Jimena gets wind of the talk and shuts it down.

“We do not beat them by becoming them,” she says.

Others aren’t so sure.

Marisol uses the weapons she has—her looks and charm—and literally attracts the media. The camera loves her, as they say, and she consciously takes advantage of that to get in front of television cameras in her white coat and with her physician’s demeanor describe in graphic yet media-friendly terms what is happening to Jimena Abarca’s body.

She knows exactly what she’s doing, turning the Abarca ordeal into a soap opera—hoping that it will become a telenovela with a short run and a happy ending.

Marisol becomes “La Médica Hermosa”—the Beautiful Doctor. People turn on the news to see her, and Jimena’s case starts to get national attention. It’s hateful, Marisol tells Pablo and Ana privately—gross and demeaning—but it might be the way to save Jimena’s life.

Then there are Giorgio’s photographs.

It was a genius idea, Pablo thinks, Giorgio’s concept to run a photo of Jimena’s face every day, an increasing strip of them, so that readers could see the progression of her condition.

Day after day, people pick up their paper and see this woman starving to death. And the photos, they are beautiful, carefully, artfully composed in the half-light of the little house, each one a pietà of a mother grieving for her son.

The paper’s circulation goes up.

It becomes water-cooler conversation—Have you seen Jimena today? Newsboys shout it from traffic islands—Have you seen Jimena today? Housewives talk about it at lunch—Have you seen Jimena today?

An anonymous donor pays for a billboard at the base of the Lincoln International Bridge, so that people coming in from El Paso are asked the question Have you seen Jimena today?

It speaks to the photos’ effectiveness that no one has to ask what that means.

The army fights back with a public relations campaign of its own. The commander of the 11th Military Zone holds a press conference and says, “This woman is not Mother Teresa. She’s nothing more than a tool of the cartels.”

Ana is there to ask the questions. “Do you have information linking Jimena Abarca to drug trafficking? And if so, why haven’t you released it?”

“It might compromise ongoing investigations.”

“If you have such information,” Ana presses, “why haven’t you turned it over to prosecuting authorities so that they can file charges?”

“We will in due time.”

“What’s ‘due time’?”

“When we’re ready.”

“Will you be ready,” Ana asks, “before or after Jimena Abarca starves to death?”

“We are not starving Señora Abarca,” the general says. “She is starving herself. We will not be bullied or intimidated by these tactics.”

The next morning, a photo of the well-fed general in his dress uniform appears next to a picture of the emaciated Jimena with the caption BULLIED AND INTIMIDATED?

The following day, an editorial appears in a major Texas newspaper under the title IS THIS WHAT THE MÉRIDA BILLIONS ARE PAYING FOR? A Democratic congressman from California stands up on the House floor and asks the same question. This prompts a call from the West Wing to DEA basically asking what the fuck is going on down there and demanding that whatever it is, DEA get a handle on it.

There’s an election coming up, it’s going to be close, and the incumbent party’s candidate is from a border state with a lot of Hispanics. McCain was in Mexico City just last month, for Chrissakes, praising the Mérida Initiative as an important step, and the last thing he needs is the perception that the aid package he touted is being used to torture Mexican mothers.

The DEA director calls a colleague in the Mexican Defense Department, who listens and then says, “We can’t let ourselves be beaten by one woman. What kind of message would that send?”

“That you’re smart?” the director asks. “I suggest that if you want the helicopters and the aircraft to keep coming, you find a way to back down on this thing.”

It’s axiomatic that at certain points in any conflict, both sides think they’re losing. It’s true of wars and battles, lawsuits and strikes. It’s true now. Jimena’s supporters know nothing about the calls from Washington and don’t realize the immense pressure being brought to bear on the army.

What they see is no movement from the military.

And Jimena failing.

Ana breaks down one night.

“I can’t stand it,” she cries to Pablo, who holds her in his arms and rocks her. “I can’t stand the thought of her dying.”

“She won’t,” Pablo says, even though he isn’t so confident. “They’ll break first.”

“What if they don’t?”

Pablo doesn’t have an answer.

—

Adán watches La Médica Hermosa on television.

“She’s so pretty,” Magda says.

“I suppose.” Adán is familiar enough with women to steer around the obvious pothole. But the woman on television is stunning. And effective—no wonder she’s become a media sensation.

“And effective,” Magda adds. They’re lying in bed in her flat in Badiraguato, the one she comes to when she feels a need to be with him, less and less frequent now, he’s observed.

“Do you think so?” he asks.

“Face it, cariño,” Magda says. “It’s a new world now. Every war you fight, you fight on three fronts: a shooting war; a political war; a media war. And that you can’t win one without the others.”

She’s right, Adán thinks.

She’s absolutely right.

—

He gets out of bed and phones Nacho. “Who is this Miguel Abarca, anyway? I’ve never even heard of him. Is he with Fuentes? Los Aztecas? La Línea?”

“He’s a nobody,” Nacho says. “A baker’s kid.”

“He’s not a nobody anymore,” Adán says. “Neither is the mother. The army has turned them into celebrities.”

He’s so tired of endless, needless stupidity. How the army could take a simple incident and let it grow out of proportion.

Adán has plans for the Juárez Valley, and they don’t include creating a cause célèbre. He’s winning the war against the Juárez cartel and now a bunch of morons in uniform find a way to screw it up.

“I don’t want to read any more articles,” Adán says. “I don’t want to see this doctor on television. This needs to come to a quick and happy conclusion.”

“Agreed.”

“And we need better media control,” Adán says. “For the money we’re paying, you would think—”

“It’s being worked on.”

Isn’t everything? Adán thinks after he hangs up and as he actually gets a chance to take a shower. The media are being “worked on,” hunting down Diego is being “worked on,” going after the Zetas is being “worked on.” Killing Keller is being “worked on.” I don’t want something “worked on,” I want something completed.

—

Marisol’s phone wakes her in the small hours of the morning.

It frightens her, because at first she thinks that it’s about Jimena, that her body has gone into crisis.

It is about Jimena, but it’s Colonel Alvarado.

“I have a proposal,” he says.

—

Óscar walks out into the city room.

“I just got a call that they released Miguel Abarca.”

When Pablo, Ana, and Giorgio get out to the valley, Miguel and Jimena are already home in Valverde, with Marisol carefully easing Jimena back onto some solid food.

“I’m sorry I didn’t inform you,” Marisol says, “but that was the deal—no press coverage of Miguel’s actual release. They didn’t want film of him walking out to a triumphant crowd.”

“We understand,” Ana says.

“I hope you’ll also understand this,” Marisol says. “We can’t let you interview Miguel or take photos.”

“Why not?” Giorgio asks.

“He’s on a gurney in my clinic,” Marisol says. “Broken nose, two fractured ribs, and the soles of his feet have wounds consistent with la chicharra—burning with electrical wires. But he’s alive, guys, and so is Jimena.”