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And, for a few excruciating minutes, that was all he could come up with. The crowd laughed wickedly. That debacle was in December. It is the second largest in Latin America, drawing more than half a million visitors, nearly two thousand publishers, and hundreds of authors, including, over the years, Nadine Gordimer, William Styron, and Toni Morrison. Guadalajarans sometimes offer it up as Exhibit A for the case that the city is a civilized place where life goes on unmarked by the violence that disfigures large parts of Mexico. By late , that argument was hard to make. Two days before the fair opened, twenty-six corpses were dumped under the Millennium Arches, a downtown landmark. Near the bodies, which bore signs of torture, was a message—what is known as a narcomanta —signed by the Zetas, the most feared organized-crime group in Mexico. Sinaloa has controlled Guadalajara, which is the capital of the western state of Jalisco, for decades. But the Zetas have been pushing westward from their strongholds on the Gulf Coast, and they had already taken the neighboring state of Zacatecas, so there was no reason to doubt that they coveted Jalisco, a rich prize, or that this was indeed their atrocity and their message to Guadalajara. Either the truth is too fluid and complex to define or it remains opaque to anyone not directly involved in manipulating events. This may help to explain how a city widely understood to be under the control of a leading international crime group—the U. Both descriptions are true, and both realities are under siege. When Mexicans discuss the news, they talk often about pantallas —screens, illusions, behind which are more screens, all created to obscure the facts. This is a problem for journalism. You fish for facts and instead pull up boatloads of speculation, some of it well informed, much of it trailing tangled agendas. You end up reporting not so much what happened as what people think or imagine or say happened. Then there is the entirely justified fear of speaking to the press, particularly to foreign journalists. I have had to offer anonymity, pseudonyms, and extraordinary assurances to many sources for this account. The reprisals that people are trying to avoid would come not only from crime groups but, in many cases, from factions within the Mexican government. He might eventually return the Army to its barracks and, like virtually every recent President, revamp the federal police. He was the governor of Mexico State, a populous but small horseshoe around Mexico City, and his time as a national politician has been short and heavily stage-managed, with limited press access and no more literacy tests. Throwing out the corrupt, authoritarian PRI, in , was a great moment for democracy in Latin America. Now it seems that Mexican voters are poised to bring the Party back. But these labels carry little weight in Mexico today. Power here is about money. Indeed, in the P. But it was the PRI that presided over the privatization of more than a thousand state companies during the nineteen-eighties and nineties. Once engaged, he found himself regularly accused of going easy on the Sinaloa cartel. A zero-sum analysis of an anti-crime strategy is, understandably, the default view in Mexico: any government assault on one cartel must be at the behest of its rivals. And Sinaloa did seem underrepresented among the casualties and captured narcos as those numbers spiralled up. In February, federal police missed getting him, they claimed, by a matter of minutes at a rented beachfront mansion in Cabo San Lucas. In , Mexican authorities listed the thirty-seven drug capos they most wanted. They have so far caught or killed twenty-two, and some cartels seem to have withered after losing their leaders. But organized crime controls more resources today, and sows more terror, than ever. The most common fallout from the kingpin strategy has been the fragmentation of narco-trafficking into smaller, warring, ultraviolent factions. This cops-and-robbers version of the drug war cannot, in any case, be taken at face value. The idea of a unified state that is furiously pursuing bad guys is pure pantalla. The low-grade civil war in Mexico takes place on the ground, among factions with shifting loyalties, in cities and villages with tangled histories. Every local commander, every official, and every community must work out an accommodation with organized crime. Metropolitan Guadalajara, population four and a half million, sprawls across a sunny, mile-high plateau. Electronics and software are booming fields—people call it the Silicon Valley of Mexico. The University of Guadalajara has more than two hundred thousand students. The city has good restaurants and music, great old neighborhoods, shiny new malls, and a flourishing methamphetamine trade. The Mexican meth trade got a big boost in the nineteen-nineties, when American law enforcement started to crack down on U. For the Mexican cartels, meth has many advantages. With cocaine, they are middlemen, dependent on producers in South America and obliged to move the product, first, across Central America. Marijuana and heroin require cropland, rainfall, harvesting, and, in the case of heroin, processing. Meth, like other synthetic drugs, is produced indoors. It has, by some estimates, the highest profit margin of all the major illegal drugs. Whether smoked, snorted, injected, or swallowed as a pill, it is extremely addictive. Worldwide consumption has been rising for decades. According to a recent United Nations report, amphetamines have passed cocaine and opiates to become the second most used illegal type of drug, after marijuana. In , a hundred and sixty-six meth labs were busted in Iran; the Czech Republic shuts down some four hundred labs a year. Mexico, with the U. The cartels, particularly Sinaloa, cook meth on an industrial scale that would not be possible in the U. The profits were apparently fabulous. Then, in July, , Coronel was killed in an Army raid on his home. Speculation was rife. Armchair warriors wondered if El Chapo had set up his old friend Nacho, out of concern that his Jalisco kingdom was becoming too independently powerful. In any event, everyone said that taking Coronel alive was out of the question. That was why the Army sent a hundred soldiers to attack the house where he had lived, more or less openly, for many years. The Army conducted raids on local meth labs. If true, that would indeed make it the largest meth bust in history. But was it true? Most will make it into La Verdad The Truth , a weekly paper for which he covers politics, writes a column, and does investigations. He photographs corpses, too, and writes those notas. Missing legs means you changed groups. A hand cut off means it was a thief. We were driving around western Tlajomulco, a sunbaked miscellany of ranches, factories, subdivisions, and rough hills. I parked in a patch of shade. Hugo wanted to check out a scruffy warehouse that had caught his eye. This was on the main highway running south from Guadalajara. An old couple appeared. They lived next to the warehouse, and told us that stinking water ran out of the building. It was hard to hear her over the roar of trucks. Hugo leaned in, took notes. He wore a dress shirt, jeans, and boots. He had beaded leather bracelets on both wrists. He is slender, thirty, with a severe face—high cheekbones, wide-set eyes. We watched him hobble off to snap pictures of the warehouse. He has used a cane since February, when he suffered a severe fracture of his left leg playing league soccer. Many people would like to paste Hugo. He was once studying a strange-looking house, figuring that it was a meth lab, when a pickup truck suddenly wheeled out of the driveway and blocked his path. Four armed men jumped out. They threw him and a female companion on the ground. With a boot on his neck and a gun at his head, Hugo played the fool. He babbled about how he admired the federal agents known as AFI s the Federal Investigation Agency was a squad created to fight corruption and organized crime , pretending that he thought the narcos were AFI s. The ruse seemed to confuse the gunmen. Hugo allowed himself a faint smile when he told me this story. The narcos did not spot his camera, which he had quickly hidden in the car. That, he thought, probably saved their lives. He meant officials, police, and soldiers—those he usually offended with his investigations. I wrote a nota about corruption in the municipal police. They were taking wrecked cars and selling off the good parts. I named names, gave a lot of details. One of the cops came to my office, armed, in uniform. I told him that City Hall was down the street, if he wanted to make a complaint. He turned and ran. I got a good picture of him running. Anyway, if someone wants to do you real harm, he can just hire a sicario —an assassin. They were waiting outside his house, in the rain. I was sarcastic. I asked them if that was supposed to scare me. Hugo looked at his cane. He was blindsided, and never knew who hit him. The game was stopped. Nobody from the other team spoke to him. His teammates, perhaps doing him a favor, said they did not see who had pasted him. He kept writing notas from his hospital bed. I had noticed, on his Twitter page, a photograph of him out cold, awaiting surgery. It was probably best to stay in the public eye—to try to seem cheerful, unintimidated. Hugo heard that a young man who worked at City Hall said that they should have broken both his legs. Hugo likes to go undercover. He recently posed as a building inspector, to get a look at the paperwork for a new banquet hall. The permits were bogus, as he suspected. Developers normally get their way in Tlajomulco. They have thrown up a large number of spectacularly shabby subdivisions, not bothering with even basic services. Some of these places have now been without water for years. Five thousand houses in the new subdivisions are already abandoned. He cornered him in a parking lot, letting him know that he had crossed the wrong guy. Unfortunately, that could be true. They wear masks. They just follow orders and attack. Then they go back to their bases. They call me to help them find a certain place. We were passing through one, called Santa Fe. The tiny row houses, the gray cinder-block walls, seemed to stretch for miles. Gang graffiti and newly painted PRI propaganda competed for wall space. We crossed a culvert. He directed me to a modest police substation, where there was an officer who might speak to me. The worst problems were gang violence and robbery. The Army blew through occasionally but did not communicate with police. There was little point in arresting people, because there were so few prosecutions. The Sinaloa cartel kept a lower profile. Its local affiliate was called the Jalisco Cartel New Generation. Meth addiction was one of the ways the cartels recruited. Kids got into drugs and gangs and, if they survived, were allowed to join the cartel. They wore bulletproof vests and carried assault rifles. The next President has an obligation to change things. He pulled his shirt up to reveal huge, frightening scars. I trust him. The Drug Enforcement Administration and other U. But Coronel had returned to Mexico. Before , under the PRI , crime groups prospered, but the national government ultimately called the shots. There were well-understood lines that the cartels could not cross. One of those was crossed in , when the Archbishop of Guadalajara was gunned down at the Guadalajara airport. This was unacceptable. He was convicted of drug trafficking and sentenced to twenty years. He is said to have rolled out in the bottom of a laundry cart, his exit smoothed by bribes. Other versions have him coming and going freely for years, and finally leaving for good dressed as a guard. No one believes that the government is calling the shots today in Mexico. In Guadalajara, there was a large-scale Army raid, with helicopters, near the city center in March. The military tried to seal off the target neighborhood. The Army, ever-secretive and rightly mistrustful of other government agencies, had not informed the governor, the mayor, the state police, the municipal police, or the federal police of its plans, so Guadalajarans huddled in their homes and workplaces, phoning and e-mailing one another, waiting in vain for advisories or information from the government as the sky filled with black smoke and the city rang with sirens. A young man I met spent the afternoon of the narcobloqueo watching TV news with a local family. The Army captured a lesser capo that day, one Erick Valencia Salazar, a. A more important leader, according to security experts, and the real target of the raid—a gangster known as El Mencho—had eluded troops. The C. It had been an emotional outburst, the mantas said, in reaction to the loss of El The experts I interviewed all said that the narcobloqueo had actually been a tactical maneuver, meant to distract the Army and law enforcement, so that narcos more important than Valencia could leave the city undetected. How can Guadalajarans continue to see their town as a haven? The most tenacious local myth is that powerful narcos want it peaceful because their families live there. This idea may once have had validity. A crackdown in the late seventies on traffickers in Sinaloa, fuelled largely by U. The money laundering was excellent, and they bought hotels, restaurants, night clubs. They married into some of the best old families, sent their children to good schools. Their wealth drove a local mini-boom. Although he had only a third-grade education, his aptitude for international smuggling was high. He cultivated cocaine sources in South America, secured routes through Central America and western Mexico, and built elaborate tunnels under the U. He could be ruthless. The story was that he built his tunnels with slave labor and, in the interests of secrecy, killed the workers when they were finished. He gave no quarter in battles over plazas that he considered valuable. At the same time, he gained a reputation as a reasonable business partner, and built alliances across the globe. This was particularly important in the meth trade, where production relies on chemicals manufactured primarily in Asia. His influence, even his popularity, runs especially deep in Sinaloa. Local joke: How can you tell when times are tough in Sinaloa? El Chapo had to lay off ten judges. The prison that he escaped from, known as Puente Grande, is on the outskirts of Guadalajara. His elusiveness, at least some of which must be put down to luck, only burnishes his legend. He is the subject of many narcocorridos , the popular ballads that celebrate outlaw exploits. Emma Coronel is his fourth wife. He helped see that she won a local beauty contest, where she was named Miss Coffee and Guava. Their wedding, on her eighteenth birthday, in , was, from all reports, a great blowout. The Army showed up a day late. Emma Coronel is the niece of Nacho Coronel. A succession plan is undoubtedly in place. But the power of organized crime in Mexico now holds hostage large areas of the country, including major cities, such as Monterrey, and terrorizes the rest with performances of stupefying violence. No formal charges have been filed. Some Guadalajarans find cold comfort by looking north, to Monterrey, where security has been in free fall for the past two years. But the police have lost control of the streets. Kidnapping, extortion, robbery, and murder are commonplace. The number of killings there tripled between and , then nearly doubled again in Army checkpoints now lace the city. What happened there? The Zetas and the Gulf cartel started a war. The local police reportedly went to work en masse for the cartels. Now the Zetas are pillaging the city. The Zetas are unlike other Mexican crime groups. The cartel paid many times what the military did. Trained as paratroopers and intelligence operatives, they introduced a paramilitary element to narco-trafficking, outgunning police units. They ambushed the Army. They seized plazas and drug routes from other cartels, with an efficiency and a brutality not seen before. Their ranks swelled with infusions from a notorious Guatemalan counter-insurgency unit, the Kaibiles. Traditional crime groups like Sinaloa were family-based, often deeply tied to a region. The Zetas were military. Their mission was to kill and destroy. When they outgrew their role as enforcers, they turned on their employers. They beat the Gulf cartel down to insignificance. Their only real rival now is Sinaloa. The Zetas, who are estimated to have more than ten thousand fighters, control virtually the entire east coast of Mexico, and have laid claim to several of the busiest cargo crossing points on the U. It is believed that they are pushing west because they want to open a corridor to a major Pacific port, such as Manzanillo, just south of Guadalajara. The Zetas approach a town, a city, or a state as a shakedown opportunity. They fight for the right to terrorize a community, and bleed it dry. They also threaten the central government. The same study found that Sinaloa is active in sixteen. The Zetas traffic drugs, but their specialties are kidnapping, extortion, murder, robbery, human smuggling, and product piracy. Their punishments for failure to pay protection money are extravagant and meant to be cautionary. Last August, they firebombed a casino in Monterrey whose owner had not paid, killing at least fifty-two customers. They kidnap migrant workers, mainly from Central America, and demand ransom from their impoverished families. Some of their massacres make no obvious sense. In , seventy-two migrants were found dead at a ranch near the U. In , a mass grave with the remains of a hundred and ninety-three people, presumably migrants, was discovered in the desert in Tamaulipas. Migrants are now crossing further west, in Sonora, hoping to avoid the Zetas. When Zetas are captured, other Zetas break them out of prison. There have been dozens of attacks, riots, escapes. In December, , a hundred and fifty-one Zetas broke out of jail in Nuevo Laredo. This February, twenty-nine escaped from a prison in Monterrey, but not before stabbing and bludgeoning to death forty-four incarcerated members of the Gulf cartel. Simply dropping the name does wonders, reportedly, for the success rate of extortion schemes. But fake Zetas risk retribution from real Zetas. Rival cartels have often been just as bad. Afterward, La Familia splintered. The Mata Zetas released a strikingly composed, politically tinged video announcing their plans to annihilate their degenerate foes, and in September, , the Jalisco group dumped thirty-five bodies on a busy avenue in Veracruz at rush hour. Two weeks later, thirty-two more bodies were found in three safe houses around the city. Veracruz is Zetas territory. The corpses thrown under the Millennium Arches in November were a retaliation. Mexican election campaigns are short—ninety days for the Presidential contest, and usually less for state and local contests. By mid-April, the city was saturated with political advertising. Every taxi was festooned, every wall and billboard. Television and radio often seemed like a solid wave of slogans, jingles, appeals, attacks. Does organized crime favor one party? Or do particular cartels back particular parties? Not notably. Each of the major parties has had corruption scandals. But that was when the PRI was the only game in town. With the rise of other parties, new acuerdos were made. The narcos are most concerned with local politicians and police and military units. They want to be able to land this load at this airfield. Their acuerdos tend to be with individuals. If they prefer to work with one candidate for mayor, or governor, they may intimidate or, in the case of the Zetas, even kill his opponent. But the party affiliation of politicians, let alone Army or police commanders, is irrelevant. Joanna Jablonska Bayro is a sociology student. For her doctoral dissertation, she has been interviewing twenty Guadalajarans about how they perceive their city and their security—where and why they feel unsafe, how they protect themselves from risks. Then the news came out that the victims were ordinary people. Then, about a month later, the authorities announced that they had caught the killers, and that, no, the victims were all narcos. And everyone is mortally afraid of the Zetas. The Zetas are the incarnation of the threat. Attitudes toward the security forces break down along class lines. The upper and middle classes are still enthusiastic about the Army, the poor far less so. Everyone has lost confidence in the rule of law. Nearly anyone who can afford it, including the lower middle class, now lives in a gated community, with private security. They rely on pit bulls, family networks, and, of course, organized crime. They never call the police. Ninety-eight per cent of serious crimes in Mexico go unpunished, according to a recent report by the Monterrey Institute of Technology. For kidnapping, which is rarely reported, the figure might be even higher. When you read a crime story online, the advertisement blinking alongside the text is often an offer of private protection for you and your family against secuestro —kidnapping. If someone disappears and no ransom call comes, should it even be called kidnapping? Human-rights groups estimate that more than five thousand people have disappeared in Mexico in the past five years. Mexican TV provides a P. Behind the captured narcos stand black military helicopters. Drugs and cash and weapons, some gold-plated, are laid out on banquet tables. The government even produces YouTube-ready videos with dramatic musical intros, graphics, and sleek institutional logos. And now: the Confession of La Barbie! Were the drugs seized really worth that much? Well, no. The more experts I consulted, the lower the number sank. Maybe it was a billion, if the meth was pure. There had been some confusion. There were precursor chemicals. A lot of equipment—gas tanks, reactors. Maybe it was eleven pounds of pure meth. Eleven pounds? The fifteen tons had been methamphetamine ready for packing, according to the Army. In the U. So the reported value had been inflated by a factor of eight thousand? The base is in Zapopan, northwest of Guadalajara. The chief of staff, General Gerardo Wolburg Redondo, said he would need permission to speak to me. He later phoned. Permission denied, he said, by Mexico City, because of Article 41, a provision of the Mexican constitution that forbids the diffusion of government propaganda during an election-campaign period. Article 41 had suddenly become a popular law in government offices, I found. Sorry, love to chat, but—Article Arrests almost never happened, though. Why not? Why, I asked, would the neighbors do that? They were paid lookouts, he said. How did the Army know where the labs were? Different neighbors, made suspicious by high traffic or strong chemical odors, called—or, more often, e-mailed—the police or the Army. Anonymous denunciations. This scenario was derided by most of the people I consulted, in law enforcement and elsewhere. Narcos ratted out rival narcos—that was normally how the authorities learned things. Or the narcos and certain authorities came to an agreement. What civilian would drop a dime on a cartel? That could be suicidal. There was no way to know who would be on the other end of that call or e-mail. Anyway, labs that were up to date on their protection payments usually had nothing to fear. Meth labs operated in networks, moving materials and personnel between facilities to maximize production and minimize risk. Losses from seizures were a cost of doing business, and rarely catastrophic. The networks in Jalisco were very big now. Sinaloa had recently ramped up production. He wanted meth labs. The Army had almost no field intelligence, but the government needed dramatic busts, headlines, and so an acuerdo had seemingly been reached. The locations of some labs would be disclosed, and they would be busted, but there would be no one there—no guards, and certainly no chemists or cooks, who were highly valued employees. One told me that it had actually happened two weeks before the announcement claimed. The press release went out to the wider world before the drugs were properly tested, along with photographs of masked soldiers standing among blue barrels filled with yellow powder. It was all about the credit. No one seemed to be in a position to question the wisdom of smashing up places, learning nothing, carrying off drugs, and calling it a blow against organized crime. So I asked him who owned Rancho Villarreal. He said that it was difficult to determine. It was a party venue, really, with a swimming pool, a bar, cabanas. When I asked around about the disposition of the drugs seized at Rancho Villarreal, someone close to the case told me that he believed the product had been quietly returned to its owners, for an unknown price. I had been there a couple of times before, checking out Rancho Villarreal, but the villagers had been reluctant to talk. They claimed not to remember the Army raid, let alone the narcolaboratorio. I believed I was endangering them just by lingering. Hugo, however, knew people there. They go to their parties, enjoy the narcocorridos , get pregnant. But the other pregnant girls are still happy. They want the babies. Some from Jalisco. They all have money, nice trucks, nice ranchos. They fixed up his church. They get their kids baptized there. We were bumping down a deeply rutted road. It was rough, open country—plenty of room for clandestinity. They have watchdogs, fighting cocks. You can tell. Palm trees. We stopped and gazed down a very long driveway at a huge new house. The driveway looked practically impassable, even for a 4 x 4. It lets them see their enemies coming. Not right now. It seems like La Familia Michoacana is dominant around here at the moment. But most of the labs belong to the Jalisco cartel. They employ a lot of lookouts. We passed a small airstrip. We regained the paved road where we had left my car. Two sedans with big, brightly painted, carefully hand-built model airplanes lashed to their roofs were turning off the road onto the dirt track. Hugo and I went to Rancho Villarreal. It was at the end of a long, twisting, unpaved road. The brick outer walls were ten feet high. The gate was padlocked, with a warning posted that the property had been sealed by the federal prosecutor. Respirators were essential meth-lab gear. Hugo stabbed in the grass again. He turned and walked into a log-walled guard hut that I had not noticed before. He bent and picked up a golf ball, and pointed to a set of numbers stamped on it. Back outside, Hugo stared at the high walls of Rancho Villarreal. Palm trees rose against the sky from inside the compound. At the far end of the front wall, also inside the compound, was a narrow, two-story outbuilding. He pointed to a pile of bricks and tile in a corner where two high walls met. While driving back toward the village, Hugo asked me to stop the car. We parked next to a white-walled farm of some kind, surrounded by fields. Hugo hiked down to look at a pair of hoses. They came out of the farm, passed under the road, and emptied into a field. He smelled the hoses. He shook his head. He pointed to a set of pipes and wires running through the bottom of the white walls. He looked down at the hoses. Not a farm. But he did not touch his camera. On May 9th, Guadalajarans woke up to a new Zetas atrocity—eighteen headless, dismembered bodies left in two vehicles parked near a popular restaurant out past the airport. Then the police found some more body parts in a safe house in Chapala, a lakeside community that is popular with retired Americans and Canadians, about an hour south of the city. Half of the dead were soon identified. They were local people who had recently gone missing. Ordinary citizens, not narcos, kidnapped and murdered. Four were said to have been students at the University of Guadalajara. That turned out to be only part of the story. The kidnappings, their leader confirmed, had been done at random. They just grabbed whomever they could—waiters, a construction worker, a dance teacher in a primary school. The purpose behind all this carnage? He was just following orders, he said, from a Zeta named Fernando, who remained at large. There were more marches in June, but the student movement seemed unlikely to stop the return of the PRI. They burned narcotics there each month. In the open air? Of course. His office oversaw the destruction. I went to the shooting range for the next bonfire. There was a compact-car-size mound of drugs already piled beyond the first target berm. It contained, I was told, just under a ton of marijuana, six hundred grams of cocaine, forty grams of ephedrine, just over a thousand tabs of synthetic drugs Ecstasy, meth , and slightly more than thirty pounds of crystal. He had a Beretta 9-mm. He accused the firefighters of deliberately staying downwind of the fire, from which pungent black smoke billowed. He was startlingly good in the role of a desperate addict. Then he was just as good playing a gruff, paranoid dealer—funny, convincing. Then he whirled from a dope-snorting crouch, whipping out his pistol, knocking the dealer to the ground, cackling triumphantly as himself, the undercover cop. The dealer was crying for his wife. Should he arrest the guy? Rip him off? Beat him up? All of the above? The AFI s had actually been disbanded, but everybody still calls their replacement, the Federal Ministerial Police, by that name. As other people drifted away, he told me that he had made twelve hundred arrests, maybe more. He had been a cop for twenty-two years. He was forty-four. Before that, he worked in Alabama, planting trees. That was great money—three hundred dollars a week. He demonstrated his tree-planting technique, making it look quick, precise, gruelling, and comical. He ran out, grabbed a pitchfork, and started throwing flaming bales of pot in the air, until the fire was roaring again. His energy was maniacal. He was also weirdly loose-limbed. When my cell phone rang, he started dancing to the ringtone. Bad, he said. The AFI s picked up some of his expenses, but he had to work a second full-time job, as a stonemason. He changed the subject, to politics. They know how to do it. It was true: the PRI , when in power, paid some journalists extravagantly, and supported many newspapers and other media in return for coverage that suited its purposes. But there will be peace. Save this story Save this story. Photograph by Roman Ortega. Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon. Link copied. A police substation in Santa Fe. William Finnegan has been a staff writer at The New Yorker since The daily stream of racism and mendacity has had a numbing effect. But the question of what Trump might actually do is a prospect that voters cannot afford to ignore. By Jonathan Blitzer. By Adam Gopnik. It obscures more than it reveals. By Naomi Fry. Don Luigi Ciotti leads an anti-Mafia organization, and for decades he has run a secret operation that liberates women from the criminal underworld. Briefly Noted. The New Yorker Documentary. 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