The Last Undercover (29 page)
For example, every time I drew complaint duty, Joan would dial up and tell me the Russians were beaming microwaves into her apartment and burning her retinas. She forcefully and repeatedly requested I activate the “heat shield” the FBI apparently controlled; which would provide her with at least minimal protection against the attack.
Another guy, whom we dubbed “Harmonica Joe,” called about as frequently as Joan and, with a booming bass voice, would announce he intended to serenade me with a harmonica solo. If I wanted a few minutes of music while logging in the other callers, I would put him on the speakerphone; Joe actually wasn’t bad.
Other callers could be belligerent and abusive, often blaming the Bureau for some perceived misstep by the federal government. We were a convenient target and most phone books had our number listed on the front page. Seldom, if ever, did the callers have a complaint over which the FBI had jurisdiction, and if we did have the investigative responsibility, I usually had little knowledge of the statute governing the matter. I’m sure it was as frustrating for the caller as it was for me. I can count on one hand the number of calls that led to the opening of an investigation.
Once, though, I got that rarest of all opportunities: a complaint call that actually made sense. I had the Sunday duty and had been receiving my quota of nut calls. I was looking forward to the end of the shift when the phone rang for the umpteenth time. The caller clearly identified himself and came to the point, after apologizing for interrupting my Sunday afternoon. I liked him already.
He was a television producer who ran into some problems with a business associate on the East Coast, he told me. The associate claimed the producer owed him ninety thousand dollars, a claim the producer denied. Rather than looking to the courts for redress, the associate engaged some New Jersey mobsters to collect. The producer had just received a call informing him a collector was coming to L.A. the next day. The collector expected payment in full, he said, or Hollywood would be reading the producer’s obituary in the
Los Angeles Times.
I was liking this call more and more. I obtained as much information as I could and agreed to meet with the producer after my shift so he could fill me in on all the details. What I liked most about the producer was his refusal to be bullied; he was not going to pay and was willing to testify. That evening we worked out a scenario for the next day, and I spent most of the evening getting all my ducks in a row.
The Los Angeles FBI offices are just off the 405 freeway on Wilshire Boulevard in West Los Angeles. We are directly across the street from the Los Angeles National Cemetery, where fourteen Medal of Honor recipients are buried, and within walking distance of Westwood Village, the home of UCLA. The producer lived in nearby Westwood, and to make it even more convenient, we set up the meeting with the New Jersey mobster at a restaurant in the Village. The mobster was actually staying at a motel just a few blocks from our office and was going to walk to the restaurant.
I contacted a prosecutor from the Organized Crime Strike Force and he approved the plan, which was pretty simple. We would have two agents inside the restaurant watching our producer, who would be wearing a transmitter, capturing on tape each extortionate threat. I also asked another agent to assist me on a quick-hit undercover assignment. The agent I asked was relatively new to the office and nicknamed Hard Body: he was a former college linebacker and maintained his playing weight. He was my muscle, and I’d do all the talking. This was going to be fun!
The next day, everyone was in place. Our producer was seated in the rear of this upscale restaurant. Sitting a few tables away were two agents. Hard Body, the prosecutor, and I were a block away in a Bureau car, preparing for our respective roles.
As soon as the mob guy showed up he introduced himself as Anthony—a perfect name for a nice Italian boy. Once we knew Anthony was in the restaurant, Hard Body drove the Bureau car into the parking lot behind the restaurant. This would put us closer to the action and would allow for better reception of the transmitter. The prosecutor was in the backseat listening intently to the conversation. Once Anthony said all the magic words and we had our violation, Hard Body and I were to spring into action.
I was relaxed and looking forward to the next few minutes, sitting in the front passenger seat as Hard Body pulled into the lot. I crossed my legs, and immediately a siren started going off. Were we being arrested? Was this some kind of reverse sting? Did Hard Body commit a traffic violation as he turned into the lot?
We looked around, and then I looked down. While crossing my legs I had inadvertently hit the siren toggle for the Bureau car. All three of us burst out in laughter as I shut off the siren: “Your highly trained FBI in action . . .”
But had Anthony heard the noise? Would he have second thoughts about his extortion mission? We listened intently for a few seconds and it became obvious Anthony was oblivious to my faux pas. As we listened to the transmitted conversation, he threatened to break the producer’s legs. Then he threatened to break the producer’s arms. Finally, he threatened to run the producer over with a car. It was perfect. Anthony said all the right words and was burying himself deeper with each tirade. John Gotti would have been proud. Our prosecutor was more than satisfied, so Hard Body and I went to work.
We walked into the back of the restaurant and quickly found the producer. Anthony was sitting across from him. The wise guy was in his late forties, heavyset, and looked like a character out of
The Sopranos
; he had obviously done some mileage for the mob. I understood why my producer was intimidated.
I pulled up a chair and turned it around, straddling it as I positioned myself a few inches from Anthony’s face. His hands were on the table, and I kept them in my peripheral vision. Hard Body stood off to the side, ready to rumble. We were both packing and weren’t going to take any chances. If Anthony made any sudden moves, we were ready. Anthony was the real deal, or at least so we assumed.
“Who gave you permission to come into this town?” I asked him, looking him in the eye.
Anthony balked.
I repeated the question, only louder. “I said, who gave you permission to come into this town? We’re with Pete Milano, and this man”—I indicated the producer—“is with us. Nobody, I repeat, nobody leans on him without our say-so.”
Pete Milano ran the L.A. Mafia family and was the target of one of my earlier undercovers. At the time of my meeting with Anthony, Pete was in federal prison, along with fourteen of his mob associates, all as the result of our investigation. But Pete’s name still carried weight in Los Angeles. It remained his town, at least from a mafioso’s point of view.
Anthony made a big mistake: he looked down, showing weakness. Now, I admit Hard Body gave me some much-needed credibility. He was a heavyweight; I was a middleweight at best. At the time I was about 155 pounds, ran five miles every day, and boxed several times a week, but I was a little guy compared to Anthony and Hard Body. One-on-one, the mobster from New Jersey would have given me a tough fight. But he looked down—and I pounced.
“Who gave you permission to walk my streets? I want a name and I want it now. You never go into another man’s town without permission. Where are you from?”
I kept pummeling him with questions. I was seriously getting into my role. Even Hard Body was smiling, enjoying the performance.
Anthony answered each question. Then I demanded he get his boss on the phone. We walked over to a pay phone near the restrooms, and Anthony dialed a number, spoke briefly, and handed me the phone. I repeated my questions and demands, giving the guy on the other end of the phone little time to respond. When he said he was from Fort Lee, New Jersey, I said, “Fort Lee? What’s that? What am I supposed to call you —‘General’? I want your man to apologize to our guy. You guys better straighten this out now. Anthony isn’t going anywhere until this is straightened out. Do you understand me?” I handed the phone back to Anthony.
We returned to the table and I demanded that Anthony apologize.
“I’m sorry I threatened to break your legs,” he said to the producer.
“And . . . ?” I said.
“I’m sorry I threatened to break your arms.”
“And . . . ?”
“I’m sorry I threatened to run you over with a car.”
With the apology accepted, I instructed the producer to leave the table and he quickly obliged, practically running out of the restaurant.
I turned my attention to Anthony and apologized for being so hard on him, but explained that I had to show the producer I meant business, because I knew he would tell Pete. “He’s an earner for us and we have to protect him. Nothing personal.”
Anthony smiled with relief. He said he thought everything had been cleared through his New Jersey people and admitted he had no right to come into L.A. without permission of the boss. Then he said, “I should have known better. I just got out of the joint. I did a dime for the same thing.”
Apparently, this extortion job was one of Anthony’s first paying gigs since spending ten years in prison. The penal system’s rehabilitation efforts obviously failed, but we were going to see he got another shot. We all started to walk out of the restaurant and Anthony invited us to join him for drinks. When I told him we still had a problem, he said, “What? We can work anything out.”
I pulled out my FBI credentials and identified myself as an agent. He looked at me, closed his eyes, looked toward heaven, and said, “I am so stupid.”
What could I say?
I would have loved to have been able to stage a reprise of my role as a wise guy for a few of my BL friends. I thought about how great it would be to get up in Peter Herman’s face, with Hard Body looming over my shoulder, and rip him a new one. But this was a different role, and called for a different approach. If things went well, though, I could hope for a similar result.
AGE OF CONSENT: ZERO
N
AMBLA policy was the next item on the agenda and age of consent dominated that discussion. As an organization, NAMBLA has consistently refused to advocate a particular age of consent even though some members have called for a lowering of the age rather than its outright abolition. The position would not be modified in this conference. In fact, Peter stated that designating a specific age of consent would be “disastrous” and not result in any greater support among the general population.
Peter drew an analogy between baseball and sex. “When someone says, ‘Baseball for kids,’ everyone says, ‘Oh yes.’ But what kind of baseball is given to a four- or five-year-old? What is given must be age appropriate, or it can be very dangerous in both situations.” I’m not quite sure what point Peter was trying to make, but the T-ball example was apparently an attempt to present certain sexual acts—oral sex, presumably—as more “age appropriate” than, say, anal penetration. One was okay for young boys, apparently, and the other should be reserved for later ages.
I knew from reading past issues of the
Bulletin
that age of consent was a topic being debated continually among the membership. In the May 2004 issue, “John” urged the membership not to modify its position on this issue, claiming that any modification would amount to a “dilution of our principle. Please, let us not compromise our ideals in a quest to appear more ‘reasonable’ or ‘mainstream’ to the world at large.”
In an accompanying article, John quoted art historian and social activist Camille Paglia.
I fail to see what is wrong with erotic fondling with any age. I would really want to push the issue of what is wrong with anything which gives pleasure. What is wrong with it, even if it does involve fondling the genitals?
John then argued,
Even a newborn baby fresh out of his or her mother’s womb instinctively and neurologically can discern the difference between a “good touch” (such as a gentle stroking) and a “bad touch” (such as a slap from the attending doctor). As the child begins to grow, parents and teachers instill in the youngster THEIR concepts of “good touch” and “bad touch” (with anything involving the genitals inevitably constituting a “bad touch”). Yet, if such contact is (as the anti-sex crowd claims) intrinsically harmful to an undeveloped or developing person, why the need to teach them these feelings? Maturity is NOT a prerequisite to physical enjoyment; in fact, judging by the uptight attitudes held by many adults in this world, it would seem the reverse is true! Perhaps this world would be a much better place if adults would perceive sexual activity in a more juvenile way!
John further stated,
The argument that older people should not pursue younger partners because the older person has an unfair psychological advantage is blatantly ridiculous. Does a man with a handsome face and muscular body cover himself up when he’s around the fairer sex so as to not take advantage of his good looks? Does a woman with long blonde hair and large breasts hide under a hat and baggy clothing so as to not upstage women not so blessed with these attributes desired by most men? The idea that “all is fair in love and war” applies to intergenerational courting as well!
Finally, John concluded, “I firmly believe that there can be only one ‘age of consent’: zero.”
I found this to be typical of NAMBLA reasoning. They would frequently start with principles of human development anyone could agree with, then at some point in the discussion, they would make an illogical leap to get on the track to their destination: justification of making sex objects of underage children. John’s argument, for example, started with what is demonstrably true: babies react differently to gentle touch versus harsh touch. However, he seems to suggest eroticized touch is in the same category as a parent’s caress and shouldn’t be differentiated from it in any way. Does that prove eroticized touching of children isn’t detrimental to their development of healthy self-concepts as adults? I can find truckloads of child development experts who would instantly refute such a notion. And yet, in the black-is-white world of NAMBLA, John’s line of reasoning is seen as valid.