Ernesto Gonzales liked to hold court in the morning from a corner booth of El Rancho in Harlingen, a busy local eatery festooned with multicolored papel picado party banners—one of several spots he frequented after rising at dawn and reading the Bible. Between slurps of coffee—he drank it like water—and bites of breakfast taco, he would pause to finger his brushy, ample mustache and call out greetings. No one could predict from his deadpan expression whether the 62-year-old attorney might glance up to deliver a skewering remark, a sly joke, or, more rarely, a compliment.
After decades of trail riding, running a solo law practice, and serving as mayor of the nearby town of Primera, Gonzales seemingly knew secrets about everyone, gleaned from his encyclopedic knowledge of the Rio Grande Valley and his voluminous divorce and criminal case files. He lived perpetually surrounded by friends—and by enemies.
