By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
Though the sheriff, like the majority of his constituency, is a staunch conservative, he's not a knee-jerk politician in the mold of his publicity-seeking peers from Maricopa and Pinal counties, sheriffs Joe Arpaio and Paul Babeu, respectively.
The father of six grown sons (three of whom are in law enforcement), Dever's life experience affords him a more nuanced perspective than the stereotype of a rural Arizona sheriff might suggest.
The sheriff's two-year mission for his church led him as a young man to Central America, where he saw firsthand what poverty does to a person—to a family—and he understands the impulse that would push someone to make a death-defying journey into his county's big back yard.
Though he's a cop through and through and hates what illegal immigration has meant to his financially strapped county, Dever also expresses a quiet compassion for aliens who seemingly don't pose a threat to anyone but themselves.
"I had been down in Naco," he relates, "and I was driving home [to St. David]. I passed the junction of Highways 80 and 90 and saw this girl, pregnant—like 10 months—off on the side of the road.
"Border Patrol had a checkpoint going this side of Tombstone. I got in an argument with myself as I drove on, and then decided to turn around and see what was up. She was an illegal, obviously, and she couldn't keep up with her group, so [the coyote] dumped her off.
"I seriously thought about taking her home, but that would have created some issues. She was actually going into labor. She was very thirsty. She probably would have crawled off into the bush, given birth to her child and died right there. I dropped her off at the checkpoint. That's the last I know."
This is just one illustration of what people will do to get to the United States, the nation of choice for millions, not just Mexicans. People who will risk their lives—and even the lives of their children—trying to get here.
Many of these immigrants (a perfect example are "Nacho" Ibarra's Mexican-born parents, who illegally walked across the nearly dry Rio Grande in Texas in 1948 and became productive members of American society) appreciate this country's liberties more than average Americans because they don't take them for granted.
Hereford cattle rancher Bud Strom answers immediately when asked whether he would try to cross into the United States if he were a poor Latino from south of the border.
"In a heartbeat!" he bellows, adding that this doesn't mean the borders shouldn't be more secure.
The cowboy poet and retired Army brigadier general has had to contend over the past decade with thousands of illegal aliens tromping through his Single Star Ranch, cutting his water lines and fences and leaving waste (human and otherwise) behind.
Sitting on a front porch at his ranch, one of his many rescue dogs resting at his feet, the grizzled 78-year-old recites a poem of his called Doing Business Just the Same:
Border Patrol came through
Broke my gate down, too
As they cut my water lines
They said they'd fix it soon
By tomorrow noon
These delays take too much time.
My response? No thanks
Can't have empty tanks
But it sets me down to think
How I'll fix it now
For my thirsty cows
My critters need to drink
But we're doing business just the same.
Illegals cut my fence
Makes no sense
'Cuz there's gates they could go through
Of course my cows are hopin'
That they find them open
To parade Route 92.
State Route 92 is the thoroughfare that connects Sierra Vista and Bisbee at the southern tip of Cochise County.
Strom's neighbor, 55-year-old John Ladd, runs his family's homesteaded San Jose Ranch on a 10-mile stretch of border in Palominas, east of the San Pedro River.
A garrulous guy with a droll sense of humor, Ladd takes this Phoenix New Times reporter to the border in his rickety old pickup.
"To be honest," he says on the short bumpy ride, "I'm beat down right now by the day-after-day stuff—the garbage all over the place, worrying about my cows, constantly repairing fences that the sons of bitches keep cutting. Stupid. "
Ladd says he knows of 11 illegal aliens who have died on his land over the past 10 years, including one man whose body was just a few hundred yards from his home.
Like almost everyone in Cochise County, whatever their political persuasion, Ladd blames the feds—more than undocumented aliens—for the immigration crisis in his midst.
"I've counted 468 wetbacks—sorry, politically incorrect—undocumented aliens on our ranch in the past three weeks, two or three groups a day," he says.
"We used to have hundreds every day. Some would call ahead for taxis that would drive down our dirt road off Highway 92 there and wait. No B.S.
"[Our ranch goes] right to the border. The feds have got their cameras set up out there, those big powerful nightlights, and the fence [that] is 13 feet high in parts. Plus, Border Patrol agents supposedly driving back and forth on the frontage road.