Life Sucks

Now a short, stocky man of 31, Devia was born in Cali, Colombia's third-largest city. Sugar and coffee barons built the city's fortunes in the early 20th century. It was a key stop as tropical exports traveled to Western ports, and investors poured money into the burgeoning industrial center. By the early 1990s, Cali's population was pushing 2 million. High-rises had gone up along the palm-lined Cali River. As soon as the evening breeze stirred the thick afternoon heat, stylish city-dwellers packed the chic restaurants on the Avenida 6 to grab a bite before heading out to all-night dance parties at salsotecas.

But the city was also known for the notorious Cali Cartel, which controlled 80 percent of the cocaine smuggled into the United States. The operation was so deeply ingrained in the regional economy that Cali fell into a deep recession when the drug ring was busted in the 1990s.

Fueled by money from drug trafficking, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) intensified its guerrilla activity in Colombia's southwest capital. The communist organization, formed in 1966 to defend the peasant and working population from the National Front government, had evolved into a well-armed, well-organized network of guerrilla cells bent on kidnapping and killing enemies of the revolution.

More than 11,400 Cali residents were murdered between 1993 and 1998.

Security precautions permeated the city's culture. Tall, wrought-iron gates made houses into fortresses. Living in the middle-class Marroquin neighborhood, Devia's family was at high risk.

For 20 years, Devia's father, Arabel, had been the South Section leader for the Liberals — a party focused on secularism, democracy and workers' rights. Arabel had helped to organize elections and build community schools. That was enough to earn him written death threats and visits from armed FARC members demanding that he stop his political activity. Sensing that the tense situation would worsen, Devia's mother, Flor, left the country in 1993 hoping to establish a life for her family in the United States.

Despite the intimidation, Devia started working with the Liberal Party when he was 19. He also joined the Colombian military, which often put him in direct confrontation with the masked militia groups. While he was doing administrative work for the Liberals in advance of the 1994 election, Devia says, the militants repeatedly threatened him.

Three years later, Devia's sister, Cristy, and her boyfriend were returning home one night when gunmen opened fire, hitting the 16-year-old girl. The bullets shattered her right arm, punched through a lung and tore through an artery.

The family sent Cristy to Spain. Arabel later followed his daughter to Europe. Then Devia's brother, Frank, was found dead. The death certificate says he committed suicide, but the FARC claimed credit.

Devia was already living in the United States. In 1998, he had taken a flight to Mexico City and stayed in the capital for several weeks before making his way to Nuevo Laredo, Texas. Crossing the border was a lot easier back then, Devia says. He made it across by brandishing his Colombian passport. From there, he traveled to Kansas City, Missouri, where his mother was working as a seamstress.

Devia says he came to this country to get an education and start a family. He did both. But last week, the U.S. government shipped him back to Colombia with a gray suitcase, a felony drug conviction and a hole in his skull. Millie Molina met Devia in 2002, at Club Chemical in downtown Kansas City. He bought her a few drinks, and they danced and talked for most of the night. When she got home, though, the outgoing blonde with a salty sense of humor tossed his number in the trash.

He wasn't her type, Molina recalls. He was a nerd. They started dating anyway after a friend convinced Molina to dig his number out of the trash. Soon they shared an apartment in Olathe.

Devia was working as a pallet filler at a grocery warehouse and going to school full time at Penn Valley Community College. In 2003, he transferred to the University of Missouri-Kansas City to finish a degree in computer science. After work and school and visiting his mom nearly every day, he stayed up most of the night trying to make extra cash by fixing up friends' computers.

To make sure he could cover tuition and support his mother, Molina, and Molina's son, Anthony, Devia now says, he started his own business — though not in computers. He and a couple of Mexican men set up KC One Auto Repair, a small garage surrounded by Mexican tiendas and dilapidated mechanic stands on Minnesota Street in Kansas City, Kansas.

Devia says the three men routinely bought old cars at auction, then used them for parts or fixed them up for resale. In a 2004 financial statement, Devia claimed to be earning $2,400 a month from the business.

Molina remembers that Devia always had money. Maybe she should have been suspicious, she says in retrospect. She'd come home from work as a debt collector at Chase Bank to find a Louis Vuitton purse on the couch or pricey, last-minute plane tickets to visit her family in California. For her birthday, Devia once bought her a mink coat. Another time, he brought home a bag full of emeralds — the gems traditionally used in Colombian wedding rings.