“This asshole thinks we are drug dealers,” said Naylor in a loud voice. “Tell Tyrone, we ain’t doin’ any drugs. And how do we know he ain’t a drug dealer?”
Of course Andrew took this the wrong way and started to slap a pair of handcuffs on Naylor, who darted around the side of the pickup. “Keep away from me. I am a lawyer, goddamit. You have no jurisdiction here.”
Pratt said something to Colonel Virat who said something to Dean, the DEA agent, her line of lipstick growing thinner on her lips as she listened. She called Andrew over and said something to him and he looked even more pissed-off than she did.
“Get them the fuck out of my face,” said Andrew, pointing over at Naylor, who was sticking his tongue out at him. “I swear to god I’ll shoot your white ass if you don’t get out of here.”
That elephant’s toenail of a personality was getting filed right to the flesh and bone.
Jess showed the DEA agents his LAPD badge. “This man has been working with me on this case. He’s the one who found the drugs.”
“LAPD,” said Dean. “What are you doing here?”
“Working on assignment,” said Jess. “And what have you been doing in the US Embassy the last year with tons of drugs going into LA?”
“That’s the way you want to play it?” asked Dean.
“Jess is saying none of this could have happened without someone in the Embassy being involved,” said Calvino. “How do we know we can trust you?”
“Because you have no other choice,” said Dean.
It had started with that question that made Calvino an instant enemy. Jess had already rung the bell to begin a jurisdiction fight, like dogs kicking dirt and lifting their hind leg to piss against a wall in order to mark their turf and to guard their territory. If Darwin had studied cops rather than finches, he would have come to pretty much the same conclusions. Those who attacked aggressively accumulated the spoils, survived, prospered, had all the best yings, and got promoted and laid. Those who didn’t, well, they got through life by taking the kind of illegal drugs that were shipped from Bangkok inside the lining of coffins.
SOMETIMES things work out the way they are supposed to, or at least, on the surface a sense of order and success pops up like a bubble and floats towards the shore. Jess had phoned his commander from the plane, and briefed him on what was going down. His commander backed him all the way, even bringing him a uniform to the LAX. By the time Jess had changed into his police uniform, he still had time to observe as Kowit wandered into the cargo area wearing his dark undertaker’s suit, claiming the coffin. One reporter from the LA Times and another from Channel 4 News, dressed like airport janitors, pretended to be picking up trash as Kowit came to the counter. Both reporters owed favors to Jess’s commander, and this was going to be a big story. Thai LAPD officer Jessada Santisak was about to make news for organizing a major international drug bust.
Jess waited until Kowit took possession of the coffin before stepping out in the corridor to block his way. Panya and his three sons were one step behind him. When Kowit saw Panya with his sons surrounded by more than a dozen members of LAPD (who kept Dean and Andrew a few feet back), he turned a kind of hazel green color, and began wheezing as if he had an allergy attack. It was just his way of dealing with stress. Jess got his wish; he had been there to see Kowit take possession of the coffin, and he had been the arresting officer. He read Kowit his rights but Kowit wasn’t listening; he couldn’t take his eyes off Panya. Then Chaiwat came up to his father, then the other two brothers joined the old man. Kowit’s chin dropped, his head bowed. Jess had to ask him two times if he had heard and understood his rights. Kowit understood all right. His rights meant nothing.
“What are you doing, man?” asked Andrew as he bulled his way forward.
“Making the arrest.”
“He’s not yours to arrest.”
“Says who?” asked Jess’s commander.
“I am agent Dean, DEA, and we have this man in federal custody, sir.”
The Channel 4 cameras were rolling, cutting from Jess and Kowit to the Commander and Dean and Andrew.
“No, you have this man in federal custody,” said the commander, pointing at Panya. “If you would like to speak to the press on how you have any jurisdiction here, please feel free.” He walked away and left Dean and Andrew looking into the camera. Never had two DEA agents looked more uncomfortable as they turned away from the camera and pushed their way through the sea of LAPD and out of the cargo area. They had Panya and the sons cuffed and the camera caught them being marched away. The LA Times reporter already had his story and photographs.
The story was carried on page one.
Lax at LAX as Dead Mules smuggle drugs from Bangkok into LA
Dead body of alleged mastermind led to expose of drug ring
LAPD smashed an international drug ring in a dramatic arrest at LAX yesterday. LAPD narcotic undercover operation in Bangkok led to an expose of a Thai/American syndicate that has smuggled 40 million dollars worth of heroin into the United States in the past two years. Two and a half tons of heroin sailed through LAX in coffins of dead Americans shipped home from Thailand. In a final twist, police caught the operation smuggling the white powders in the coffin of an alleged mastermind.
A Thai-born LAPD narcotic officer, Jessada “Jess” Santisak, arrested a Thai-American funeral home director, Kowit Piboonchaitham, as he claimed possession of a coffin containing over 150 pounds of heroin yesterday. The coffin was supposedly containing the body of Daniel Ramsey, a Los Angeles native and an alleged mastermind of the drug smuggling ring. Mr. Piboonchaitham was identified at the scene in the media spot light by Panya Lerdsrisab, another funeral home director based in Bangkok, as a key player in the Bangkok-LA drug ring.
The recent sting operation followed Officer Santisakʼs arrest of Charn Pradit, a Thai national and a low-level drug dealer, in a hotel located on Hollywood and Vine in March last year. Mr. Pradit was later found to be linked with a larger drug smuggling network across the Pacific. The leads took Officer Santisak to Bangkok to investigate the route of large shipments of heroin, which authorities had failed to trace thus far.
Police found 150 pounds of heroin in Ziploc bags hidden in secret compartments constructed inside a luxury metal coffin, which also contained 8 pounds of Daniel Ramseyʼs ashes. According to Officer Santisak, this shipment was just one of many “routine” coffin shipments through LAX over the past two years. This dead mulesʼ scheme worked through a network of American nationals in Thailand operating with Thai nationals.
The Thai-American team reportedly took bodies of western men who were left unidentified and unclaimed in several Thai morgues. The team arranged to have the dead bodies identified by network of associates as those of American citizens and later shipped by air back to the US, using forged documents and false witnesses to obtain clearance papers from the US Embassy in Bangkok and the Thai Customs at the Bangkok International Airport. In each case, the deceased was cremated at a Thai temple in Bangkok and the body weight was made up in heroin. Each of the deceased went through Mr. Lerdsrisabʼs Bangkok-based funeral home and was claimed by Mr. Piboonchaitham at LAX.
As to why such smuggling operation of large magnitude, involving multiple layers of security, could have gone on for over two years, Officer Santisak said “This was probably not all that difficult because no one could imagine that drug dealers would use dead Americans as a cover for heroin shipments.”
An investigation has been launched by the Customs Department at LAX and other international airports to ensure all cargos, including remains of deceased Americans being returned for burial, have been searched for contraband.
In an exclusive interview with the LA Times, both funeral directors claimed being misled by the deceased LA native Daniel Ramsey, whom they insisted was the real mastermind behind the operation. Both also insisted that their respective funeral homes run a legitimate businesses. Mr. Lerdsrisab told the LA Times that neither he nor any of his
three sons, two of whom are graduates of the University of San Francisco had any prior knowledge of the drug shipment. The father and sons, who arrived in Los Angeles on the same flight from Bangkok as the LAPD officerʼs, are now in protective federal custody of the DEA.
Reliable sources in the Thai police confirmed that Daniel Ramsey was involved in the smuggling operation. The Thai authorities ruled Ramseyʼs death was a suicide but did not elaborate on the cause of his suicide. TJ Lopez, a Chicago native, is being held in a Thai prison on drug-related charges. According to the sources, Ramsey and Lopez searched hospital morgues in Bangkok and holiday resorts such as those in Phuket for bodies that could pass as Americans. An official at the State Department has said that the number of dead Americans in Thailand has increased in the past two years primarily through overdose cases.
According to LAPD Officer Santisak, neither Ramsey nor Lopez would have been able to make all the arrangements without the knowledge and active participation of others with local influence. The scheme worked in part because the LA-based funeral directorʼs name, Mr. Piboonchaitham, was on official papers stamped by the US Embassy in Bangkok. The Bangkok-based funeral director, Mr. Lerdsrisab, may have used local lawyers in Bangkok to walk the papers through the Embassy where officials had no suspicion of the smuggling operation.
LAPD Commander Saunders said LAPD was cooperating with the DEA in a full investigation of the smuggling operation.
EIGHTEEN
TRYING TO TELL the whole story in a newspaper article was like trying to give a summary of War and Peace. It wasn’t one story; it was many related stories. The miracle was that the reporter managed to get some of the facts right. Jess was back home, and for the first time, he was calling Los Angeles his hometown. “This is where I belong. I love America,” he said to the Channel 4 reporter. The papers talked about his kick-boxing trophies. And Jess looked the part: handsome, a winning smile and an ability to look straight into the camera and look totally sincere. That was the next day and by then the buffet had been laid out and the press dined like starved ship rats finding a bag of rice. One moment Jess had been just another cop and, a moment later, he was on his way to becoming a celebrity. What the LA Times reporter couldn’t have predicted was that within three days of his return, Jess’s life would change beyond recognition; his phone never stopped ringing. He got an unlisted number and he hired a secretary, a sister of his partner at Hollywood Division. Next thing he knew some producer for “Larry King Live” called and said they wanted him on the show: An all-American Buddhist hero. Cop extraordinaire. International Drug Buster. That was going to be the cutline on the TV screen throughout the show. A film producer, TV producer, literary agent, and two publishing houses left messages.
The night of the Larry King show, Calvino watched it at Father Andrew’s house in Klong Toey. Jess, wearing his pressed black LAPD uniform, sat across from King, looking like he had walked out of central casting’s A list for leading men. Jess had looked straight in the camera and said, “If it hadn’t been for Vincent Calvino and Colonel Prachai, I wouldn’t be here. I would have been killed in Bangkok. I owe these two men my life.”
“What did you do?” asked Father Andrew.
“Nothing. Not a damn thing,” Calvino replied.
Jack Mellows was upstairs above Lovejoy, and he screamed downstairs.
“Lek, get your ass up here! The cop who came here with Calvino is on Larry.”
Lek stood at the foot of the stair and shouted back, “Tell him to get off Larry, or at least to use a condom.”
“Smart-ass bitch.”
Jack had the kind of personality that would set off an airport metal detector.
IT seemed like a mountain of time had accumulated since Jess had returned to Los Angeles; in reality, it had been five weeks. Jess had phoned Calvino and asked for a favor; he wanted Calvino to deliver a message to Noi. Not a phone call or a messenger. He wanted a personal, hand-delivered message. “So long as it’s not a birthday card,” said Calvino. “Or if it’s a card, there better be some cash inside.”
It was about midnight on a weekday night when Calvino walked into the Hollywood nightclub to deliver Jess’s message. He had been in the Hollywood before, trailing a mia noi, a minor wife, who turned out to be less than faithful—she was on the payroll of at least two other men who were claiming mia noi rights. The nightclub hadn’t changed much since his last visit. Mid-week during a recession didn’t stop it from filling up with a vast sea of people. A galaxy of lights swept the crowds, showering them in vivid colors—blue, yellow, and green. Spotlights. Strobe lights. On the main stage were three musicians: a guitar player, drummer, keyboard player. Half a dozen dancers moved to the music. The place was packed, juiced, rocking and rolling. Maybe two thousand people were dancing at their tables. Yeah, dancing. Little round tables on chrome pedestals. Not a single farang face in the crowd. This Hollywood was not on the Causeway; it was a Thai place. Calvino slid onto an empty stool to the side of the main stage and ordered a beer. On stage a katoey singer in hot pants, low cut pink sequined top with those expensive, tailor-made breasts busting over the top, pranced around the guitar player who wore a boy scout shirt. Lace up black boots came up to her kneecaps and she belted out the theme song from Titanic. Little bits of silver paper sprinkled down from the ceiling onto the crowd. They loved it.
The katoey passed the mike to Noi who walked out on stage dressed in a white nun’s habit, her head covered in a white hood. A single spotlight shone on her as she kept her head bowed, fingers touching as if in prayer. She made the audience wait, standing there, a stark figure in pure white, a symbol of chastity and obedience. The band worked the audience playing riffs of rock ‘n roll, heavy metal, with some Blues thrown in. Three guitars, a drummer, a guy on an electrical keyboard were giving her a long lead-in. Slowly Noi slipped out of her nun’s habit and slowly pulled off the hood covering her head. She had shaved her head. Underneath the dress was nothing ever seen on a nun: tight fitting black leather pants, a leather sequin tank top that showed her belly button.
Jade: this was Noi’s new stage name. She had reinvented herself as an Isan singer. She looked up at the audience and started off with a joke: “How do you get to Isan from Bangkok?” She paused, then answered her own question, “You go to Saraburi and turn right.”
The music volume cranked up and she tore into the song, her voice taking over the audience as if no other sound could ever edge into that void, this place she was staking out as her own. She used the whole stage, shaking, bending forward, changing the mike from one hand to the other, then back. She sang, she pranced and danced, and she drove the crowd below into a frenzy. She owned them. They were going crazy, singing along and dancing at the tables. Two thousand people waving their arms, loving her, wanting her never to stop singing. She had always wanted control. Now she had found it in this place.
After it was all over and she walked away, Calvino tracked her down. He wanted some answers. And over a couple-of days period, Noi had told him a different story from the one Jess and he had heard in the hotel hong. She had nothing to lose. Why not tell the truth? She pulled the ying fast one—she swore that this was the real story. That Hollywood, Taurus, Pegasus, RCA, to mention just a few of the places, were where there were always buyers. In the toilets and parking lots and inside parked cars. Ramsey had hatched the dead mule idea. It should have been the name of a band, thought Calvino. Danny Ramsey had worked the audiences in all the major clubs. Selling drugs; there was no better place to find a captive market than a hot night club. But the retail end was drying up, as most of the rich kids wanted to use speed. Ramsey had met Noi backstage, told her that she had a terrific voice and that he could see her with a major career in LA. She was singing English songs. She would be the break-through female lead singer for Asians. The Whitney Houston of Asia. His contact was a guy named Gabe Holerstone who had a club in LA. Her story about being discovered on Silom Road at a table eating lunch with her office co-workers had
never happened. There had been no mystery guy. She had never been pregnant. These were all working elements of her pitch. Along with several lies. She had never worked in an office; had never been inside a university, had never lived with Gabe, and never had a kid. Not that any of that mattered. Danny did take her for a ride, pointed out that the real stars were made in the real Hollywood and not some bullshit nightclub in Bangkok. What she didn’t know was that Danny had figured out that he could use her to seal his deal with Kowit and the boys. No reason not to branch out into yings. Especially talented ones. And at the same time, she could give him all the information he wanted on Kowit; he knew this guy was a sucker for singers, and would do just about anything for one. Including giving a job to a worthless brother. Who really knew what was in Danny’s brain other than some hormones storming around each time Noi came on stage in one of her sexy costumes? He had (or so she wanted to believe) fallen a little in love with her and convinced himself that he was doing her a favour. TJ was some muscle that Danny liked having around, hanging out with, and let him do some low level selling. In return, Danny called in the debt, and arranged for TJ to put Calvino out of action. TJ was all mouth about his right crossover that was supposed to keep Calvino in the ICU for a couple of weeks. All he managed to do was break Calvino’s nose. It just might have worked out had a little bit of luck been working for them. But their luck ran out when the punch caused some damage but not enough. That had marked the beginning of the end.
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