

He caught a whiff of fuel and heard a man crying. The armed men at his sides, who so often had beaten him unconscious, were laughing with sadistic glee.
“This is how we prepare a soup,” one of them quipped.
His blindfold torn away, Gutierrez saw he was in a small courtyard. Another bound prisoner of the Gulf cartel stood in a metal barrel, blubbering prayers. Someone was spraying him with a flammable liquid. Someone else flicked a lighter.
Gutierrez's own scream of horror could not escape the rag stuffed in his mouth. He thrust his head to one side to avert the sight of the screaming mass of flesh and stench. The guard grabbed a fistful of Gutierrez's hair and yanked his head back up. He was next, they kept saying.
Later, back in his cell awaiting his fate, some of the same tormentors started up a friendly banter.
The killers wondered why Gutierrez — an urbane, well-to-do attorney — had come to be a prisoner in this house of torture and murder.
“They said I was not the type of person they normally have there,” he recalled. “They were asking me why I was there. That I must have done something very bad.”
Gutierrez said nothing but knew it had to do with his role as family lawyer for Osiel Cardenas-Guillen, boss of the Gulf cartel.
One day, as abruptly as they grabbed him from his law office, his tormentors let Gutierrez go with a demand that he do legal work for the cartel.

