by Joe Field
“Holy smokes. This is a big deal. What did your trace results find?”
“Nothing on Tank, but Smokey has a long profile on NCIC. I correlated that with his photo from his driver’s license tied to his vehicle. His real name is Tyrone Carter, and he’s been busted twice already in Minnesota on drug charges. In 1999 he was convicted of trafficking large amounts of cocaine. In 2008, he was caught with more than three thousand OxyContin pills. Following that arrest, he was sentenced to five years in prison, but he got out on good behavior at the end of 2011.”
I was typing furiously on my computer as Junior talked. My blood was pumping fast.
“That’s all I have, but it should get you started. Also, a word to the wise, make sure to play ball with the DEA. If you don’t, they can find ways to make your life miserable.”
“Thanks, I’ll pay you back with a nice steak dinner next time I’m up in Duluth.”
“Deal, now it’s time for hot dish. Later.”
“Eat some for me. Thanks again – bye.”
Just as I lifted the phone away from my ear, a loud knock sounded at my door.
I crept to the door and peeked through the eyehole. I saw two men flashing their credentials. Wow, these guys moved fast.
I slid the door open and asked, “How can I help you gentlemen?”
“Mr. Smith?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Agent Sosa, and this is my partner Agent Lindberg. We’re with the Drug Enforcement Administration and we need a few minutes of your time to ask you some questions.”
“Not a problem. Can I look at your badges and credentials first?”
“Sure,” they said in unison, handing them over to me for inspection.
I had no idea what I was actually looking for, but these badges seemed legit. The names on the credentials read Special Agents Sam Sosa and Cal Lindberg.
“Any relation to the baseball player?” I asked Sosa.
“The slugger goes by Sammy. I’m just Sam.” Sosa’s voice sounded weary, as though he had heard that question one too many times in his life.
“Come on in. Can I get you guys something to drink?”
“Coffee is fine if you have it,” said Lindberg.
“Sure. Make yourselves at home while I prepare it.”
I gestured toward the couch, an IKEA special so uncomfortable you would have to go to a chiropractor if you ever accidently fell asleep on it. I luckily had some J & S Bean Factory coffee beans already grinded, and I began to prepare a fresh pot for the agents. I glanced into the living room and noticed they were both looking around my apartment. I had little for them to go on – unless my minimalism itself was a clue for the trained agents.
Sosa appeared to be of Hispanic descent. He was my height, with short dark hair, and a clean-shaven face. He wore a tight muscle shirt under a blue blazer. He clearly hit the free weights hard at the gym. He wore jeans and dress shoes, and he moved with confidence and authority. Lindberg was a tall and thin, pale, balding white man with a short, trim beard. He wore a long-sleeved button-up shirt with a black blazer, jeans, and dress shoes. He seemed to be second fiddle to Sosa.
“Any cream or sugar?” I asked.
“Black,” both replied in unison.
“Have you two been partners long?”
“Why?” they both asked, looking at me.
“Well, you’ve been here for all of three minutes and you’ve spoken in perfect unison three times already.”
They frowned. I came out into the living room while the coffee was brewing. The agents awkwardly squeezed together on the love-seat couch, and I sat on my Swiss exercise ball that doubled as my office chair.
“Mr. Smith–”
“Call me Cooper, please.”
“Okay, Cooper,” said Sosa. “We talked to your brother about what happened up in Hibbing. He told us about your meeting with an old college friend, and about your interest in Brown Sugar.”
“My friend was Ricky Johnson, and he was killed last night. I just found out.”
“We are sorry to hear about the loss of your friend – we found out early this morning,” said Lindberg.
“I understand you are working on a story for MPR,” said Sosa. “We need to know what you have so far, because we’re in the midst of an ongoing investigation.”
“Don’t spare any details,” said Lindberg.
I proceeded to tell them what little I knew about Brown Sugar and Smokey. I talked about my meeting with Ricky, and mentioned my surprise about his recent death. I said I had planned to talk to my managing editor in the morning about running with the story. The agents mostly nodded and jotted down a few notes.
“Did Mr. Johnson tell you what he was asked to do for Smokey?” asked Sosa.
“Well, he said that this Tank fellow wanted him to be a new dealer for them in the Iron Range region.”
“Did Mr. Johnson say anything else?” asked Lindberg.
“Nothing significant that I remember, except he did mention this was some of the best product out on the market in terms of its purity. I guess addicts are raving over it.”
The agents finished writing and looked up.
“Can you grab that coffee for us? I think it may be ready,” said Sosa.
“Sure, one minute.”
As I walked back to the kitchen I could hear them whispering. I assumed they were planning their next move, maybe debating whether they needed to call their supervisors. Whatever they need to do next, I hoped it didn’t involve long interrogations in small concrete rooms. I brought two cups of coffee out for them, and they both had to set down their notebooks because I had no coffee table for them to place their cups on.
“Cooper, we know you are working on a story,” said Sosa, “but we cannot let you run that story right now, or anytime soon.”
“I’m just getting started on it, so I still need some time.” I paused. “But as you know, this could be a big story, so I can’t wait forever.”
Sosa leaned toward me. “You see, we have an active investigation against Smokey and many more individuals tied to him. If you run the story too soon, everyone, including Smokey, will go underground. They will get away, and we will have to start from scratch,” said Sosa.
“How much time do you need?” I asked.
“Four months,” said Sosa.
Four months would put me in November. By then I would already be married, working with Soojin in my free time on the Governor’s re-election campaign, and getting ready to leave for Europe. Soojin and I had agreed to postpone our honeymoon until November, after the busy election season had finished. I might not even have a job four months from now without a story like this under my belt.
“I don’t know how long this story will take to produce, but I know I’ll need a shorter timeline. I’m getting married on Labor Day weekend, and this story needs to run by then. That’s seven weeks from now. Would that work for you?”
“Mr. Smith,” said Sosa sternly, reverting back to addressing me formally, “Congratulations and all of that on your upcoming wedding, but this is serious. If you run the story too early, these drug suppliers and dealers will get away, and more innocent people will become addicts. Or worse, there will be more victims like your friend, Mr. Johnson.”
I flinched. “You don’t have to throw my friend’s death in my face. I will talk to my editor tomorrow, and he will likely want me to run with the story right away. He won’t care about your timeline.”
“Okay, how about this,” said Sosa. “We agree to work with you and share things on the case when we can, if you agree to be flexible on running your story. You can run it one minute after we take these guys down. You’ll be the first one with the inside scoop.”
I thought about something Junior mentioned earlier. These agents could probably put me in a really bad situation. Sosa was right about something though. In the news world, if you ain’t first, you’re last, just like Will Ferrell’s character Ricky Bobby said in Talladega Nights. If these agents were
genuine in their offer to share information, I could come out ahead in the deal and still be the first with the story. I decided to play ball.
“All right, Agents Sosa and Lindberg. Just give me a few days to talk to my editor and attend Ricky’s funeral. Then, I’ll get back to you.”
“Great, Cooper. Take as much time as you need. We look forward to working with you,” said Sosa. “Can you give us some of your contact information so we can be in touch?”
“Absolutely. Let me give you my business card.”
I reached into my pocket to fish out my wallet. In the process, the packet of Brown Sugar spilled out onto the floor. I froze.
“What is that?” demanded Lindberg.
“Mr. Smith, what is that?” repeated Sosa, pointing at the packet.
You have got to be kidding me. I didn’t know what to say, so I told the truth about how Ricky gave it to me so I could use it for the story. They had all the leverage on me now. Way to blow it, Cooper Smith. Lindberg scooped it off the ground.
“That’s Brown Sugar,” Lindberg said, handing it to Sosa.
“Well, well, well. Looks like you are taking investigative journalism to a whole new level,” said Sosa, tucking the packet into his inside blazer pocket.
I nodded in embarrassment, but was glad they weren’t arresting me for it. Yet.
“You will share any new developments on this story with me personally,” said Sosa, handing me his card after I passed him mine. “Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes, Agent Sosa. We have an understanding.”
“Good. Let’s go, Agent Lindberg. Our meeting here is done.”
They both set their coffee mugs on the kitchen table on their way to the door. Lindberg went out into the hallway. Sosa stopped in the doorway and looked back at me. He pulled the Brown Sugar packet out of his pocket and waved it at me with a smile.
“Remember, if you find anything at all I want the details right away,” he said.
I just stood there dumbfounded, then decided to salute Sosa in agreement. His smile turned into a slight head nod, and with that he slid into the hallway and slammed the door behind him. I was afraid my chance at my first major story had just slammed shut with it.
Chapter 5
Chicago, IL
Chicago’s South Side was often referred to as Chi-raq, said to be as treacherous as war-torn Iraq. On a hot, humid, Sunday night, Tank and Smokey drove into the South Side’s Englewood community, arguably one of the most dangerous communities in Chicago, if not the entire United States. Tank was driving a used Ford Explorer, instead of Smokey’s Cadillac Escalade. Where they were headed, an Escalade would be a prime target.
Smokey watched for the Salvation Army on Sixty-Ninth Street. When they spotted it, Tank turned right and headed south on Green Street. After another 200 meters, Tank turned right again so they were directly behind the Salvation Army. Then, Tank took an immediate left down the alley and counted off five buildings. The safe house was the fifth building on their left. They pulled into a wooded area off the alley behind the garage, and waited.
“Has he sent the message yet?” asked Tank.
Smokey checked his phone. Sure enough, he had a message asking him to flash his front lights twice and turn off the engine.
“Flash the lights twice and kill the engine,” Smokey said.
Tank did as instructed, and a few seconds later, two short, stalky men came out of the garage toward the Explorer, one on each side. Smokey and Tank got out of the vehicle and spread their arms and legs. They had been told to leave all of their weapons in the vehicle, and they obliged. The two men, who Smokey could now see were Latinos, searched them over thoroughly for weapons and wires. Once finished, they all walked toward an old, beat-up garage, not saying a word.
Inside, the garage was empty except for a metal detector in the middle of the floor with two collapsible chairs on either side of it. Smokey could now see the Latinos had full-sleeve tattoos on both arms. They wore baggy black t-shirts and blue jeans.
They motioned for Smokey and Tank to go through the metal detector. Before doing so, Tank slowly pulled out a knife that was concealed inside his boot. He threw it down on the floor. Once they were successfully through the metal detector they were led to the back of the safe house. It was a two-story brick building forty years past its prime. They followed the Latinos up the stairs to a second-floor bedroom in the middle of the house. The person Smokey had come to meet sat smoking a cigar behind a desk in a barren room.
“Hello, Captain. It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” said Smokey.
“Smokey, please, sit down.” Captain motioned to the two chairs in front of his desk.
Smokey eyed the man known simply as Captain. His nickname came from the rank he held in the Mexican Army before joining up with the drug trade and moving to Chicago. People said he was in deep with the Los Zetas Cartel, but Smokey wasn’t in a position to confirm this. Captain had an American mother, so the Cartel sent him north as their most trusted man in the Midwest. He was in his mid-fifties and had dark, leathery skin. His oversized forehead and nose, contrasted with his small, beady eyes. He had tattoos of guns up his neck and down his arms. He wore a white wife-beater tank top and sat relaxed behind his desk as he continued to suck down his cigar.
Smokey had struck up a friendship with a man named Rodriguez, one of Captain’s close, trusted men, while they were both serving time in the Stillwater prison in Minnesota. Rodriguez was still doing hard time for a first-degree murder he committed in Minneapolis a few years ago. Word on the street was that Rodriguez had taken out one of Captain’s primary dealers in Minnesota when he was found to be disloyal. Smokey vowed not to make the same mistake.
“I’ve heard a lot about you from Rodriguez,” said Smokey. “He said you take care of those who work with and for you.”
“Which means he told you what I do to those who cross me, right?” Captain pulled a large, bowie knife out of a drawer and set it on the table between him and Smokey. “Of course, I know I won’t have that problem with you. Rodriguez vouched for you, and I trust him. He has sound judgment, and this knife here is real sharp.”
“Thanks, Captain. I know you are a busy and important man, so I will keep this brief. We drove down from Minneapolis because we need more supply. The product you’ve sold to us is so good that demand has skyrocketed. I’d like to triple my monthly order, if possible.”
Captain slowly looked Smokey up and down. “I’m pleased by this. As you know, we take on a lot of risks smuggling our product up here from Mexico, and at times the supply can be depleted. Lucky for you, we should be getting a new shipment sometime in the next week. If all goes as planned instead of the usual one-kilo per month, we can offer you three kilos. There will be more where that comes from in the future, but start with three per month and keep me posted on your progress. Are you still primarily selling to those Indians up on the reservations?”
“They are our main customers right now, but we are trying to branch into other parts of the state, and possibly into North Dakota as well,” said Smokey.
“Good. Once the shipment arrives I’ll have one of my men meet your guy mid-way in Wisconsin. I’ll email you the specific pick-up location closer to the date,” said Captain.
“Perfect. Thanks, Captain. Now, we’ll head out to make us all some more money.”
“Keep this up, and we will all be extremely wealthy and healthy men. Mess up, and you’ll be crying like a little girl wishing you were dead. That goes for the big gorilla there, too.” Captain pointed his knife at Tank. “We will have fun cutting him up piece by piece.”
Tank flexed his muscles but Smokey put his hand on Tank’s massive forearm.
“Just keep the shipments coming, and we will move the product,” said Smokey. “Thank you for your time. We will wait for word on the new shipment.”
Captain didn’t respond, just took a puff of his cigar and nodded toward the door. Smokey pulled Tank up and away from the desk
, and the two strode out of the room without looking back. Tank grabbed his knife from the floor of the garage on his way out, and they jumped in the Explorer and took off.
Smokey and Tank normally put the fear of God into other people, but they knew what a serious Mexican cartel could do to you if you ended up on its black list. Smokey didn’t want to venture down that road. Both men held their breaths and watched the rear-view mirrors until they reached the city limits and hit I-90 West. From there, it was interstate all the way back to Minnesota.
Chapter 6
Saint Paul, MN
My alarm clock showed 6:21 am on Monday morning. Two lousy hours of sleep, what a great start to the week. I had tossed and turned all night thinking about everything that had transpired over the long holiday weekend. The family reunion seemed like a blur after the meeting with Ricky, and then the discovery of his death last night. Of course, the meeting with the DEA was the cherry on top that sent my head into the ultimate tailspin.
I decided a brisk morning walk would help clear my mind and wake me up. The main MPR office is located in downtown Saint Paul on Cedar Street. It is less than two miles from my apartment, and it took exactly thirty-one minutes to walk there.
I set out on foot, heading east on Selby Avenue and thinking about my upcoming meeting with Bill Anderson. Wild Bill, as we called him, was known for flying off the handle unexpectedly. Although, was it really unexpected if it happened every meeting? I wondered. I decided I was going to give him all of the facts and press hard to run with the story. I was a junior employee and I knew it, but this was my story. It was time for me to prove I could do more than funny interviews at the Minnesota State Fair or behind-the-scenes stories at a Vikings game. This was the news story I was born to chase. And getting it would mean I could also bring down the thugs who killed Ricky.