by R C Cameron
She had a reddish tint in her face before. Now it was approaching firetruck red. Jennifer looked at me with a face saying, “don’t push your luck, buddy”. I understood the message, and I entered McBain’s office, not looking back, and joined Angelillo, leaving the two girls with different emotions.
“Which room have you reserved, Roberto?” asked McBain.
“Room 1.”
“Perfect. Next question: I’ll attend with Gomez behind the observation mirror. Anybody else we need there?”
I looked at Roberto; he turned towards me at the same time. Each one of us hoped the other one would answer the question.
“I see no problem in having Jennifer and Tianna present,” I said. “Strictly as observers,” I added.
McBain turned to Angelillo who raised his shoulders to show he didn’t mind or didn’t care.
“Then let’s go,” said McBain.
We left the office with McBain leading the march. As we walked past the girls, McBain just said: “Fall in.” It must have come from his military days. As I walked past the girls, none of them were smiling.
All five of us descended the main stairs and through a meander of offices and desks, we reached a wall with multiple doors; we stopped in front of Interrogation # 1. Gomez was waiting for us, the prisoner already seated and handcuffed inside. As Angelillo and I entered the room, Gomez was leading the rest of the assembly to the observation area.
I would finally meet the man eluding me for so long.
(--)
Lieutenant Angelillo leads the way into the small interrogation room, I follow. The room has no windows, just a large mirror adorns one wall. Everybody knows someone is behind it, looking and listening to the conversation. Otherwise, why have a mirror in the interrogation room. Wouldn’t it fit better in a bathroom?
A table sits in the center, two chairs on one side, a single one on the other. It makes up the only furniture. I move to the single chair, Angelillo sits beside Taylor. We both put our files on the table, mine is thin, his looks heavier.
“Mark, I’m Lieutenant Angelillo, this is Jason Tanner, he’s also an investigator.”
The choice of words is excellent. I am an investigator, but not with the Sheriff’s office. As Angelillo was introducing us, he stood up and removes Taylor’s handcuffs. It’s only to make him feel comfortable so he can open up with us.
“Cameras are present in the room and they record this session. They’re located there and over here,” as Angelillo pointed towards the ceiling on both occasions. He returns to his seat and consults his file folder.
“For the records, it is April 21st, it’s 10:35am, I’m Lieutenant Roberto Angelillo, we have Jason Tanner in here and the suspect’s name is…?”
“Mark Taylor.”
“Good, before we start Mark, I want to inform you of your rights: you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you by the court. With these rights in mind, are you still willing to talk with us?”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” Mark responded in a hurry. Like 80% of the people arrested in the country, he chooses not to have representation by counsel. A bad move already.
“Fine, let’s begin then. The Miami-Dade police are looking for you, Mark. Your sister reported you missing. What’s her name?”
“Nadine.”
“You were last seen working in a Miami Beach bar, do you remember what day it was?”
“I believe it was in September last year, maybe around the 9th or the 10th.”
Angelillo was following the game plan. To have the suspect use the “memory” side of his brain to answer, Angelillo presented innocent question first. And in both cases, I observed Mark’s eyes shift to the right. When the suspect moves them upward or to the left, he’s using his cognitive center to develop an answer. If the question is “where were you on such a date?” and he responds with his “memory” side, it’s a positive sign. If he answers using the creativity side, he may make it up. The technique works pretty well, but we need to pay attention to the small details.
Looking at his file, Angelillo continued: “makes sense, you were last seen working behind the bar at the Black Cat on September 10th, a Friday. Is that what you’re saying?”
“If Friday was the 10th, then yes, that was my last workday,” Mark answered.
“What happened next?” I asked the open-ended innocent question in a low, friendly tone of voice. Taylor turned in my direction, and I noticed his eyes looking upward before continuing.
“Well, they offered me to meet the real owner of the bar in Marathon. Nelson was the front man but not the real owner. My DEA infiltration had brought me at the Black Cat, a pivotal location for drug distribution in Miami. I needed to go a step further if I wanted to discover who was behind these drug distributors.”
“Hold on a second,” Angelillo interjected. “Are you telling us you were gathering information for the DEA about this gang?”
“That was my play, yes! I was deep undercover to gather enough evidence about them. Your raid yesterday came in too early. I wanted to pull the plug myself. I was just waiting for the big boss to arrive. Your operation scared him away for sure now.”
Silence fell in the room. So this was his defense. He had not joined the gang but rather went undercover as a DEA informant to catch them. I looked at Angelillo and with a quick head sign, showed we needed to regroup outside.
“Let’s take a break Mark. Do you want anything? Coffee? Water?” asked Angelillo.
“Water please.”
Both the Lieutenant and I gathered our files, got up, and walked out of the interrogation room. As we exited, we saw Gomez arriving with a bottle of water. He would bring it in and stay with the suspect until we returned. Right behind him, McBain arrived and the three of us found a quiet space to confer and regroup.
“So that’s his defense, he’s working for the DEA, do you guys think it’s possible?” asked McBain.
“I’m uncertain we can disprove his statement just yet,” said Angelillo.
“He has not contacted his handler at the DEA for a while, Ms. Hester will vouch to this,” I added.
A detective walked our way and handed Angelillo a note. He read it, then said, “Hold on for a few minutes.”
We chit-chatted while waiting for Angelillo who took longer than previously announced. Fifteen minutes later he walked in our direction, smiling, and said: “Let’s go back in. Take the lead on the DEA situation, will you Jason?” Angelillo asked.
“Sure.”
We walked back inside the interrogation room and took our respective seat. I started the conversation.
“Mark, you’re telling us you’re a DEA informant, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“When did you start working with the DEA?”
I kept looking at his eyes and they shifted right before he answered: “About two years now.” We already knew he was an informant once, no reason to lie here.
“OK, as a source, did you have a handler, a person you reported to?”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
A small pause but then: “Tianna Hester.”
“And she was your handler from the beginning?”
“Yes, she was, I met nobody else.”
Just like at the FBI, a single person controls the informant relationship, it's simpler that way and limits the number of people who could identify the source.
“So, she’s the only person you communicated with,” I continued.
“Yes.”
“How did you contact Tianna?”
“A few times we met in person, but on most occasions, by phone.”
“That’s strange Mark. We looked at your phone records, and you did not make one call to or from Ms. Hester, how do you explain this?”
This time the response was longer in coming, and his eye movement was upward.
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“The gang got me a new phone once I moved to Marathon, and I was afraid they would monitor my calls or listen in. I have not contacted Ms. Hester for a while. But she’s the one I would contact to intervene here.”
“Makes sense Mark, but plenty of ways to communicate in our world today are available you know? Public phones, other people’s phones, e-mail, and confidential phone messaging apps, just to name a few. You didn’t discover one other way to get in touch?”
“I was afraid they would discover me.”
Angelillo looked at me and retook the lead.
“Were you confined to the house?” asked Angelillo.
“No, but if I had to go out, somebody was always with me, it’s the rule of the house and everybody follows it.”
“And who would accompany you?”
“Sometimes Nelson, but mostly one or both of his bodyguards.”
“All the time?”
“Yes.”
“How did you meet Yang Nelson?” inquired Angelillo.
“We had a mutual friend who introduced us, at the beach. We both surf and that’s how we met. While talking one day, he mentions he owns a bar, and I say funny, I’m a bartender myself. We both laughed but a few weeks later, he asks me to replace a sick employee and that’s the first time I worked there. I knew the place was on the DEA surveillance list, so I kept my eyes and ears open.”
“Then?”
“One day, Nelson asks me if I wanted to meet his partner in the bar. He talked about him before, but I never met him. I figured it would be a good idea to know him.”
“And what was your response?” asked Angelillo.
“I accepted right away. After my shift at the Black Cat, we would drive to Marathon. Nelson’s partner is a yacht captain and happened to be in the Keys over the weekend.”
“You drove down alone?”
“No, no, I jumped in with two associates of Nelson, Asians, Sato, and Watanabe, we call them Bill and Bob, it’s easier.”
I opened the file in front of me and pulled the photo of Nelson with the two Asians on the beach. I placed it in front of Taylor and asked: “These two individuals?” He looked at the image and said: “Difficult, I don’t see their face. But that’s the way they dress for the beach.” I retrieved the picture and returned it in my file.
“What happened next?” I asked.
“We drove to Marathon and arrived in the middle of the night, it’s a few hours’ drives and my shift ended at midnight. I made reservations at a cheap motel, and we crashed there for a while. The captain was unavailable at first, so we fooled around, had drinks and waited until Sunday to rendezvous with him.”
“Where did you meet him?” I continued.
“A local bar, I don’t remember which one.”
“And who was present?” I questioned,
“Other than me, Bill, Bob and the captain, Brad Scott,” Taylor answered.
“Can you describe him?”
“I would say around six feet tall, short black hair, blue eyes, protruding jaw, tanned, and he wears a small tattoo on his right temple, looks like an animal but I’m uncertain. Everyone seemed to take their orders from him, even Nelson.”
Taylor correctly described Bruce Steiner. The one thing our raid on the Marathon residences missed was the main man himself. Pity.
Angelillo smiled and didn’t say a word. I understood he wanted me to handle this aspect of the talk.
“What discussions took place then?” I continued.
“Scott did most of the talking, Billy-Bob just sat there. We discussed the distribution strategy. The hand-to-hand typical drug delivery was problematic if you wanted to increase the volume. I don’t know how the subject came about but soon, we talked about electronic commerce applications once I informed him I once specialized on the subject. That’s when he got excited. Nelson’s girlfriend already operated a small commerce site for her vitamins. He suggested we do the same thing for the products he sold. I explained how one business could hide the other and how we could take in payments electronically and then ship products anywhere.”
“Was he interested?” I asked.
“If he was? He thought the concept would be unique and foolproof. He was smiling a lot.”
“And then?”
“He took me to the compound on 92nd Street, showed me around, and gave me my new responsibilities. Starting now, I was to set up the distribution system and work only for them. He stated I was to concentrate solely on this project and do nothing else. Billy-Bob would see to it I concentrated my efforts right here in Marathon. He had forbidden communications with the outside world until further notice. He would pay my consulting fees plus a little more for the inconvenience.”
“And how much was that?” asked Angelillo.
“I would receive $1,000 cash every week in an envelope for my services. I figured this approach provided me with a good cover. At the appropriate time, I would inform the DEA in order they arrest the gang and close the manufacturing plant."
“But you never called the DEA.”
“As I explained before, I wanted the top man to be present,” shouted Taylor.
Angelillo pulled the file someone handed him in the corridor in the middle of the small table. He extracted an 8x10 glossy picture and put it in front of Taylor who bent over, looked at it, and leaned back. Pointing at a man in the middle, Angelillo asked: “Do you recognize this individual?”
“Hard to say from that distance,” answered Taylor.
Angelillo put another picture in front of him, this time blown up. Mark Taylor’s face appeared.
“And now?”
“Looks like me.”
“For the records, the First State Bank of the Florida Keys, here in Marathon, provided these two pictures taken October 15th, at 11 AM. Now, Mark, do you see Nelson or his bodyguards in the picture?”
“They were waiting in the car, outside. They’ve done this before,” he suggested.
“It could well be. But would that not provide you a fine occasion to call your DEA handler?”
“I met a representative of the bank and after I filled out the paperwork, it was time to leave.”
“Well, that’s not the reason I showed you these pictures. At least not to presume you had plenty of opportunities to reach out to your handler. No, they take these images when a new customer opens an account.” As he said this, he slipped a third picture, of Mark Taylor’s face, in front of him. “The person on this photo opened a bank account under the name Mark Patry.”
Taylor was silent, so was Angelillo, letting the news sink in. He picked up a moment later by presenting Mark a clear evidence bag with a Florida driver’s license inside. “Besides all the drug manufacturing equipment found on site, we located this fake driver’s license with your picture, under the name Mark Patry. Any idea why?”
“Part of my DEA cover,” replied Taylor.
Angelillo doubted and just said: “Sure.” He flipped pages from his file and then stopped and looked at Taylor. “Mark, do you know how they divided the revenues from the vitamin and drug sales? You managed the commerce platform where customers paid immediately.”
“I’m not sure. I made certain everything operated correctly.”
“We asked for the FBI digital forensic team yesterday, they’re working next door going through the computer systems seized on site. Their resolve financial crimes around the country and are focusing on the platform you helped put together. They quickly found the trick used to separate the vitamin purchasers from the drug users. But we asked them to ‘follow the money’ and that’s where it got interesting.”
Taylor shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. He glanced at Angelillo.
“The forensic team gave me their initial appraisal this morning. The revenues from the sale of vitamins and drugs all ended up in the business’s operating account at Bank of America’s downtown Miami branch. So far it’s not complicated, but I’ll spare you the details because you probably know them better than
me. The result is the net revenues, the profits if you wish, are divided between three groups: Sailing the Atlantic, Black Cat Management and Vitamin World of Asia.”
“Who are behind these corporations, Mark?” questioned Angelillo.
“Sailing the Atlantic is Scott’s corporation. Black Cat is Yang Nelson, and Vitamin World is Sun My’s company. They shared the profits among these three, the proportions I ignore.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yes, these were the people running the operation, normal they share the profits. So now, you have enough information to convict them of drug manufacturing, sales, and distribution. The DEA should be happy with these results, it took time, but now it’s done.” Taylor sat back, crossed his arms in front of him, happy with his performance. He looked proud of his accomplishments.
“Except one little thing Mark,” Angelillo snarled. We both turned towards him, waiting for the big reveal. He extracted another sheet of paper from his file and referred to it while presenting the information.
“The forensic team looked for the daily Paypal report which shows all transfers of money using that tool, in and out. It seems a lot of the customers like to pay their purchases with Paypal. To their surprise, they found no report. Digging deeper, they located a daemon, whatever this is.”
I stepped in with the little knowledge I had: “It’s a background program that runs all the time, like in the shadows.” Angelillo looked at me, his expression told me he did not fully understand the answer. But he continued anyway.
“This ‘daemon’, I’m told, kept erasing all the regular PayPal reports so no one would see them. Why would that be, Mark?”
“No idea,” as his eyes shifted upward once more.
“So the team launched the PayPal manual report and guess what? It listed the transactions coming IN and, some going OUT. The system transfers money from the business operations to a bank account at the First State Bank of the Florida Keys. And who owns this account?” Angelillo was on a run, his voice even sounded theatrical.
“It belongs to a Mark Patry, whose picture you have seen recently. The bank even gave us today’s balance, there are over a million dollars in it. How do you explain that one, Mister DEA informant?”