Rediscovering: Don Bolles, a murdered journalist

Face-painted, shirtless and wearing bullhorns, Arizona resident Jacob Chansley became the face of the January 6 insurrection. Meanwhile President Donald Trump used Arizona as ground zero to try and over turn the results of the 2020 election. Arizona lawmakers leaned in. While this was happening, one question came to mind: What is going on in Arizona?  Chansley is an outlier, but he's not alone. Extremism is nothing new in Arizona and it's been happening for generations. From Confederate soldiers to the John Birch Society, militias patrolling the Mexican border to Arizona Proud Boys joining the Capitol insurrection, Arizona has a long history of indulging extremists, people whose views often reflect anger and intolerance.  This history isn't random acts of criminal behavior but a threaded story of disillusionment, distrust of government and sometimes outright rebellion which have mixed into Arizona's culture and politics. In season 4 of Rediscovering, an investigative podcast by The Arizona Republic and azcentral.com, hosts of The Gaggle Ron Hansen and Mary Jo Pitzl break down over a century of state history to give context to the state's brushes with extremism. Rediscovering: The Roots of Radicalism, coming this summer. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

After two criminal trials against Lonnie Swartz wrapped up in Tucson, Jose Antonio's family turned to their civil lawsuit against the agent.  Swartz's attorneys argued that the agent had qualified immunity from prosecution in the case because he was carrying out work for the federal government. They also argued the teen's family had no standing to sue because Jose Antonio did not have strong ties to the U.S. The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals in San Francisco allowed the family's lawsuit to move forward. But another case from a Mexican family in Ciudad Juarez who was in a similar circumstance stopped any momentum.  In June 2010, Border Patrol Agent Jesus Mesa Jr shot and killed 15-year-old Sergio Adrian Hernandez Guereca along the El Paso and Ciudad Juarez border. The Guereca family also filed a civil lawsuit against Mesa, but the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals' decision clashed with judges in San Francisco.  Because of the opposing decisions, the Supreme Court of the United States decided to review the case out of El Paso. This would settle the question about what happens when a U.S. Border Patrol agent shoots and kills someone across the border in Mexico.

In a historic move, U.S. federal prosecutors charged Lonnie Swartz, a Border Patrol agent, with three separate charges in the shooting and killing of 16-year-old Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez.  The most severe of the charges was for second degree murder, that meant prosecutors believed Lonnie had intentionally killed Jose Antonio. It was now their responsibility to prove that in court.  Bringing Swartz to trial took more than six years. In March 2018, the month-long murder trial kicked off in Tucson, about 60 miles north of Ambos Nogales.  A jury of 12 men and women - plus four alternates - would decide if Swartz was guilty of the three charges against him and could bring an end to Jose Antonio's family journey toward justice. 

It did not take long for the family of 16-year-old Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez to start putting pressure on U.S. authorities. They demanded that the U.S. Border Patrol release the name of the agent who had fired his gun from Arizona into Mexico in Ambos Nogales.  In July 2014, attorneys for Jose Antonio's family filed a lawsuit in the United States on behalf of Araceli Rodriguez. The lawsuit accused the agent of violating Jose Antonio's civil rights. The judge in the case would later order his name to be released to the public: Agent Lonnie Swartz.   After the shooting, the U.S. Customs and Border Protection faced questions from the public on its use of force of policy and the lack of accountability when investigating misconduct and wrongdoing. 

A U.S. border agent shot 16 times through the gaps in the border fence in the span of 34 seconds on the night of October 10, 2012.  Ten bullets struck and killed 16-year-old Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez, who was standing on the Mexico side of Ambos Nogales, a binational community.  The border agent claimed someone was throwing rocks over the fence and that he fired in self-defense. Jose Antonio's family disputes that it was him.  The shooting set Jose Antonio's mother, Araceli Rodriguez, and grandmother, Taide Elena, on a quest to seek answers and justice for his death.  Details about what happened on the U.S side of the border would stay under wraps for years. In the meantime, Jose Antonio's family mobilized to press the U.S. government to take action.   

It's been almost a decade since a boy in Mexico was shot dead by a Border Patrol agent in the United States.  His family couldn't believe it. And federal prosecutors didn't let it pass, even though Border Patrol agents rarely are scrutinized for excessive force. Recorded and retold in Spanish and English, these stories go beyond the killing of Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez in search of something still elusive at the border: justice. The ripple effects of the violence that night live on at the U.S.-Mexico border today.   Jose Antonio's story, his family's grief and persistence in seeking accountability for his death and how the international border affects life in the twin cities known as Ambos Nogales are the subject of a new podcast by The Arizona Republic and azcentral.com. It's called: “Rediscovering: Killed Through the Border Fence." Season 3 in the Rediscovering series launches Sept. 12.  

Season two of Rediscovering, a podcast from The Arizona Republic and azcentral.com, explored the events leading up to and following the passage of Senate Bill 1070 in Arizona.  The 2010 “show me your papers” law was met with pushback from Latino organizers, grassroots activists, DACA recipients and more. That pushback didn’t end after SB 1070 was signed. Latino activists continued to organize. They pushed for voter registration. They rallied around local candidates. They helped elect Democrats like Sheriff Paul Penzone and Krysten Sinema. Now, the 2020 election has come and gone. For the first time since 1996, Arizona voted for a Democrat for president. Joe Biden’s narrow victory was the work of multiple voting blocs and a confluence of events that made for an unforgettable year and an election cycle that will be looked back on for decades to come.  In the immediate aftermath, we wanted to revisit some of the voices you heard in Rediscovering. In this epilogue, we’re bringing together two people from our show to discuss SB 1070’s effect on the election: Tony Valdovinos and Chuck Coughlin.  Valdovinos is a Democratic organizer and DACA recipient who was called to action by SB 1070. In 2010, Chuck was an adviser to Republican Governor Jan Brewer.

Arizona’s Senate Bill 1070 took years of effort that culminated in a moment when the Legislature, the governor and the public — pushed by a terrible slaying agreed — to do something about illegal immigration, even if the White House and Congress couldn’t. Closer to the time of its passage, SB 1070 was popular and was a good way to win elections in Arizona. Russell Pearce, Jan Brewer and John McCain were all re-elected taking hardliner positions in 2010.  For better or worse, the law reshaped Arizona politics and set an example to others about the political potency of nativism and border security. But the Latino and migrant communities, those most directly impacted by those policies, have pushed back.  It’s a law that has galvanized a new generation of activists. Combined with Arizona’s rapid growth among transplants and Latinos, it helped make the state a political battleground in the 2020 election year. It’s a dramatic shift for a state that was reliably red in presidential elections for most of the past 64 years.  Today, running against SB 1070 and the politics of oppression is a good way to win elections in Arizona, even if the White House wants to change all that.

While national leaders weighed in on the passage of Senate Bill 1070, on the ground in Arizona, it was already emptying neighborhoods. The grim exodus played out quietly all over the state.  To the rest of the country, the law served as a laugh track and spectacle. The images of Arizona as a racist, backward-looking state didn’t help its economy. Within weeks of signing the law, the state’s tourism industry counted at least two dozen events that were cancelled. A Scottsdale consulting firm estimated that in the four months after the bill became law, Arizona missed out on $141 million from conferences that had been canceled. It also cost the state about 2,700 jobs in that time.   When SB 1070 faced legal challenges, Gov. Jan Brewer had no question of what she would do next. Her legal team appealed the matter to the U.S. Supreme Court.  But the immigrants rights community in Arizona wasn’t through fighting. They began organizing. 

For two decades and through three administrations, Arizonans waited for the federal government to solve the issue that many felt was right at their doorstep. They were left without a solution. Presidents Bill Clinton, George W. Bush and Barack Obama all tried to move the needle on immigration reform. They were unsuccessful. The unsolved murder of a Cochise County rancher, which was pinned on undocumented immigrants by authorities and echoed in mass media, exacerbated hostilities.   Meanwhile, Senate Bill 1070 had passed both Arizona chambers and was sitting on Gov. Jan Brewer’s desk. The political pressure weighed on the governor, who had to consider her upcoming re-election bid.  She could sign it into law, veto it, or let it pass by default without her signature. Nobody, not even her closest staff, knew what she would do. 

The 1993 North American Free Trade Act, or NAFTA, put an estimated 2 million Mexican farmers out of business. Food prices in Mexico went up, while wages, after adjusting for inflation, declined.  The consequences of NAFTA and spiking unemployment from the peso currency crisis incentivized many Mexicans to head north to the U.S. in search of a better life. But with more people seeking opportunity in the U.S., human smugglers known as coyotes saw a lucrative opportunity. One in which vulnerable migrants would be exploited for the sliver of hope they thought possible in Arizona.   Those who made it to Arizona, however, were met with hostile state legislators intent on squandering any potential path to prosperity that may have existed for migrants. Those same legislators conflated migrants with exploitative smugglers. Latino citizens already living in Arizona beared the wrath of discriminatory legislation, racial profiling by police and racist behavior by peers.

In the early 2000s, Arizona’s rapid population growth and investor speculation fueled a homebuilding binge in the state.  Contractors took advantage of a lax employment-verification system and hired undocumented workers at a cut rate, often from Mexico, in droves. At its peak, Arizona proportionately had the second-largest undocumented population of any state in the country, behind only Nevada. About one in 12 residents was undocumented.  Consumers and businesses liked the low-cost labor. But not everyone liked the changing demographics of their neighborhoods. State legislators tried to address the issue, but critics called the attempts piecemeal. Congress failed multiple times at passing immigration reform.  An economic recession, a dramatic citizen’s arrest and a tragic death exacerbated tensions.

In April 2010, Arizona enacted the Support Our Law Enforcement and Safe Neighborhoods Act, better known as Senate Bill 1070. The state law required police officers to inquire about the legal status of anyone they thought might be in the country illegally.  But what would make an officer think someone was in the country illegally? To its opponents, it codified and provided legal cover for racial profiling, something that continues to be an issue.  To its supporters, SB1070 tackled the issue of illegal immigration in a way that Washington would not. The law was a state-level response to a national issue that had stalled in Congress. It sought to break the federal log jam and show the nation that if Congress wouldn't tackle immigration reform, Arizona would.  Ten years later, the law played a role in reducing the size of the state’s undocumented population and unquestionably reshaped Arizona politics. It also may have influenced the political rise of President Donald Trump.  In this season of Rediscovering, we'll retrace the history of SB1070: how it happened, who advocated for it and why it still matters a decade later.  We’ll speak to former Governor Jan Brewer, SB1070 architect Russell Pearce, Arizona’s senior Senator Kyrsten Sinema, and young Latino and immigrant activists whose lives were forever shaped by the legislation. This is Rediscovering: SB1070 for The Arizona Republic and azcentral.com. All five episodes drop on Wednesday, July 15. Don't miss a single one. Subscribe to our series on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher Radio, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Three men faced charges in the murder of Arizona journalist Don Bolles. But to this day, it’s unknown who put the hit out on him.  For years, the lead investigators on the case would gather at the Clarendon Hotel at 11:30 a.m. every June 2. No grand ceremony. Just a moment of silence.  As the years pass, and as the city grows, the memory of what happened on that day fades.  But not for one woman: his widow, Rosalie.

June 2, 1976, was Don Bolles’ wedding anniversary. He’d planned on celebrating with his wife Rosalie by seeing the movie “All The President’s Men.” Bolles had been off investigative reporting for three years, although people still fed him tips. One came from a man named John Adamson. Bolles went to meet him at the Clarendon Hotel after attending a committee hearing.  When Adamson called to say he wasn't going to be able to make, Bolles left the hotel. He entered his car and turned it on. Eleven days later, he died. 

Enraged by the stories about the wiretaps, the Funk family sued Don Bolles and The Arizona Republic. They sought damages of $20 million.  Bolles filed a countersuit, but the resulting process would air the newsroom’s dirty laundry.  Ultimately, the suits were settled without Bolles facing financial ruin. But his spirit had taken a hit. By 1973, Bolles was no longer the reporter he’d been just a few years before.

There were two threats brewing for Don Bolles in 1970, at least in his mind. And one was coming from inside the newsroom.  Bolles had begun to suspect that his reporting partner had Mafia ties. Despite a lack of evidence, his partner was taken off the beat.  The Arizona Republic would go public with allegations of wiretapping. It would also publish Bolles’ 10-day seminal series, “The Menace Within.”  But the threat from outside the newsroom continued to grow. 

After discovering that the Funk family may have wiretapped his phones, Don Bolles was put in a unique position. He wasn’t so much a reporter as he was trying to solve a crime.  Helping him in this endeavor was his reporting partner, Dom Frasca. Frasca was a Pulitzer prize-winning investigative reporter who had experience looking into the mafia.  When the duo started asking questions, major concerns were raised about the credibility of their main source. Despite those concerns, the paper wanted to go public about the allegations.  It was a decision that would cost them. 

The murder of investigative reporter Don Bolles shocked what was then a much smaller, sleepy Phoenix. He was a reporter killed for doing his job. It was — and still is — a rare incident in the United States.  In the years before his murder, Bolles was known for his tenacity, like a character out of film noir. Driven to keep the city from becoming mob run, Bolles worked diligently to expose ties between the Funk family — which owned the horse and dog racing tracks in town — and the Mafia.  He made few friends in doing so. Eventually, Bolles was told that the Funks had pawed through his bank accounts and wiretapped his phones to dig up dirt on him.  The man who was determined to hold people accountable now had to discover if these allegations were true.

Don Bolles was an investigative reporter for The Arizona Republic in the 1960s and '70s. After years of reporting on corruption in the racing industry, he was killed by a car bomb in 1976.  Decades later, we found cassette tapes of his phone calls from the '70s. Thanks to those tapes, we're telling the story of Don's life and his quarrels with the mafia before his death and how his spirit was crushed long before his murder.  Rediscovering: Don Bolles, a murdered journalist is the latest podcast from The Arizona Republic and azcentral.com. The show launches with two episodes on Tuesday, Nov. 5. Listen and subscribe on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher Radio or wherever else you listen to podcasts.