What’s it like to defend a Mexican cartel boss? Reputed drug lords seek lawyers in U.S.
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On a single day late last month, the Mexican government shipped 29 accused drug lords north across the border to face U.S. justice.
Plucked from Mexican prison cells, hustled onto planes in shackles and express-delivered into the waiting hands of American authorities were several notorious capos, whose alleged narco exploits have been chronicled in films, TV series and federal indictments spanning decades.
Among them are brothers said to be behind the brutal group known as the Zetas; reputed leaders of the Gulf, Juarez and Jalisco New Generation cartels; and the elusive Rafael Caro Quintero, wanted since the 1980s in connection with the torture and killing of a U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration agent.
All are now housed at jails across the country on charges including drug trafficking and murder. At least six could face the death penalty, an unusual twist due to the unique circumstances of their arrival.
With their cases now in U.S. courts, there’s been a scramble to find lawyers willing and able to defend such high-stakes clients. President Trump has complicated the situation by designating several cartels as terrorist organizations, raising concerns the Treasury Department could seek to freeze assets used to pay attorneys.
Nearly three weeks after their arrival, several notable defendants sent by Mexico on Feb. 27 — including Caro Quintero — still have court-appointed counsel, meaning U.S. taxpayers are footing their legal bills.
Multiple lawyers who specialize in complex federal drug and conspiracy cases described the current moment as unprecedented. Each week seems to bring fresh chaos as Trump ratchets up pressure on Mexico to topple the cartels and stanch the flow of fentanyl.
There is growing evidence to suggest Ismael ‘El Mayo’ Zambada was hauled against his will from Mexico to El Paso in an effort by El Chapo’s son to curry favor with U.S. authorities.
It should be boom times for the so-called white powder bar, as the practice of lawyering for the world’s most prolific drug pushers has been dubbed. But some veteran attorneys are proceeding with caution, warning of unforeseen consequences from Trump’s crackdown and preexisting conflicts that limit who can join certain cases.
“This is sort of like a niche practice,” said Bonnie Klapper, a former federal narcotics prosecutor turned defense attorney. “I guarantee you a lot of the usual suspects won’t be able to represent these people.”
Klapper once helped take down Colombia’s Norte del Valle cartel, but she has since switched sides, operating as private counsel. Her past work as a prosecutor precludes her from cases in which she helped craft the indictment, and she’s heard from colleagues who have spotted other conflicts, such as representing potential witnesses.
The death penalty charges further narrow the field. Capital cases require experienced “learned counsel” and bring their own unique set of challenges, not least the possibility of the client being executed. Three of the 29 prisoners sent over by Mexico are charged in California federal courts, including one death penalty case in Los Angeles.
Adding terrorism designations and pursuing the death penalty while restricting ways for former cartel members to remain in the U.S. also risk making it harder for federal authorities to flip informants, Klapper said.
“I don’t think anybody has thought through the implications of this for the criminal justice system,” she said. “Because who is going to cooperate if the U.S. won’t protect them and their families?”
Mexico has abolished capital punishment and typically does not extradite citizens who could be put to death under U.S. law. But officials on both sides of the border have tiptoed around using the word “extradition” for the recent handover. A news release from the Department of Justice said the U.S. simply “secured custody” of the wanted men.
William Purpura was one of three lawyers who defended former Sinaloa cartel leader Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman during a three-month trial that ended with a conviction in 2019. That case did not involve the death penalty, but Purpura has worked on a number of others that did. He said it’s a grueling endeavor, requiring “complete dedication to one client.”
“A death verdict will haunt trial counsel to the execution and beyond,” Purpura said. “This is not an undertaking for the usual cast of characters. It is the Chapo trial on steroids.”
Purpura and others in private practice said they typically find work through referrals, relying on lawyers in Mexico and meeting with a prospective client’s family to build trust before taking on a case.
Defense attorneys have allegedly broken the law in pursuit of business. Last month, a prominent Miami lawyer was charged with a bribery scheme in which prosecutors say two former DEA supervisors leaked confidential information in exchange for Yankees tickets and five-figure secret payments. The tips were about active investigations, which prosecutors said enabled the lawyer to get a head start on wooing the targets as clients.
The lawyer, David Macey, has pleaded not guilty to charges that include bribery of a public official and perjury.
“David is a devoted father and husband and a highly respected attorney with an impeccable record as a member of the bar for nearly 30 years. He did not bribe anyone,” Macey’s attorney, David Patton, said in a statement. “The government’s allegations are false, and we are confident that the evidence will prove his innocence at trial.”
Some of the highest-powered operators have taken on generations of relatives from the same family. Jeffrey Lichtman, the lead trial attorney for El Chapo, now defends his client’s two sons, known as Los Chapitos, in their pending U.S. cases. Court records also show Lichtman was recently added to the case of a suspected high-ranking Chapitos member who was among the 29 men handed over by Mexico.
Lichtman did not respond to a request for comment.
The case of ‘El Menchito’ has highlighted the generational divide between boomer-aged drug cartel bosses and their millennial children.
Before representing the Chapo clan, Lichtman once helped New York mob figure John Gotti Jr. beat racketeering charges.
“I’m used to dealing with clients that society has already discarded, already convicted, and being able to convince [jurors] that maybe everything the government and the press says is not 100% accurate,” Lichtman said in a 2017 interview about his decision to represent El Chapo.
One of El Chapo’s sons is accused of kidnapping their father’s longtime Sinaloa cartel partner, Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada, and delivering him to U.S. authorities in the summer. The alleged betrayal triggered an ongoing war between cartel factions in Mexico, and left Zambada, 75, facing a possible death sentence for drug and murder charges in the Eastern District of New York. He has pleaded not guilty.
Zambada’s lawyer, Frank Perez, 70, had careers as an air traffic controller and Dallas narcotics detective before building up his law practice. Perez also tried his hand at politics, launching an unsuccessful bid for Congress as a Democrat in 2014. He recently found himself thrust into the spotlight, with Zambada’s case becoming a source of international intrigue and controversy.
Perez has issued statements on the jailed Zambada’s behalf, leveling the kidnapping claims against El Chapo’s son and denying rumors of a secret surrender deal. Recently, Perez and two lawyers in Mexico petitioned to have Zambada returned to his home country, arguing he was “coercively transferred from Mexican territory.”
In the escalating war among rival factions of Mexico’s Sinaloa cartel, sons of Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán are suspected of ordering the destruction of elaborate mausoleums that belong to rival families, including one for a fallen grandson of Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada.
The federal judge presiding over Zambada’s case in Brooklyn raised concerns that Perez has a potential conflict of interest. Perez also represented his client’s son, Vicente Zambada Niebla, a key witness against El Chapo who could now potentially be called to testify against his own father.
The elder Zambada said at a Jan. 15 hearing that he understood the situation and trusted his lawyer.
“He may have to withhold information he learns from speaking with Vicente that he can’t share with me,” Zambada said, reading a prepared statement in Spanish. “But I don’t want a different attorney. I want Frank Perez to represent me.”
Perez declined to comment, except to reiterate his recent public statements that his client is not cooperating with U.S. authorities and fighting to avoid the death penalty.
Zambada, a Sinaloa cartel founder, was long believed to have police, soldiers, political leaders in his pocket. In a rare public statement, he acknowledges those ties -- and contradicts Mexican officials’ version of his capture.
Court records show Perez also recently took on another high-profile client: Miguel Angel Trevi?o-Morales, nicknamed Z-40. Trevi?o-Morales was arraigned last week in Washington, where he pleaded not guilty to an array of drug and murder conspiracy charges for his alleged leadership of the Zetas.
Originally a squad of elite Mexican military defectors who became guns for hire, the Zetas formed a ruthless cartel blamed by authorities for a long list of atrocities over the last three decades. A splinter group, the Northeast cartel, was among those designated as a terrorist organization last month by the Trump administration.
The terror designation, several lawyers said, has created uncertainty about whether some standard operating procedures for cartel cases may no longer apply.
The U.S. Treasury’s Office of Foreign Assets Control has long maintained a so-called kingpin list of suspected drug traffickers and front companies that are banned from doing business with U.S. citizens or accessing the banking system. Usually, defense lawyers said, if they provide proper notification, disclosing how much money was received and what it was for, the agency will allow transactions for legal services.
Soldiers and civilians have been killed in separate incidents in recent months involving ‘narco mines’ planted in western Mexico.
For one thing, the system ensures tax dollars aren’t unnecessarily spent on court-appointed counsel.
Eduardo Balarezo, another El Chapo trial attorney, said it’s in the government’s interest to allow private counsel, especially when the defendant is willing to negotiate a plea.
The deals can ensure the client has a chance of someday walking free, net the government millions of dollars in surrenders of illicit cash — and also make less work for all of the lawyers involved.
“It doesn’t take that much to go in with your client to the government and listen to him talk,” Balarezo said. “You have to prepare him, but it’s not the same as a trial.”
But with Trump rebranding cartels as terrorists, some lawyers worry the government may change its stance on payments and pleas.
“That’s a huge question for all these people: Do they have assets to pay for lawyers, and is the government going to do anything about it?” said César de Castro, a New York defense attorney who has worked on several major drug cases.
Although U.S. prosecutors have accused top-level traffickers of being billionaires, some can show on paper that they can’t afford an attorney.
According to federal prosecutors, Genaro García Luna, once his country’s equivalent of J. Edgar Hoover, enabled El Chapo and others to operate with impunity.
De Castro served as the court-appointed lawyer for Genaro García Luna, a former Mexican security official sentenced last year to 38 years in prison for taking millions in cartel bribes.
The case was under a media and political microscope, forcing De Castro to tread carefully.
“Every phrasing of everything is important,” he said. “Every fricking word matters.”
De Castro faced backlash during the trial when Mexico’s former president took offense to the lawyer’s questions about alleged cartel payments. Death threats ensued — a hazard of the job, the lawyer said.
“I don’t want to be threatened or chased outside the courthouse. I have a family too. I don’t need voicemails telling me I should die. But I had to do it for my client,” he said.
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