The Agent Who Ran a Cartel Inside the DEA

March 14th, 2017. Cardagana, Colombia.

Music pulses off an infinity pool

overlooking the Caribbean. A yacht bobs

in the marina below. The guests sipping

champagne on the rooftop terrace aren't

cartel bosses. They're DEA agents. And

this $767,000

mansion with ocean views. It belongs to

one of their own.

Special agent Joseari raises a glass to

his colleagues. His wife flashes a

$30,000 Tiffany diamond ring. Three

years earlier, he'd been drowning in

half a million dollars of debt. The math

doesn't work because Iari isn't

undercover. He's running one of the most

sophisticated criminal operations ever

built inside a federal agency. For

nearly a decade, he exploited a

classified DEA program where agents

legally laundered cartel cash to trace

drug money. Irizari was trusted with

millions. Instead of tracing it, he took

it. The FBI sealed those documents. No

one else was charged. The judge at his

sentencing said what the government

wouldn't. You were the one who got

caught. But it is apparent to this court

that there are others. How did the DEA

let a criminal build an empire inside

their own walls? And why did the

government bury what he told them?

On paper, it sounds insane. Federal

agents laundering drug money. But that's

precisely what happens in attorney

general exempt operations. DOJ sanctions

stings where agents pose as money

launderers, moving dirty cash for

cartels to trace where it flows. Open a

front company, run cash through a DEA

controlled bank account, ship a pallet

of bills overseas. Every year, tens of

millions in cartel cash flows through

DEA front operations. It's a highstakes

infiltration game and only a select

group of agents receive [music]

clearance to play. Jose Irizari was one

of them. By 2009, Irizari appeared

perfect for this shadowy work.

Bilingual, born in Puerto Rico, street

smart about smuggling routes. He'd

worked as a federal air marshal, then

border patrol agent before joining the

DEA. In Miami, he was assigned to a

specialized money laundering group

focused on the black market peso

exchange. The complex web cartels used

to convert drug profits into clean

money. Sharp, eager, disturbingly good

at thinking like the criminals he

pursued. From day one, his new job

handed him extraordinary access.

Undercover bank accounts flushed with

cartel cash, authority to conduct

international wire transfers, clearance

to cultivate criminal informants. But

behind the polished resume, red flags

were snapping in the wind. The DEA

ignored everyone. In 2010, Irizari filed

for personal bankruptcy, $500,000 in

debt. Around the same time, his standard

higher polygraph exam indicated

deception. That result should have ended

his candidacy, but the agency was

desperate for Spanish-sp speakaking

agents with moneyaundering expertise.

They hired him anyway.

And one more detail. Irizari's longtime

friend, the man who would become

godfather to his twin daughters, was a

suspected money launderer for Colombian

traffickers. The DEA didn't press.

Welcome to the drug war. Here's your

badge and your secret bank account. As

Irizari immersed himself in Miami's

undercover moneyaundering missions, he

learned something critical. Stealing

from these operations would be almost

trivially easy. Virtually no oversight

existed. And he noticed something else.

The DEA's metrics for success had

nothing to do with actually reducing

drug trafficking. Success meant seizing

cash. Making flashy arrests. Outcomes

were irrelevant. Appearances were

everything. The thought that began to

corrupt him emerged from this

realization. Why play by the rules of an

unwinable game? 2011. A briefing room in

Miami.

Irizari watches his supervisor present

seizure stats to visiting brass. 47

kilos intercepted this quarter. Six

arrests. $2.3 million seized. Applause.

Irizari knows the truth. 47 kilos is a

rounding error. The Medelene network

moves 200 kilos a week through their

sector alone. These victories are

theater. That night, staring at his

bankruptcy papers, a thought

crystallizes. If the war is fake, why

can't the spoils be real?

Late 2011,

somewhere in Miami, Joseé Irizari makes

the choice that will ultimately destroy

his career and expose the DEA's rotten

infrastructure. He steps across the

invisible line from [music] agent to

thief with a move so simple it's almost

laughable. He has access to dirty

[music] money. His boss isn't watching

closely. Why not take a little for

[music] himself? He's about to discover

just how easy robbery becomes when

you're the one dealing the cards. But

here's what Iari didn't anticipate. The

same lack of oversight that let him

steal would eventually let someone else

betray him. The question isn't whether

he'll be caught. It's who will turn on

him first and what they'll reveal about

everyone else involved.

At the end of his first year, special

agent Irizari isn't just tracing cartel

cash anymore. He's taking it.

The scheme starts small. Irizari

partners with a trusted DEA informant, a

Colombian fixer who arranges money

pickups. Using a stolen identity, they

open a private bank account in Miami,

not a DEA front account with oversight

off the books in someone else's name.

Then, with a few keystrokes, Irizari

redirects a stream of cartel cash into

this phantom account. money that should

be documented in sting ledgers. Instead,

it becomes his slush fund.

With that secret account operational,

Irizari weaponizes the DEA's own

playbook. He knows exactly how

undercover funds move, what paperwork

authorizes a transfer, how to avoid

scrutiny. First, he files a false report

claiming the DEA needs to transfer

$200,000 of investigative cash from a

seizure in one country to a bank in

another. Then he instructs a colleague

to wire that [music] money overseas.

They comply without question. Irizari is

known for making big cases. But here's

the trick. That overseas account. It's

the one Iriari secretly controls. The

money lands. A chunk kicks back to him.

Then he does it again and again dozens

[music] of times. He masters

bureaucratic camouflage, creating paper

trails [music] just believable enough to

avoid scrutiny. using DEA resources as

cover. Sometimes he designates bogus

[music] mission cities for pickups

simply because he wants to visit.

Craving a real Madrid match? Schedule a

money pickup in Madrid to coincide? Want

Sun and Sand? Justify a meeting with an

informant at a tropical resort. To his

DEA superiors, these are legitimate

field operations. to Irizari and his

inner circle. They're all expenses paid

vacations funded by Uncle Sam's blind

spot. As the money rolls in, Irizari's

personal life transforms. That $30,000

Tiffany ring for his wife, a Colombian

beauty queen he married after a

whirlwind romance. A $135,000

Lamborghini. Three houses, one in South

Florida, one in Puerto Rico, [music] and

the crown jewel is the Cardana mansion

with the rooftop pool. A yacht docked in

the harbor for weekend getaways.

Designer suits, VIP club tabs, [music]

Louis Vuitton handbags gifted to

friends. Irizari isn't hiding a modest

nest egg. He's flaunting a [music]

fortune. Living like the traffickers

he's supposed to be dismantling. Where

was the oversight? A 2020 Department of

Justice [music] audit, sparked partly by

Irizari's case, found the DEA had failed

to [music] file required annual reports

to Congress on these undercover

operations since at least 2006.

For over a decade, the DEA's

moneyaundering [music] stings operated

in a vacuum with almost no

accountability or external scrutiny.

There is limited congressional insight,

[music] the Inspector General's report

noted. translation. In the vast majority

of these cashmoving operations, no one

was minding the store. Even internally,

basic safeguards [music] were absent.

The undercover accounts Arazzari managed

were supposed to require detailed logs

and supervisor signoffs. Instead,

[music] the audit found numerous

instances of agents running stings with

minimal documentation or approval.

[music] Irizari had free reign to wire

money around the world. The DEA's

internal culture had become trusting to

the point of negligence. [music] As long

as an agent delivered big busts and big

seizures, higher-ups didn't ask

questions. If you're finding this story

as disturbing as I do, consider

subscribing. There's much more to

uncover about how deep this corruption

[music] spread, and you won't want to

miss what happens when Irizari's own

partner turns against him. By 2014

[music] to 2015, Irizari's scheme has

diverted at least $3.8 8 million in drug

proceeds that should have been evidence,

likely much more that went undetected.

He's personally pocketed around $1

million in kickbacks and bribes. And

remarkably, he's still considered a

rising star. His Miami bosses praise his

work. He received a promotion and

transfer to a dream post in Cardigana,

Colombia, the heart of the drug world in

2015.

The same year the DEA's reputation was

rocked by a sex party scandal. [music]

Agents in Colombia caught carousing with

prostitutes paid by cartels. Irizari is

sent closer [music] to the action with

even less oversight. The fox isn't

guarding the hen house. He's been put in

charge of the entire farm. His

colleagues watch him depart for Colombia

with envy and suspicion. Some wonder

[music] quietly.

How is Jose affording all this? Rumors

swirl, but rather than report him, a few

agents are lured by the same temptation

that corrupted Iriari. They see the

yacht parties, [music] the five-star

travel, the easy money, and they want

in. If the boss isn't asking questions,

why not join the fun? By 2016, Jose

Irizari isn't longer running a one-man

operation. He's the ring leader of a

growing band of agents, [music]

informants, and prosecutors who've

decided to treat the war on drugs as a

get-richqu scheme. That band would earn

a nickname straight from dark comedy.

They called themselves Team America.

The name started as a joke, a riff on

the Team America World Police movie, but

it fit perfectly. This wasn't an

official DEA task force. It was an

offduty fraternity of agents and

informants who discovered the drug war

could double as a worldwide party tour.

According to Irizari, dozens were

involved. DEA agents from Miami and

beyond. federal prosecutors who enjoyed

the perks, trusted informants, and even

actual cartel smugglers who tagged

along. What united them was an unspoken

pact. Keep producing results on paper

and keep reality buried. Why conduct

business in drab conference rooms when

you can do it in ibita?

Team America chose cities for money

pickups based on party potential.

Barcelona during a Champions League

match. Paris the week of the French

Open. Work trips timed to coincide with

Real Madrid games or a Rafael Nadal

tennis [music] match in Monaco. The

investigative justification was often

thin or fabricated entirely. Once on

site, agents blew undercover cash on

lavish [music] dinners, nightclubs, and

sex workers. Irizari later admitted 90%

of his field operations were bogus

excuses, vehicles for partying rather

than legitimate work. In Colombia,

Irizari hosted colleagues on a Colombian

businessman's yacht. Plenty of booze and

more than a dozen prostitutes. These

weren't covert meetings. These were

debauched blowouts funded by drug money

the DEA was circulating. We would

generate money pickups in places we

wanted to go, told investigators. And

once we got there, it was about drinking

and girls. For years, this hedonistic

subculture remained an open secret. In

2017, five DEA agents kept a WhatsApp

group chat that read like a hybrid of

frat house bragging and criminal

conspiracy. They dubbed their globe

trotting escapades a world debauchery

tour of boozing and whoring on Uncle

Sam's tab. They swapped photos of sexual

conquests and joked about how thoroughly

they were exploiting the system. At one

point, the chat devolved into jokes

about rape, which would haunt them when

one of those agents was later accused of

sexual assault. [music] The messages

dripped with arrogance. They didn't

bother with code words. None of this was

hidden from colleagues. Irizari's bosses

heard rumors. His peers saw Instagram

photos on boat decks and at soccer

stadiums. Some junior agents felt

uncomfortable, but reporting a star

agent connected to big seizures was

career suicide. Many others were having

too much fun to care. Shared guilt kept

everyone silent. Washington wasn't

entirely oblivious. In 2015, a Justice

Department inspector general

investigation exposed sex parties with

prostitutes funded by Colombian cartels

that DEA agents in Bogota had attended.

Headlines: congressional outrage. DEA

leadership promised sweeping [music]

reforms. Some agents received light

discipline, many just a few days

suspension.

But the message never reached team

America. In the same year, DEA brass

assured lawmakers it won't happen again.

Irizari was escalating his crime spree

and being rewarded. The DEA transferred

him from Miami to Cardigana, a posting

with even greater access to sensitive

operations. Any oversight he might have

faced stateside was now a continent

away. In Cartagana, Irizari came into

[music] his own point man on major

international moneyaundering

investigations, liazing with top

Colombian officials, still skimming with

impunity.

DEA colleagues rotated through on

temporary duty and enjoyed his

hospitality, wild nights funded by

undercover cash. The line between the

DEA and the cartels had blurred into

shared appetites for easy money. But not

everyone in Irari's orbit was blinded by

the fun. One man had been watching

closely, a veteran informant who'd been

Irrizari's partner from the start. This

informant helped Irizari steal money. He

attended the parties, took his cut,

observed Irizari's escalating

recklessness.

By 2017, he was getting nervous. He saw

Irizari growing bolder, less careful.

The agents high-flying lifestyle was

drawing attention. If the DEA's House of

Cards collapsed, everyone involved faced

serious prison time. The informant

realized he had a choice. Go down with

Irizari or save himself by cutting a

deal first. The betrayal that would

ultimately expose Joseé Irizari wouldn't

come from an internal investigation or a

vigilant supervisor. It would come from

inside his own trusted circle. But

here's the twist. Irizari never

anticipated. The informant wouldn't just

expose him. He would hand investigators

a road map to corruption that extended

far beyond one rogue agent. The question

is, how many names were on that list?

And why haven't we heard about their

arrests?

For nearly a decade, Joseé Irizari

proved astonishingly adept at gaming the

system. But his downfall was

orchestrated by the one person he never

saw as a threat, [music] his closest

informant. Call him Mario. His real

identity remains protected even now.

Mario was there from the beginning,

helping Irizari divert money, setting up

accounts, enjoying the perks. If Iari

was the king of Team America, Mario was

his right hand. But by 2018, Mario

looked at Iriari's mansion, the flashy

cars, the accumulating evidence of

corruption, and had an epiphany. Jose is

going to get us all caught.

Mario quietly reached out to US federal

prosecutors. A DEA informant walking

into a US embassy or attorney's office

saying, "I have a story about one of

your agents." Skepticism must have been

intense. Irizari, the star agent with

all those big busts. But Mario came

prepared. He had receipts literally and

figuratively. False reports, secret bank

accounts, wire transfers to shell

companies, names, dates, places,

documents showing how money logged as

undercover operations ended up in

private accounts he and Iari controlled.

The ultimate informant play, betraying

his handler [music] to save his own

skin.

A quiet investigation began. By late

2019, [music] the Justice Department had

assembled a case. Irizari, oblivious,

had left the DEA. He resigned abruptly

in [music] 2018 amid whispers that

internal affairs had finally started

sniffing around. He was [music] living

in San Juan, Puerto Rico, perhaps

sensing walls closing in, but unaware

Mario had flipped.

February 2020, a dawn raid in a gated

community near San Juan. Federal agents

swarm Iriari's residence. He and his

wife are still groggy when handcuffs

click around their wrists on the front

lawn. The indictment, 19 federal counts,

conspiracy to launder money, bank fraud,

wire fraud, identity theft. The numbers

are [music] staggering. At least $9

million diverted from DEA operations

with [music] over $1 million lining

Irizari's own pockets and the rest

funneled to co-conspirators.

Facing essentially the rest of his life

in prison if convicted on all counts,

Irizari does the only sensible thing

left. He cooperates. In September 2020,

he pleaded guilty to every charge. No

deal for leniency is promised outright,

but his attorneys hope that by spilling

everything, he might receive some mercy

at sentencing. Conference room, FBI

field office, Miami, March 2020.

Jose Irizari sits across from three

federal prosecutors and two FBI agents.

A court reporter types silently in the

corner. Irizari's attorney has advised

[music] him to cooperate fully. It's his

only path to reducing a potential life

sentence. Let's start with the Miami

agents, the lead prosecutor says,

sliding a roster across the table. Who

else was involved? Iari picks up a pen.

He starts circling names. 1 3 7 12. The

prosecutors exchange glances. This is

worse than they thought. Over 60

debriefing sessions spanning 40 hours.

[music] Irizari doesn't just name names.

He provides a blueprint, wire transfer

logs, WhatsApp screenshots, [music]

dates, amounts, destinations. He

implicates DEA agents [music] from three

field offices. Federal prosecutors who

looked the other way. supervisors who

approved [music] bogus expense reports.

When he's done, the lead prosecutor

leans back and exhales. [music]

This, he says, is going to be sealed.

The prosecutors listen, take notes, and

then do something telling. They ask a

federal judge to seal certain documents.

Transcripts of Irizari's debriefings and

specific names of uncharged

co-conspirators are deemed sensitive.

The judge agrees, citing concern that

unsealing the information could impede

an ongoing criminal investigation cause

targets [music] to flee and hinder

cooperation from other witnesses. The

implication chills. Irizari's

cooperation [music] has revealed active

corruption probes still underway, and

people within law enforcement might run

or obstruct if they knew [music] what

he'd said. By late 2021, Irizari has

done all he can to mitigate his fate. In

one interview [music] before heading to

prison, a remorseful yet defiant Irizari

claims he was schooled in how to be

corrupt from the day he joined the DEA.

Coming from the man now acknowledged as

one of the most corrupt agents [music]

in DEA history, it sounds like a

desperate excuse, but after everything

revealed in this saga, is there not a

kernel of truth in it?

December 9th, 2021,

Tampa, Florida, a federal courtroom.

Jose Irizari, age 46, stands before

Judge Charlene Honeywell in a prison

jumpsuit. His once cocky demeanor is

subdued. His wife, also convicted, faces

her own sentence. His young children are

with relatives. But this story isn't

over until the judge speaks, and her

words will ricochet far beyond that

room. Federal prosecutors outline the

seriousness of Irizari's crimes, the

breach of public trust, the blatant

aiding of a Colombian cartel, the stain

on the DEA's reputation. They ask for a

severe sentence to send a message.

Irizari's defense pleads for leniency

given his cooperation.

His attorney, Maria Dominguez, delivers

a damning assessment of the DEA itself.

She describes an alternate universe

inside the agency where taking gifts

from informants and skimming money felt

normalized. Judge Honeywell listens

intently. A former prosecutor herself,

she's no stranger to crime and betrayal.

But this case clearly strikes a nerve.

When she speaks, disgust sharpens her

voice not just for Irizari, but for the

environment that enabled him. She calls

it one of the most egregious betrayals

of trust she's seen. She speaks of the

human toll. How floods of drugs ravage

communities while those fighting the war

partied on the sidelines. Then she aims

squarely at the DEA.

This has to stop. Irizari's head bows as

she delivers the line that will make

headlines. [music]

You were the one who got caught. But it

is apparent to this court that there are

others. [music] In that moment, the

narrative reframes. Irizari isn't an

isolated villain. He's the fall guy for

a systemic problem. The judge openly

calls for those corrupted by the allure

of easy money to be investigated and

brought to justice. A rare and scathing

indictment of [music] an agency by a

federal judge during sentencing. The

gavvel comes down.

145 months in federal prison, just over

[music] 12 years. Restitution of

approximately $11,000.

Forefeite [music] of the diamond ring

and luxury cars.

Everything Irizari built through his

criminal enterprise, the mansions,

vehicles, bank [music] accounts seized

or squandered. His marriage shattered,

his wife Natalia, who pleaded guilty to

a [music] minor role, later filed for

divorce. The Globe trotting agent who

dined in five-star [music] restaurants

would eat from a prison cafeteria for

the next decade. Outside the courthouse,

reporters shout questions. What about

the others? Were more agents involved?

Prosecutors and DEA officials remain

tight-lipped, offering generic

statements about no one being above the

law. But Judge Honeywell's pointed

remarks hang in the air. In the months

that followed, investigative

journalists, particularly the Associated

Press, uncovered that more than a dozen

DEA personnel who crossed paths with

Irizari, quietly faced internal

discipline, suspensions, forced

retirements, no additional criminal

charges. The DEA, stung by the PR

disaster, announced policy changes, new

rules on handling evidence money,

refresher ethics training, a task force

convened to examine the agency's culture

abroad. Skeptics note, we've heard this

before. After the 2015 sex party

scandal, similar vows were made. January

5th, 2022. The night before he must

report [music] to federal prison. Jose

Irizari sits down with an AP reporter

for one final interview. He looks

humbler now. The cockiness has drained

away and he says something that sums up

the entire sorry tale. The drug war is a

game. It was a very fun game that we

were playing. Bitterness seeps through

at himself at the DEA at the entire

charade. He reiterates that in this

unwinable war, the DEA knows it cannot

truly stop the flow of drugs. Agents

know it, too. And when real victory is

off the table, incentives twist. It

became about playing the game for

personal gain. Why not? Irizari thought

he could win his version. He lost badly.

As Irizari disappeared behind prison

walls, the uncomfortable questions he

raised still linger. He insists he told

authorities everything and gave them a

map to the rot. All they have to do is

dig, he said. But will they? The [music]

judge herself voiced what many wonder.

If Iari was the one who got caught, who

are the others still out there?

Jose Irizari exploited the DEA from the

[music] inside, stealing millions while

the agency looked the other way. But if

you think that's the most twisted

relationship between a criminal and

federal law enforcement, you haven't

heard about Whitey Bulier, the Boston

gangster who didn't just infiltrate the

FBI. He made them his personal hit

squad. For two decades, FBI agents fed

him intelligence, eliminated his rivals,

and warned him when other cops were

closing in. He didn't work [music] for

the FBI. The FBI worked for him. You can

see it here.