by C. S. 96
We had to live as ghosts.
In fact, even in our next home, we could no longer embrace our neighbors or the community we lived in, all for the sake of operational security. Keeping anyone from my past from finding out where I lived was paramount, and that meant keeping nosy neighbors from learning what I now did for a living.
Inez was an incredibly nurturing mother, friend, and neighbor, and though she remained a loving wife and mother, doting on our children, I could tell this relocation took a piece of her away. We weren’t in the witness protection program, but it was damn close to it.
What I didn’t realize was how much I’d lose with my kids by deciding to become a CI.
I’ve always been a firm believer that time heals all, and in a short period of time my children acclimated to their new school and made friends rather quickly, though none of them were ever invited over to the house and they were never allowed to others’ houses—it’d be too easy a way to kidnap them and blackmail me. I couldn’t lower my guard on these rules, not until I was certain that my cover and new identity were wholly established and intact.
In place of the troop of our children’s friends we always used to have at our house, playing everything from wiffle ball to touch football, Inez enrolled our kids in school and community sports programs.
My son quickly became the star of the school basketball team as well as the town’s traveling team, earning the nickname “Little Kobe.” I tried to make as many of his games as I could, though I’d never go to watch him with Inez, so great were the risks of having him publicly tied to me. Rather, I would travel in a second car and then sneak into the auditorium just prior to the start of each game, find a spot hidden from the other parents and faculty, and watch from afar. It would kill me to watch him make an incredible play or shot and not be able to jump up and down with Inez like the other parents. But beyond that, what hurt even more was watching him after he made that incredible three-pointer then search the auditorium for his dad’s smile. I tried to counter that disappointment once he was home by recapping everything he did play by play, but it wasn’t the same for him, or any of my other children. At the trophy ceremonies and academic awards, I stayed hidden in the shadows. I can only hope that, in reading this, they understand how I shared in all their glory from afar.
Through it all Inez never complained, but I could tell the pressure behind worrying about me every time I walked out the door was eating at her.
Working Without a Weapon
As a newly minted CI, one of the biggest issues I had to deal with was my safety, as well as my family’s well-being. Safety had to be valued above all else—even any sense of personal redemption or paying back the debt I still owed to society—to allow me to keep working the job. One of the stipulations I had to agree to when I signed up, the one that was most frightening for me when I set out to be a CI, was that I was forbidden to carry a firearm—that was the law of the land and there was no way around it. If caught with a firearm, the deal I brokered with the U.S. Attorney’s office would be rescinded and I was back to square one.
Yes, I took chances in the very beginning when I was dealing with the Alliance Group during the cases where we’d taken out Tony and the Fuentes clan, always keeping a weapon close by in one of my hides. But I realized how foolish a move that was, because if Tony or anyone from my past wanted—or wants—to kill me, they’re going to kill me.
So how could I keep my family and myself safe without a weapon? I needed to learn to rely even more on the power of persuasion. Whenever I’d go to meet a new dealer, I’d wear tight clothes and sit down with my legs crossed so that the person I was meeting could see I didn’t have a hidden ankle holster securing a pistol. This immediately brought the level of anxiety down.
In the middle of a conversation I’d stop talking as if I’d just realized something of great importance. Then I’d study the subject, and if they wore clothing that indicated they might have a concealed weapon on them, I’d hold up my hands with the slightest bit of urgency and annoyance and ask, “Excuse me, but did you come to this first meeting carrying a weapon?”
One of two things would happen after that. If the client I was meeting was strapped, he’d apologize profusely, explaining with agonizing prudence that there was no malicious intent, going on and on about how dangerous a business we were in. If that were the case, I’d stand and explain why I never wore a gun, all rehearsed, of course. I’d speak in a tone that conveyed disappointment, like a dad scolding a child he’d caught in a lie. “Not only do weapons breed mistrust, but if someone in this line of work is carrying a strap to a first meeting, the trust I availed to them was not reciprocated and I’m extremely offended.” I’d continue the ruse by saying that I was first and foremost a businessman, not a gangster, nor would I work with gangsters. That I believed this policy was what kept me in this line of work so long without ever spending one day in jail. Then I’d walk away.
Inevitably, within the next hour, I’d get a call back from the subject, still apologizing for acting with such disrespect, with the added guarantee that at our next meet, “if I’d still be interested in working with them,” they’d be unarmed and would agree to be searched if I chose to do so. Once I received that call, I knew I had them, because they now looked at me with very different eyes—as a nonviolent businessman, an educated man, one who detests weapons and all that they breed.
The second scenario was the easiest; they’d smile and start removing their outer garments, proving to me they had come unarmed as well.
Becoming a really good CI meant immersing myself into the character I was portraying, and thinking of every possible scenario that could go wrong and expose me. I had to make these subjects believe every word I said and that they absolutely had to work with me.
Acting the Part
Another major hurdle to Inez’s and my social life came not because of the secrecy you maintain as a CI, but the lies you must imply. It wasn’t enough for me simply not to talk about what I did for a living; I had to suggest I was a drug pusher. And even then I could never stay totally protected.
I did so with my gold-and-diamond Rolex President, thick gold chains and bracelets, diamond rings, a Gucci silk shirt, a sleek Dolce and Gabbana silk suit, $3,000 saddle leather Prada shoes, capped off with a Louis Vuitton satchel. Well, it wasn’t hard to decipher what type of business I was in. The irony of this situation was that, when I was really in the life, I only wore those “flags” at meets with other dealers or out on the town with Tony and other high-end distributors. Once back home, partially in order not to bring attention to myself and partially because it was just my preference, I’d dress down.
The wardrobe made for some awkward situations. For example, as I entered a restaurant with Inez one night, a scene from the movie Scarface came into focus. Here I was—Tony Montana in the flesh—and I have to say it bothered me more than I thought it would, being on display like a monkey in a cage. I could only imagine how Inez felt, but she smiled and walked with her head held high.
We were seated, and before the water was even set down, the sommelier dashed to our table, indicating to both Inez and me that this was probably going to be one of the quickest meals we were ever going to order and eat.
We ordered the wine and tried to act like normal people, but my natural instinct kept my eyes moving around the restaurant for anything out of the ordinary, regardless of the fact that I was with Inez living at a remote site for an operation, way off the grid from where I had ever worked before. But you never know. I caught people staring at me, and when I locked eyes with them they’d quickly look away. I also noticed some of the staff near the kitchen huddled together, watching my every move, much the same as when Tony and I were in that Denny’s not so many years before. It took about fifteen minutes for the novelty of the scary drug dealer in the restaurant to wear off—and that’s when it happened.
I noticed a woman, a little older than Inez, hesitantly walking toward our table. Inez’s bac
k was to this woman and I could see she was trying to determine whether she knew Inez or not. When she was about four feet away from the table, she nervously held her hands up to me, trying to speak, though words at the moment seemed hard to come by for her. I smiled at her, trying to relax her. I was praying she did not know Inez, but I was wrong.
Inez turned to see what I was smiling at and there was an instant recognition. This woman was one of Inez’s professors from her physician’s assistant program, the one she abruptly left when we relocated, and I’m certain she had a million questions to ask. I also knew Inez probably was trying to think of some way to explain to this woman why she just up and left her studies in the middle of the year. This was not a good situation because we hadn’t talked about a scenario like this occurring and what to say if and when it did. We would rectify that that very night, and I’m only glad that it was in time to keep us from harm, if not to save us from embarrassment.
Once the professor realized it was in fact Inez, I could immediately sense her disappointment. I knew what she was thinking: How could Inez, this brilliant mother of four, be married to or, worse, be having an affair with this obvious drug dealer? Is he the reason she left school in such a hurry?
The woman’s body language was all wrong and Inez noticed; they had a really wooden exchange, and then Inez tried to introduce me but she was caught up in the awkwardness of the whole situation and didn’t know exactly how to introduce me. Should she use my birth name, because that was her married name as this professor knew her, or should she use our alias? I saw Inez turning red with embarrassment, and I was about to introduce myself to her when Inez finally settled with, “This is my husband, Tony.” The woman barely extended her hand for me to shake it, which I did. Once this exchange was over, the professor couldn’t get away from the table fast enough. Inez stood, hugged her, and then the professor made a beeline toward the exit.
I could see Inez was very upset because she also knew what the woman was thinking. I was embarrassed for the both of us. Though I tried my best to turn the evening around, it wasn’t going to happen. Inez barely spoke throughout the dinner and declined dessert—that’s when I knew my wife was preparing for a conversation that she would bring up at her own pace.
The moment we were in the car I apologized for placing her in that situation; she said nothing, not a word during the hour-long drive home.
As we approached our home, Inez finally spoke, and in the most plaintive and sad voice, she asked, “Is this the way it’s going to be for the rest of our lives?”
It was a really hard question to answer, but I couldn’t lie to her. “Yes, Inez, probably.”
“You’re wearing those clothes for a reason,” she said, “because you’re thinking that you might run into someone you’re trying to arrest, which means that I might meet one of those people, correct?”
I nodded my head. “But the chances of that happening are almost nonexistent because I’m dealing with people who would never be in a place like that, and all my cases are purposely far away. I’m only dressing like this to be totally prepared in case.”
She snapped back quickly, “Can’t you wear something other than those ridiculous clothes? You know who you look like, don’t you?”
Of course I knew. She associated all the bling and silk with Tony, and knowing who I looked like to her stung.
She continued, now with a surge of anger, “And why would you put me in that position. Do you have any idea how embarrassed I am?”
I didn’t have the words that could make her feel better. I just told her that when we were out together I would tone down the look so that I wouldn’t look so dead on. She just nodded her head without saying anything else and headed into the house.
We didn’t go out together alone for a very long time after that—more collateral damage of the work I was now doing.
However, some good did come out of that disastrous dinner. I decided to stick with one alias and would build one legend I’d use for the rest of my career, one that Inez would study and call me whenever we were out.
A Compromised Life
Running into Inez’s professor wouldn’t be the last time that I, or one of my cases, would be compromised. On two other occasions, after being compromised, I had to relocate my family. The last one occurred fifteen years after I had wrapped up a drug gang dealing meth in South Moreno Valley, California, a community in the Inland Empire. And that story points to one of the greatest dangers of CI work that only grows the longer you do it: the chance of having a run-in on the street with someone you’ve jailed.
When I was out in the street trolling for cases, I learned a number of tricks to get myself noticed. Of course, the cars I drove, my clothing, the bling, my attitude, all of it combined already had heads turning. Dealers know other dealers; they also know heavy players when they see them, and I looked like a heavy player.
One of the tricks to lure these cats in was the cartons of untaxed cigarettes I always kept in the trunk of my car—given to me by my federal friends at the ATF (Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms)—used as chum to reel in the bait that would eventually help me catch the bigger fish I was in the market for.
As I mentioned, I didn’t drink, nor did I smoke, but on occasion I had to pick up the nasty habit to draw further attention to myself. For some reason, hood rats, or small-time dealers, loved hanging out in front of corner markets or bodegas. Some of these markets sidelined in felonious businesses such as the tamer numbers racket, and still others would up their unscrupulous game by blatantly selling drugs such as cocaine, crack, meth, weed, or heroin, depending on the needs of neighborhood. These were the little markets I’d run surveillance on, sometimes days on end, making certain that they were selling more than just diapers, milk, and beer.
After watching a particular store for a few days I’d determine who was who in the neighborhood pecking order, picking out the lookouts, runners, street dealers, and all the way up to the lieutenants and shot callers.
Once I had all the information on the players, I’d make a number of runs into the store to buy beer or diapers or baby food, things that gave me reason to be there at some late hour. After a number of these runs at all hours of the day and night the locals would drop their guards and say, “Wussup,” or “The little one hungry tonight,” indicating the jars or powdered baby food I’d be buying at eleven o’clock at night.
I’d never rush these casual encounters because they were a rare chance to build rapport. I always had to wait for them to think they were approaching me. Seeing all of those flags I wore, and the different super expensive cars I’d roll up in, they knew exactly what my game was—the game I wanted them to think I was in.
Slowly I’d stop to talk, letting them in on my legend: I had a girl in the neighborhood, she just gave birth to our son and I was here to help her for a couple of months until she got on her feet. That gave me reason and purpose to be the new guy in the hood—and not just a dude who showed up out of nowhere, which would be highly suspect. They all bought into it because they wanted to. In the hood, money trumps all, and if you appear to have money, you’re either a mark or a guy to earn from.
Eventually, after I was a regular in the store, I’d make my move. I’d wait till the highest-level guys were out in front and I’d roll up.
On this particular day I passed by the players, said my hellos, then went in to buy a forty of beer. Once outside, as opposed to driving away in my luxury ride, I sat on the side of my car, opened the forty, and waited for this one particular dealer to come to me, which I knew he would.
His name was Devon; he was a big man, six-foot-three, easily three hundred pounds, and he was twenty-three years old at the time. He was admiring all of the aftermarket amenities I put into my car, and that’s when I opened up the car trunk and tore open one of the dozens of cartons of Marlboro lights that were stacked inside. I made certain to leave it opened until Devon saw the cartons of untaxed cigarettes.
Devon asked why
I had so many cartons of smokes, and I smiled, pulled one of the cartons out, and pointed to where the tax stamp should’ve been. There was none. He immediately understood, laughed, and banged fists with me. He now fully understood I was in the life; what he didn’t know was that he was now mine for the taking.
After a while of baiting Devon further—taking him out to lunch or dinners—he let me in on what they were slinging or selling in the area: meth was their drug of choice. He also told me business was slow because it was hard getting the ephedrine to make the meth.
Ephedrine, or “eph” as it’s referred to in the street, is the precursor in the drug, and the key component that gives methamphetamine users that “get up and go, go, and keep fucking going!” high. It is found in cold medicines like Sudafed, and since the DEA found out about this precursor, a mandate was sent to stores, pharmacies, and giant retailers, stating that they could only sell one pack of the cold medicine at a time to any one person, hoping to make it extremely difficult for the street cooks to make the drug. Everyone was looking for someone who had a connection for large quantities.
I casually told Devon I had a connect in Mexico, but that it wasn’t my game to sell the eph. My game was finding cooks to make the meth, and buyers who wanted to sell the meth.