Mexican police arrest suspect in killing of five band members
The bodies of four musicians from the band and their manager were discovered on Thursday in Tamaulipas state, four days after the men had been reported missing.
Their relatives had reported receiving ransom demands in the days after the men's disappearance.
While kidnappings for ransom are not uncommon in violence-wracked Tamaulipas, the way band members were apparently lured to an abandoned lot by their kidnappers with the promise of a gig at a private party and then killed has shocked locals, who held rallies demanding their release.
Police said they arrested M-47 during raids on three properties, in which they also seized drugs, weapons, cash and suspicious vehicles and detained two other suspects.
Federal officials said they suspect M-47 of being one of the bosses of a gang known as "Metros", which forms part of the Gulf Cartel.
The Gulf Cartel has its stronghold in Tamaulipas state and engages in the smuggling of drugs and migrants across the US-Mexico border, as well as kidnapping for ransom.
It is not clear why the members of Grupo Fugitivo were targeted.
The singer - who survived because he was late on the night - told local media that his band had been hired to perform at a private party and given an address.
The singer said that when he made his own way to the location they had been given to meet up with his fellow musicians, he found the address to be a vacant lot and no sign of the band members or their SUV.
The band's SUV was found abandoned three days later a few kilometres away. The trailer with their instruments and sound equipment was also found dumped at another nearby location.
Investigators believe the five were taken by their captors to a property, where they were killed.
Grupo Fugitivo were known for playing norteña music - a genre characterised by catchy lyrics often sung to a polka-inspired rhythm - which has been targeted by criminal gangs.
Some bands rely on income early in their careers from being hired to play at private parties, many of which are hosted by people involved in or with connections to the cartels.
They sometimes also compose songs praising drug lords and there have been instances in the past when singers of such songs, known as "corridos" have been threatened and even killed by rival gangs.
In total, 12 suspects have been arrested in connection with the murder of the members of Grupo Fugitivo so far.
Five musicians murdered in suspected Mexican cartel killing
Mexican band has US visas revoked for 'glorifying drug kingpin'
Indigenous musicians killed in Mexico ambush
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Others are simply impressed by all the pretty horses. Emilio Jr. says he hopes the cabalgata sends a message: 'We are here, we have been here for years, we count, we pay taxes, we want freedom.' Freedom means offering legal pathways for migrant workers, he says. 'Those trees right there, they need to be harvested, they need workers.' Around midmorning the group passes the town of Three Rocks, where some 150 workers and their families used to live in trailers and manufactured homes. That was until the Fresno County Board of Supervisors declared the community a health hazard and an unwanted shantytown, shutting off the electricity to drive out residents in 1980. That same year the first Joaquin Murrieta ride was held, starting at Three Rocks and traveling to Cantua Creek, to draw attention to the community's battle, ultimately unsuccessful, to keep their homes. According to a 1994 pamphlet celebrating the 15th anniversary of the cabalgata, 'the spirited fight against the County to stay in Three Rocks' reminded the ride founders of 'Joaquin Murrieta when he took on the state of California to fight the injustices faced by his people.' Over the years, the event has evolved, adding more miles, riders and a healthy dose of merrymaking and drinking, but it still holds Murrieta's spirit of resistance at its core. At the end of the day's ride, the crew arrives at a campground in Firebaugh and beelines for the cool relief of the San Joaquin River, with several horses joining for a dip. A local group called La Banda Favorita has been hired to provide the evening's entertainment and its rousing beats draw the riders back to dry land. Martha Armas-Kelly, an environmental justice advocate from Merced, came to enjoy the music with her friend Isaura Perez but is shocked to discover that Perez doesn't know who Joaquin Murrieta is. It's because they don't teach us our history in school, Armas-Kelly says. A priest flings holy water at the horses, blessing the animals and their riders before they depart on the second leg of their journey. Saturday's heat is intense, but the riders are supported by a small army of volunteers, lugging out buckets of water for the horses and passing around chilled bottles of Gatorade at improvised rest stops. Outside the Bonita Market, on the outskirts of Madera, the riders halt and transform the street into a Mexican block party. Many locals gather, drawn by word of mouth and posters advertising the ride. La Banda Favorita is back, but it's the caballos bailadores, or dancing horses, who steal the show. The crowd cheers as the horses flaunt their intricately trained footwork — some trotting in place to the beat of the thumping music, others cross-stepping across the intersection with swagger. Al Lopez Jr., a teacher and wrestling coach at South Madera High School, brought some of his athletes to observe the spectacle. He is the grandson of Jesse Lopez, who founded the Joaquin Murrieta ride in 1980 alongside Sigurdur Christopherson, known as 'Mexican Sigui,' and Julian Orozco. Jesse Lopez was a respected advocate for migrant workers, who marched with Cesar Chavez and became the first Latino elected to the Madera County Board of Supervisors in 1982. He also cared deeply about keeping the culture of charros, Mexican horsemen, alive. Al Lopez had a tough time growing up and would count down the days until he could ride out on the cabalgata with his grandpa. 'As soon as I get in the saddle, I feel free,' he says. 'It's my therapy more than anything.' Lopez has seen the ride's attendance fluctuate over the years. Some families had to sell their horses after the 2008 recession. Then in 2010, a disagreement among organizers resulted in the ride splitting in two. (This crew rides from Cantua Creek to Madera, while a group led by the Orozco family runs in the opposite direction.) But both rides still carry the name of Joaquin Murrieta. According to legend, Murrieta came to the Central Valley from Sonora, Mexico, seeking his fortune in the mining business, but was met with racism and cruelty. It's said that his brother was killed and his wife raped, fueling his transformation into an outlaw who robbed mines and stole horses. His exploits were immortalized in a corrido, a Mexican ballad, with lines such as 'A los ricos avarientos, Yo los quite su dinero' — 'From the greedy rich, I take their money' — and 'Ay, que leyes tan injustas, Por llamarme bandolero' — 'Oh, what unjust laws, to call me a bandit.' Murrieta was reportedly shot by California Rangers Capt. Harry Love, and his severed head, preserved in a jar, was toured around the state as proof. Some question whether the head was really Murrieta's, believing that he either fled to Mexico or continued living in California under a fake name. As the day wanes, the cue is given to pack up the party and finish the final miles of the trail. Tonight's campsite is extra special for Lopez; it's the rodeo grounds he helped his late grandfather build. The rodeo kicks offs with Julieana singing the Murrieta corrido, relishing the lyric, 'En este suelo que piso, De México es California' — 'On this ground that I walk, from Mexico is California.' It's one of her favorite lines, acknowledging that California was once Mexican land. Cowboys then take turns attempting to rope a bull from horseback, but only the bravest, or craziest, among them dare participate in the next event: bull riding. 'You're literally making a life-or-death situation a choice before you get on, and it feels that way,' explains Lopez, whose bull-riding days are behind him. 'It's an adrenaline rush that can't be compared to any kind of drug.' The first handful of bull rides speed by, with no one withstanding the bucking for more than 4.5 seconds. Then comes Javonte Williams. A self-professed lover of bull riding from Fresno, he is determined to outlast the earlier riders. From the second the whistle blows, it's clear his bull means business. It charges out of the pen kicking its hind legs in a feral frenzy. The beast rears its haunches so high it is practically doing a handstand on its front hooves and sends Williams flying several feet before he smashes into the ground. The crowd sucks in a gasp as he emerges from the dust gripping a shoulder that sticks out at an unnatural angle. He wails as he staggers out of the ring and immediately starts knocking back tequila to numb the pain. Five minutes later he announces that he has broken his collarbone, but has no regrets. 'I live for this s—.' On a scale of zero to 10, Williams rates the pain a zero. 'I can't really feel it,' he says, as his 3-year-old daughter wraps her arms around his legs. No one else rides a bull this day. As the events wind down, the core group of Carranzas settle in camp chairs outside their RV and Barajas strums his trusty guitar. A cowboy rides up and belts out Antonio Aguilar's 'Mi Ranchito,' then trots away without a further word. Barajas takes in the scene with a wide smile. 'I think that the heat, the dust, the manure, the sun and the stars came all together perfectly to commemorate the legend of Joaquin Murrieta,' Barajas says with satisfaction. 'And this was his playground.' Lopez says he's proud that so many people came out to celebrate Murrieta's memory and his grandfather's legacy, despite the fears community members feel about attending large gatherings during these fraught times. 'To be honest to God, the ride is important every year,' he says. 'Whether it's this year, next year, or the next president. It's our tradition, it's our culture.' Times staff writer Ruben Vives contributed to this report.
