The Final Story of “Muletas” from Tijuana—The Mob Boss With 200 People Under His Command

Thursday, February 4, 2010, Tijuana. A supermarket parking lot on Boulevard Aguacaliente, in broad daylight. That is where 24-year-old Diana López Uriarte—sister of “El Muletas”—was taken. There were six men, and her boyfriend was with her. The Federal Secretariat of Public Security confirmed who had taken her: men working for Juan Francisco Sillas Rocha, known as “El Ruedas,” under the command of “El Ingeniero.”

There is a detail that “El Muletas” himself later explained—a part of the story that almost no one mentions. He stated that his sister was taken even though an agreement to end the hostilities had already been reached. From February 4 to 8, 2010, Raydel López—”El Muletas”—experienced exactly what authorities claimed he had inflicted upon others. According to the Federal Secretariat of Public Security, he had ordered the kidnapping of businesspeople; the arrest warrants later issued against him alleged the same.

Illegal deprivation of liberty. The criminal organization he belonged to—the one led by “El Teo”—sustained itself, according to the Attorney General’s Office, by abducting merchants and business owners from Rosarito, Tecate, Tijuana, and Ensenada, then demanding payment for their release. Entire families would wait for a phone call, never knowing if their missing loved one was still alive. Now, it was his turn. During those four days, there is no record of any phone call, bribe, or public threat.

All that is known is what was done: using a family member as a bargaining chip. Whether there were other such instances, no one knows. And therein lies an irony that cannot be denied: the man who, according to authorities, was in the business of putting a price on the freedom of others, suddenly found his own sister on the other side of that equation—and this time, he was not the one setting the price. Monday, February 8, morning, La Paz, Baja California Sur. More than 100 personnel from the Federal Police, the Army, and the Navy, along with two helicopters—a bloodless operation, as described by *La Jornada*.

He offered no resistance and identified himself as Raúl Rangel; his true identity was uncovered via a database check. That same day, “El Chiquilín”—the brother of “El Teo”—was also captured. These two had taken command 27 days after their boss’s downfall, a period during which everything had begun to unravel for them. Meanwhile, his sister remained in the hands of a rival group, and he had no way of knowing whether she was still alive or safe.

For four days, he experienced the kind of agonizing wait that other families have endured for years—a taste of his own medicine. 

“Through intelligence work: yesterday, the Federal Police arrested José Manuel García Cimental, alias “El Chiquilín,” and Raidel López Uriarte, alias “El Muletas”—successors to Eduardo García Cimental, alias “El Teo.” 

The weekly publication Zeta Tijuana revealed where “El Muletas” had been living in La Paz. He lived just around the corner from the governor’s residence—a property valued at 1,800,000 pesos, located steps away from the Colegio California, a school attended by the children of business owners, police chiefs, and officials from all three levels of government. He lived there with his wife and children. The house was not in his name; according to the deed, it had been purchased by the brother of his secretary and bodyguard.

Public servants from the state government and the legislature also reside in that same neighborhood. “El Muletas” would frequently pass by the governor’s home. The house where he was actually apprehended was in a different neighborhood; he used that one as an operations center. “El Chiquilín”—”El Teo’s” brother—lived two blocks away from the Secretary General of the State Government, in a rented, nearly empty house that he had an option to purchase. The rest of the story comes from the neighbors. 

Thursday, February 11, 2010—three days after the capture—at night, three white pickup trucks arrived, carrying 10 men. One vehicle entered via the governor’s street, while the others came in from the side near the Ford dealership. They weren’t federal agents; there were no logos on their clothing, no license plates on the vehicles, and no insignias. A neighbor remarked that, based on the way they spoke, they sounded like judicial police officers.

Onlookers were ordered to lie on the ground and keep their eyes down, as an operation was underway. The men entered “El Muletas’s” house and cleared it out. According to this account, they made off with a large sum of money. His wife had just stepped out to visit a neighbor. Three vehicles without license plates, 10 men, a house emptied just around the corner from the governor’s residence.

“You had uniforms made with the skull and crutches?”

“Yes, I’m the one who produced them.”

“You produced them? How many did you have made? “

“About 200.”

“And why did you have them made?”

“Because I had 200 people.”

On February 8, 2010—just hours after his capture—Raydel López, known as “El Muletas,” sat on a Federal Police plane and answered questions on camera. When asked if he was in conflict with “the Engineer’s” people, he replied, “For the better part of my life.” Without being prompted, he went on to explain the distinction: “They eliminate people—they eliminate children, they eliminate elderly women. I have never ordered the elimination of a child or a woman.”

When asked how many men “the Engineer” had under his command, he scoffed. “A bricklayer—calling him an ‘Engineer’ is giving him too much credit.” He made one thing clear: the conflict had always been against them—”guy against guy.” He mentioned the others—the ones they called “the Doctor,” “the Engineer,” “the Bricklayer”—reiterating that “Engineer” was far too grand a title for the man. The shootings and violence that had plagued Tijuana occurred precisely when their two factions crossed paths. 

“But it’s against *them*—yeah, against *them*—not innocent people.”

“Guy against guy.” 

Was he just saying that, or was it a pointed remark? Because as he spoke to the camera, his own sister had been missing for four days. Diana, 24, had been abducted on February 4 from a parking lot on Boulevard Agua Caliente, along with her boyfriend. Now, in custody, Raydel had no idea if she was still alive. The answer came a week later, on Monday, February 15, around 11:00 p.m.

In the La Mesa district, a patrol unit discovered a young woman on the sidewalk—gagged, bound hand and foot, and blindfolded. Some say she was left there by the very people who had taken her; others suggest that neighbors heard her cries. It was Diana. 

Lieutenant Leyzaola himself arrived at the scene to confirm her identity. She recounted that they were still holding two members of her family, and—according to press reports—she implied that her boyfriend was still alive and would soon be released.

The following night, he was found dead on a dirt road in the La Remosa neighborhood. He was 23 years old. On Thursday the 18th, four of the individuals who had abducted him were captured. “El Muletas” (The Crutches) claimed that his code was “guy against guy”—that innocents were not to be touched. 

“So, the idea to create uniforms featuring crutches and a skull—was that yours?” 

“Yes, I had them made.” 

“You made them? How many did you have made?”

“About 200.” 

“200? And why did you make them?”

“Because I had 200 people.”

 “Quite a lot of people.”

“How many are left?” He fell silent for a second. “No one—there’s no one left,” he said, his head bowed, while aboard a Federal Police plane just hours after his capture—February 8, 2010. But minutes earlier, that same man had told a different story. When asked his name, he replied: Raydel López, 30 years old, from Tijuana. When asked what he did for a living, he didn’t mince words; he said he had been involved in this line of work since 2002, that the DEA had been looking for him for years, and that “El Teo” wasn’t his boss—he was his *compadre*.

When asked about the origin of his nickname, the answer was far from legendary: a motorcycle accident. He had to use crutches, and the name stuck—he’s been “El Muletas” since 2002. “So, what was your relationship with ‘El Teo’?” “He’s my *compadre*.” “How many people make up your cell in Tijuana?” Then, they asked him about the black uniforms featuring a skull and two crossed crutches. He was the one who had ordered them to be made. “How many?” About 200. Why 200? Because he had 200 people under his command.

And when asked who gave him orders, he looked up. “No boss. I’m the one in charge.” *El Muletas*—a nickname he earned because, following a motorcycle accident, he had to use crutches. 

“How long ago was that accident?” 

“Around 2000, give or take. 

“2000?”

“Yeah, 2000.”

“And what did you break?” 

“My knee. My foot. My knees and my foot.”

In the early hours of that same morning—just as he was being loaded onto a plane in Tijuana—authorities were kicking down the doors of his associates’ homes. Eleven of his men were taken down; five were municipal police officers, and one of them was the chief of a local precinct.

Inside, they found two men who were being held captive. The man who had 200 uniforms now had no one left to wear them. Yesterday, authorities arrested José Manuel García Cimental—alias *El Chiquilín*—and Raidel López Uriarte—alias *El Muletas*. At the time of his capture, the Federal Police attributed nearly 350 killings to him—or so the official statements claimed.

What followed was a different story. According to judicial documents reviewed by the weekly publication Zeta Tijuana, he was sent to a maximum-security prison in Matamoros. Following the arrest of *El Teo*, his brother—Manuel García Cimental, also known as Alejandro Ibarra López, 27, alias *El Chiquilín*—was also taken into custody. And there, the man who had once outfitted 200 men with his signature skull emblem began fighting different kinds of battles. One of the first was over the sweets sold in the prison commissary.

They wouldn’t sell those items to him, so he filed an *amparo* (a legal petition for constitutional protection). Another time, it was over a television—they wouldn’t let him buy one, so he filed another *amparo*. He lost both. In November 2012, he was transferred to Hermosillo, and in April 2015, to Puente Grande in Jalisco. There, his first *amparo* was a request for medical attention; he claimed to be ill, though the illness was never identified. In 2016, the Occidente prison named him the top student in its secondary education program—there he sat at a desk, one among 200 others.

For nearly nine years, he filed one *amparo* after another—sometimes two a month—challenging disciplinary measures, periods of isolation, or a lack of medication, and, above all, out of fear that he might be moved to another prison. Several times, he filed petitions against transfer orders that didn’t even exist—until December 17, 2018, when he stopped. Not a single *amparo* followed.

He had been the leader of the criminal operation in Tijuana—known as “El Teo” or “El Muletas.” In July 2019, a federal official confirmed his status in a single sentence: he had indeed been released. The 350 lives [he was linked to] never became the subject of a trial. His only legal case concerned 2.5 kilograms of marijuana, and the witnesses who had identified him retracted their statements. According to accounts investigated by the authorities, he moved to Jalisco and switched sides. “El Teo” is still in jail, but El Muleta isn’t.

Source: Historias del Narco