling not because it is cruel but because it is almost merciful in comparison to the rest of CECOT, and to the larger prison system of El Salvador. The detainees here have sleep pads, sheets, and pillows. They eat from an enhanced menu which sometimes includes hamburgers. They have some access to writing instruments; I saw a scrap of white sheet with a cross drawn on it. The rest of El Salvador's prisoners live in a world of steel and silence. I have asked Salvadoran officials why they make exceptions for the foreigners. No one has offered an answer. Maybe it's because they know these inmates will one day be let out. Maybe it's because they believe these are not the same demons. Read More: What the Venezuelans Deported to El Salvador Experienced. During a tour of Module 8 on May 9, I searched the faces for Andry, the 'barber' whose image ignited outrage on social media in the wake of my previous reporting for TIME. I thought about shouting his name, but we were forbidden to speak with the Venezuelan inmates. Their uniform crew cuts made it difficult to differentiate faces. Their fearful eyes left me afraid. I departed with only the echo of anonymous men, arms reaching through bars, begging for someone to take their number, to tell someone they were there, believing someone might come. I review my photographs and wince to think about what they mean. In every frame I see questions: Who are the devils today, and who gets to decide? El Salvador answered by pouring 236,000 square meters of concrete and steel onto the side of a volcano, to build a warehouse for the men they saw as devils. The U.S. answered by chartering three planes, exorcising their perceived foreign demons. On one side of CECOT, there is austere silence. On the other side, chaotic pleas. I think of the old rusting nails on a tree that once held human flesh. The nails tell a story. But I'm not sure it's the story of Module 8. Must-Reads from TIME Why Waymo's Self-Driving Cars Became a Target of Protesters in Los Angeles What to Know About RFK Jr. Removing All Experts From CDC Vaccine Advisory Committee Why Trump Sending the National Guard to L.A. Is Different From Its Deployment There in 1992 Appendix Cancer Has Quadrupled in Millennials Protests Spread Beyond Los Angeles as National Tensions Mount Over Immigration Raids Trump to California: Surrender
