The Last Undercover (11 page)
I patiently waited as Eligh and his associate attempted to count the money. It was dark and not only did they have trouble discerning the fives from the tens, they had trouble counting. My recorder picked up the two counting the money, then becoming confused, dropping a few f-bombs, and beginning the counting process anew. Finally they announced I was a hundred dollars short. Knowing I was actually two hundred short, I handed over another hundred dollars. After counting that, Eligh announced I was still a hundred dollars short. When I protested, he ordered me out of the truck. That was all the incentive I needed to pony up the remaining hundred.
I had achieved my goal. I had purchased an ounce and a half of rock for nine hundred dollars and recorded the lengthy counting process on tape.
Weeks later we did a sweep, arresting all the thirteen gang members who sold us rock cocaine. Eligh was one of the thirteen, having sold me drugs on five separate occasions.
We brought each of the thirteen back to the CRASH off-site building for interviewing and processing prior to taking them to the federal lockup. When I confronted Eligh, I looked him in the eye and asked, “Eligh, you had to suspect a white guy coming down here and buying rock, didn’t you?”
His answer was priceless. “I talks it over with my homeboys and we figure the police would be too stupid to send in a white guy.”
Eligh was the only one of the thirty-three gang members I arrested and subsequently convicted who went to trial. Everyone else pleaded guilty. Eligh was convicted in a jury trial and sentenced to thirty-one years.
Los Angeles, 1989
Going into the NAMBLA operation, I had to constantly remind myself and my case agent that sometimes, to make the collar happen to maximum advantage, you’ve got to wait for matters to unfold in the right way. Had I rushed into the New York conference wearing a wire and pushing members to make criminal admissions, it’s likely the case would have ended right there. Despite my almost continual disgust with what I was hearing and with the social agenda NAMBLA espoused, I had to remain patient and in character as I slowly but surely built the government’s case.
Similarly, the advantages of patience made themselves known in my 1989 investigation of a drug operation centering on an upscale restaurant in the heart of Beverly Hills. In fact, patience and my unwillingness to renege on a commitment to my son—coupled with a brazen bluff and dumb luck—actually served to enhance my credibility with a fairly sophisticated drug distributor.
Peter was Sicilian and opened a posh Beverly Hills eatery, his second. His first establishment was in New York, and intelligence reports we received from there stated the New York restaurant was used as a way station for mob fugitives waiting to escape the country. Peter was a worthy target and my supervisor was hoping we could ensnare him in an FBI-orchestrated sting.
A confidential informant reported that Peter, who had a prior felony narcotics conviction, was involved in drug trafficking. With that piece of information, I began frequenting the restaurant. Peter was outgoing and appreciated my regularity; sometimes I ate there for lunch and dinner on the same day. The food was overpriced and not really that good, but I continued to praise the chef, who just happened to be Peter’s mother.
Often Peter would join me at the table, especially when business was slow. He eventually inquired about my business. The vague description I gave of my source of income intrigued him and fueled further questioning. Because this was 1989, any high roller in Beverly Hills with a vague economic history was presumed to be involved in the drug trade. After several of these beat-around-the-bush conversations, I finally confirmed my interest in purchasing high-grade cocaine. Peter took the bait and negotiations commenced.
Due to limited drug budgets, many law enforcement agencies at the time were unable to do “buy-walks”: transactions where the officer purchases a quantity of drugs, then walks away to return another day for a larger purchase. In fact, most deals were “buy-busts”: the supplier shows up with the negotiated drug and is arrested on the spot. Such a less-expensive tactic obviously removes one drug dealer from the streets, but unless he cooperates, the full scope of the distribution network is never determined.
Thanks to the Superfund and the priority narcotics and organized crime took in the FBI investigative agenda, we often did buy-walks. This was especially true when the federal forfeiture statutes came into play. Under the statutes, any piece of real or personal property used to facilitate a drug transaction or any property purchased with drug funds could be forfeited to the federal government. Often this property was sold at public auction, the money going into the Superfund or to the U.S. Treasury. However, at times, the actual property was used in undercover scenarios. Even my wife admitted I was better looking with a forfeited fifteen-thousand-dollar Rolex watch on my wrist and driving a Porsche or BMW, compliments of an unlucky narcotics dealer. Such props certainly made me more attractive to hustlers like Peter.
He agreed to sell me a kilogram sample of cocaine in anticipation of a larger purchase. We established the ground rules for the purchase and Peter readily agreed to consummate the deal in the safety and security of the upstairs office above his restaurant. Once the deal was complete, we had a solid count on Peter. To further sweeten the deal, his restaurant had been used to facilitate the transaction and was now subject to forfeiture. Peter’s product tested positive as high-grade cocaine and the wheels were set in motion for a larger purchase.
I continued to meet with Peter and spoke of my desire to make the larger purchase. Although I pride myself on being cognizant of my surroundings, one evening I proved just how focused I was during my undercover role. The human ear can discern a particular noise or voice, shutting out the surrounding sounds. Often by concentrating on someone speaking to us, we can become oblivious to other ordinary noises. Recording devices usually lack that very human capability. I always scoff at the movie scene in which the cop and the bad guy are talking in a crowded restaurant and the tech team easily and clearly monitors every word from the van across the street. Even quiet restaurants are often anything but quiet to the sensitive technical equipment that picks up the sound of every dropped dish, every clang of silverware, and every slammed door. Often in those days we had to send out the tapes to be “enhanced,” the technical term for separating the tracks and isolating the conversation.
One evening, Peter and I sat at one of his tables for nearly a half hour, discussing in hushed tones our next transaction. We laid out the details and the incriminating conversation proved a valuable piece of evidence. The equipment, of course, picked up every word and noise in the restaurant. When I returned to the office and began reviewing the recorded conversation, I realized the device I was wearing also picked up the conversation occurring at the table behind me. The two diners were discussing a money-laundering scheme. I was so focused on Peter I had no idea what was being discussed right behind me—a lost opportunity.
I sometimes feared I looked and acted like a fed. I would often modify my appearance in some manner—longer hair, unshaven, temporary tattoos, and even the crutch I adopted later in my career. Similarly, in an effort to throw Peter off any “cop” scent I might inadvertently be leaving, I ordered up seventeen kilos of cocaine for the larger purchase. I figured most cops ordered in ones, fives, tens, or a hundred. Seventeen seemed like an odd number for a purchase, and sure enough it threw Peter when I placed the order, as I counted out who was to get what and added up the figures to seventeen. He bought the act and placed the order.
Back at the office, we started the cumbersome paperwork to have Headquarters send us the “show” money for a seventeen-kilo buy-bust. Unlike on television, the money wasn’t waiting in a neat bundle in a safe. In fact, it was always nerve-wracking to hold off my targets until “my money guy arrived,” or I “liquidated my stock position and the clearing house sent a cashier’s check to my out-of-state bank,” or because “my banker in Grand Cayman is out of the office until next Tuesday.” Greed usually trumped fear, and the bad guys almost always bought the delay.
Another major problem with any buy-bust involving a large amount of cash is the fact that a team of FBI agents must cover—
swarm
might be a better word—the buy and effect the subsequent arrest. As a result of our negotiations, I now had in excess of a quarter of a million dollars in a briefcase that I would be flashing at Peter sometime prior to the delivery of the cocaine. As with the previous transaction, Peter was most comfortable consummating the deal at the restaurant. I was only too happy to oblige, making an even stronger case for forfeiture of the property.
Many FBI agents shied away from drug investigations because of the long and uncertain hours. I made it a point to set up almost every transaction during the day, however, arguing with my dealers that the police were easier to observe in the daylight hours.
We had initially arranged for the deal to go down at Peter’s restaurant at noon on Monday. As I learned early in my career, drug dealer time is not the same time most of us observe; Peter and his associates were no exception. FBI agents were staked out throughout Beverly Hills on Monday, awaiting the “load car” transporting the cocaine, but noon came and went with no load car. After waiting several more hours, Peter received a call. The load car had broken down somewhere on the freeway and we would be unable to consummate the deal that day. Los Angeles is the second largest city in the United States and its 915-mile freeway system made it pointless to try to locate a broken-down load car. I agreed to postpone the deal until Tuesday.
But now a personal problem arose. I have a son who loves baseball as much as I do. I had two tickets to see the Angels play Tuesday evening; the seats were located right behind the Angels dugout. Our home was almost one hundred miles from Anaheim. In order to make the game, I would have to drive almost fifty miles to my house, pick up my son, and then drive the hundred miles to Anaheim Stadium. So, to make sure I’d have enough time to make the opening pitch, I told Peter, “I don’t like playing games. I’ll be at the restaurant at noon tomorrow, but if the supplier can’t produce by 1:30, I’m gone.”
All of the agents regrouped at the FBI office, we returned the money to the safe, and prepared for tomorrow’s buy. No one else knew I had box-seat tickets to the Angels.
On Tuesday, I was back at the restaurant with agents milling around Beverly Hills. Once again, noon came and went. Finally, at 1:20
PM
, Peter emerged from his office. His face beamed. “I just got off the phone. My man will be here in a half hour,” he said.
“That’s fine,” I said. “But I won’t be here. I told you if he can’t deliver by one thirty, I’m gone. Unlike you and your supplier, I’m a man of my word.” With that, I threw down a tip on the table. I told Peter, “You’ve inconvenienced me enough today. Lunch is on you.” And I walked out.
I know Peter and his supplier were shocked, but my credibility soared. After all, no cop would walk away from a multi-kilo dope deal because the supplier was going to be twenty minutes late. I knew Peter would call back; he was hungry for a sale . . . at least, that’s what I told myself.
My son and I made the game, enjoyed baseball up close, and had a great time. Not long after, true to my hunch (and to my relief), Peter called, profusely apologizing for any misunderstanding. He arranged for his supplier to meet me directly on Wednesday at the supplier’s house. How fortuitous! The fact that I placed my son and baseball ahead of the FBI meant we would be able to not only identify the supplier but, if he used his house to “facilitate” the transaction, acquire some more real estate under the forfeiture statutes.
I have to admit, my refusal to cancel my baseball outing with my son had as much to do with my unwillingness to allow my work to intrude on my family as it did with maintaining an image for my targets. And even with my determination to keep my family as a priority, those dearest to me sometimes suffered because of my job.
My daughter provides an example both amusing and, in a way, heartbreaking. When she was five, she knew I went to work every day with the bad guys and pretended to be someone else. But she also feared they might kidnap me and send someone home in my place. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know this was what she was thinking; I only knew that when I came home in the evenings, she was a bit standoffish for a while. My son would rush to greet me, but my daughter would take her time. I attributed it to the difference between boys and girls, but that wasn’t her reason.
In her childish imagination, she believed the impostor would wear a plastic mask—a Halloween mask held on by an elastic band—that looked like her dad.
“So, he would come home every night and he would sit in this one blue chair we had,” she explained, years later. “And I would walk around behind him before I would give him a hug, just to make sure he didn’t have the string across the back of his head. That’s how I knew that it was really him.”
I, of course, didn’t get the full story until she graduated from college. The point is, my family made sacrifices I never even knew about. But I knew my son loved baseball, and this was one time my job wasn’t going to interfere.
My squad mates and supervisor, however, weren’t exactly pleased that I’d missed the Tuesday buy. Wednesday meant another day on surveillance, covering me for yet another deal that might or might not happen. In addition, the dealer lived near Ontario, California—almost sixty miles east of the FBI offices. Still, because Peter was considered a big target and his supplier even bigger, everyone supported me one more time.
So, the stage was set. The deal would surely go down this time . . . wouldn’t it?
IMPROVISE TO SURVIVE
O
n Wednesday, I met with Onofrio, Peter’s supplier, in a shopping center near his home. I had the funds to close the deal secreted in the trunk of my undercover car. When I met Onofrio for the first time, we spoke briefly and he agreed to take me to his house to show me the cocaine. I was amazed at his boldness and his stupidity. Peter vouched for me and Onofrio was aware that the one-kilo sample purchase went down without a problem, but using his home as the base of his operation seemed naïve at best.