The Night I Pointed my Pistol at a Border Patrol Agent…and Lived to Tell
Friday night’s wind down for my husband and me involved a sunset stroll at the National Butterfly Center. If the evening had not been so windy, we most likely would’ve taken the boat out at the end of another long week, but we decided to take the dogs and our cameras on a nature walk, instead.
We arrived around 5:45 PM and entered the back gate, south of the levee, in my vehicle. I unlocked the gate and locked it behind us, as a female U.S. Border Patrol agent watched from her marked truck on the levee.
As the shadows grew longer, we drove to the boat dock on the Rio Grande, where Matt hoped to photograph wildlife; especially any crepuscular creatures that might come out at dusk. While he got his gear out of the trunk, I took off with the dogs so he might have a decent chance at critter encounters. Specifically, he wanted to capture images of the bobcats we’ve observed there on our trail cameras.
The dogs and I walked past the wetland and back toward the levee, where two Border Patrol agents now sat, parked head to toe, talking in their trucks. From there, they could see us head east on the road that runs parallel to the levee, where we encountered another agent who was dragging tires across the Rhodes’ property next door. Frankie, our youngest pup, gave chase to that Border Patrol truck; so, I spent a few minutes clapping and yelling his name to call him back.
Continuing on this trail loop, we turned south and walked along the fence line that separates us from our neighbors. As we approached the end of the road, we could see yet another Border Patrol agent vehicle parked near the Rhodes’ palapa.
Notwithstanding the excessive police presence, I chose to focus on the greening Sugar Hackberries and and thought, “What a perfect winter evening in the Rio Grande Valley.” With all three pups practically prancing in delight, I couldn’t help but smile at this verdant prelude to spring, the beauty of this subtropical place and how fortunate I am to enjoy it, promote it and protect it.
I snapped a few pictures of the pink and blue sky, turning to twilight, over the retamas, huisaches and tepejuages; then we moved westward toward the boat dock, and began to make our way back to Matt.
As we neared the fork in the road before the wetland, the dogs alerted ferociously to something and seemed to trap it under a tall tepeguaje. They barked, snarled and gnashed at whatever was on the ground, and my first thought was, “Javelina!” I pulled my handgun from my pocket and strained to see the dark form at the base of the tree.
“What is it?!” I yelled, “Who’s there? Who is it?!” as if the dogs could answer.
Slowly, a figure rose up from the base of the tree and stood in place, with arms extended downward.
I continued yelling over the dogs, this time communicating critical information, “I am armed! I have drawn my weapon! Do not move! The dogs will not harm you if you stay still. Do not approach me!”
The person — who I was approaching — slowly unzipped his jacket and removed his hood. At this point, I could tell he was Border Patrol. Now, his body camera was exposed, whereas, it had been shrouded when his jacket was closed.
Peripherally, I could see Matt arriving to my left, responding to the dogs’ ruckus. Bella ran to cover him, while Ranger and Frankie remained highly agitated, between the agent and me. That’s when I noticed the Customs & Border Protection helicopter had also joined us and hovered overhead.
I put my weapon away and we called the dogs off. I introduced myself and asked the agent what he was doing there — not “there” on the property, but hiding in the dark, laid up, covered and concealed in the brush.
He explained he’d been “dispatched” here and ordered to make his way around, covertly; basically, to stalk and observe me.
The agent’s name is Marshall Pierre, Jr. He’s a well-mannered, young man from New Orleans, my favorite city in the whole world. He says he became a USBP agent because they were the first to call him, after he finished his service in the United States Marine Corps and began looking for a job. He’d recently graduated from the Border Patrol academy and had only been at the McAllen Station for about a month.
He knew he was at the National Butterfly Center and told me how much his mother loved butterflies. He said he hoped to visit in the daytime, someday, but was afraid he “wouldn’t be allowed” or might be “run off” if we knew he was Border Patrol.
I told him that was ridiculous and he was always welcome, as are all agents, soldiers and law enforcement. I even told him about our two sons in military service. Then he asked me the question, “Why do they hate you so much?”
I explained Border Patrol agents (and others in law enforcement) actually hate me and the center because we document their misdeeds and hold them accountable.
“They say you hate us,” he stated, in a refrain I heard most recently from the family of Border Patrol Agent Raul Gonzalez, who visited me a few days after he died.
I asked who told him that, did it come from command or his fellow agents? He said he learned that from other field agents and his training officer(s).
“They all say bad things about the center and you,” he affirmed.
“So I’ve heard,” I replied.
I shared a few facts with him, hoping to clear things up, and invited him to get to know us better. I also thanked him for not shooting my dogs.
“Oh, no m’am. I have dogs. I love dogs,” he said.
Then it clicked for me that he knew not to move quickly or raise his hands, for his own safety when he stood, because he knows dogs. He maintained that posture, with his arms hanging by his sides, even as Ranger and Frankie continued to bump into and sniff him all over, even knocking his gloved hands with their noses.
After maybe fifteen minutes, Agent Pierre and I shook hands, wished each other well, and I walked back to Matt, who had maintained his distance. We loaded up the car and drove toward the gate to leave, where two BP agents remained parked, blocking our ability to cross the levee.
Matt turned right onto the levee and we headed home. He commented on the clock, glowing on the dash, and said it felt too late to only be 7:30 PM.
A lot had happened in less than two hours, and we’d spend the next twelve unpacking it all.
In all the times I have walked the back 70 acres at the National Butterfly Center with the dogs, with and without Matt or anyone else, nothing like this has ever happened. I’ve had agents approach on foot and in their vehicles to make contact, on horseback and ATV, but I’ve never had anyone hide and pursue like this.
I typically come out three to four times per week, morning and evening, at opening or closing; so, this is something agents are aware of and can observe in person, in proximity, as well as from the cameras on the RAID towers, drones and helicopter.
Why was this time different?
Was this something as simple (and awful) as hazing a new agent or Hispanic agents hating on a Black one; forcing the new kid to crawl through chiggers and attempt to avoid fire ants in the dark? Was Border Patrol messing with him or messing with me? Maybe it was a “two birds with one stone” situation, or was it something worse?
I played out a bunch of ‘whys and what ifs’ with a friend who told me to stop. She said, “None of that matters. All that matters is what the headlines would have been if you’d shot this agent or if he’d shot you ‘in self defense.’ Their Critical Incident Team would control the scene to support their bullshit narrative. They would create another ‘hero’, indict you and the center in the court of public opinion, and sully anyone and everyone associated with your lawsuits against the Department of Homeland Security, We Build the Wall, Fisher Industries and more.”
And she’s right.
So, was BPA Pierre deemed was an acceptable sacrifice by superiors or just dangled by dudes with nothing better to do, when he was “dispatched” to bait my dogs and me? Did we side-step a potentially deadly trap, or stumble into a serendipitous plot twist?
In almost 12 years, this has never happened to me or staff or visitors on the property — and Border Patrol knew it was me.
It’s hard not to ponder such an anomaly.
A rotten, stinking, suspicious-as-hell anomaly. Or was it something more?