Tyranny of a Lover...Diary of the Wife of an Undercover informant

by Janet J. White

  Now, what about me? Did I want to do it? No, it was too dangerous. Could I handle the stress? Probably not. However, my involvement would be minor compared to Dick's. Another factor was that I liked Clark and Jackson on a personal level, although I disapproved of how they made a living. Could I play a part in putting them in prison? I'd detest that, but I'd have no say in the matter. What about the possible financial gain? Sure, we all need funds to live. However, Dick's blueprint for reaping millions of dollars seemed like wishful thinking. Would his ego get in the way? If he, all too full of himself, tried to do the job without the advice and protection of a good attorney, that could spell disaster.

  And then there was something else. If I did not agree to help Dick and he continued to walk on the wrong side of the law, I'd have to file for divorce. I had to be honest with myself. After all that had happened, I still loved him and wanted our marriage to work.

  All told, Dick working for our government simply had to be the best choice.

  I returned home. Seated at the desk, legal pad in hand, Dick looked up questioningly.

  I sat down next to the desk in the chair that was no longer covered with the Alpaca fur. "Let me begin by saying that it's one heck of an undertaking and I'm terribly frightened about the whole thing. It's impossible to imagine what would be involved in a covert operation. And I couldn't be a party to this unless you can guarantee your willingness to put aside any false pride in thinking that you can do the job alone. That means, first and foremost, hiring the best possible attorney to protect us."

  "Believe me, Honey, my life is just as dear to me as yours is to you. I swear on my father's grave I'll find the best lawyer that money can buy. I won't try to go it alone. Will you help me? Will you do it?"

  "Yes, Dick. As you said, I'd rather have you working on the right, rather than on the wrong, side of the law. I'll try to do my part."

  "Great, Pussycat." He jumped to his feet. "This calls for some bubbly. I'll get a bottle of champagne from the fridge. In the meantime, why don't you think of a code name for the operation."

  In a flash he was back in the office, a big grin on his face and a bottle of champagne and two long-stemmed flutes cradled in his massive arms. He poured the wine and touched his glass to mine, his whole demeanor radiating happiness. "Here's to you and to me and to...what shall we call it?"

  Sipping the champagne, I hesitated, then lifted my head. "How about Operation Fuzzball?"

  Dick laughed. "Operation Fuzzball? How did you come up with that name?"

  "Well, everyone knows that a fuzzball is a nasty bit of lint and dust that rolls along the floor, growing larger and dirtier, before ending up in some dark corner."

  Dick danced around the room, picked up his glass and whooped, "I love it! That's it then. Let's drink to "Operation Fuzzball."

  Our goblets clinked. "To Operation Fuzzball."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A Garden Party

  "If a man harbors any sort of fear, it makes him landlord to a ghost."

  -- Lloyd Douglas

  As the sun began to set on the evening of October 13, 1981, two days after our champagne toast to "Operation Fuzzball," the first meeting with the FBI took place at a picnic bench in a nearby park.

  "There they are," Dick noted. "Circling the area like sharks coming in for the kill. I've already got their license plate number memorized."

  Two men in gray suits approached the picnic table, looked us over carefully and, without a word, sat opposite us. The taller of the two men spoke first. "Hello. You're Dick and Jennifer Lee?"

  "Yes, that's right," Dick said.

  "I'm Special Agent Sonny Knight with the FBI, and I'll be your primary contact."

  "I'm with the DEA," the second man offered. "That's the Drug Enforcement Administration, and I'm here as an observer." We all shook hands.

  Dick's glance swept over both men. Not wasting any time, he blurted out, "Just so there's no misunderstanding, I want everybody concerned to know that I'm not getting involved in this business for the American flag or Mom's apple pie. I'm doing it for the American dollar and no other reason. Nothing else counts with me. Big numbers is the only reason I'd put my life or my wife's life on the line. Understand?"

  FBI agent, Sonny Knight nodded dispassionately. "What do you have for us?"

  "Just to get things rolling," Dick began, "and so you'll know I'm not blowing smoke at you, here's a list of twelve items about a drug smuggling operation whose major participants live right here in Sarasota."

  Sonny Knight took the legal-sized sheet of yellow paper, briefly glanced at it, folded it in half, leaned his arm across it, looked at Dick and said nothing.

  Dick waited for the agent to speak. He didn't. Dick finally broke the silence. "The list tells where the drugs come from and where they land--quantity, ship names, dates, locations, phony corporations, flow of monies, and a smattering of who's who in the organization. In addition, I've got a tidbit that you can check out right now."

  Sonny folded the yellow sheet of paper once more, tucked it in his jacket pocket and took out a pen and a small tablet. He wrote while Dick talked. "A ship named `Captain Odes' is on its way into port at Arkansas Pass in Corpus Christi, Texas. It's loaded with drugs. Check it out, Sonny."

  "I will," the man replied. "Anything else?"

  Dick shook his head. "That's it for now."

  "Okay." Sonny and the DEA agent rose to leave. "Maybe we'll talk again."

  "Could be," Dick said, half standing. "So long for now."

  As the agents headed for their car, Dick winked at me, "What do you think?"

  "Too early to say. It's a start. The DEA agent said nothing more than hello and good-bye. I didn't catch his name, did you?"

  "Doesn’t matter. I get the idea he won't be a part of this action."

  We walked to our car while Dick continued to muse, "I imagine they'll check me out first, then the list and probably you as well."

  "One would think so," I said, getting in the car. "And out of curiosity, I may do a little research on the workings of the FBI myself."

  "Good idea. Let's eat when we get home. I know you've got something cooking in the oven and I'm starved. I'd like to turn in early. It's been a hectic day and a good beginning with the Feds."

  A few days later, I overheard Dick calling Sonny at the Sarasota FBI office. "Look, I figured I’d cough up another free-bee morsel for you. So long as you know that from here on it's gonna cost you. But, just to give you an idea of the magnitude of this operation, I'll let you in on one of the bigger ships these people use for smuggling. The `Captain Odes' info I gave you is small potatoes compared to a ship called the `Polar Seas. She has a length of 115 feet and a beam of 28 feet with a speed of 12 knots. She carries a crew of eight and has four black iron tanks with a capacity of twenty-eight thousand gallons. Each tank has two compartments. The smaller top portion is filled with oil to fool port authorities. You'll find the larger bottom sections filled with drugs. A `Bruce' from California leases the 'Polar Sea' for monthly shipments of marijuana. She makes the Thailand to California run, bringing in Thai-Stick---you know, marijuana tightly rolled in a slim cigarette form." Dick paused and laughed. "And get this, when the Polar Sea's not being used for smuggling drugs, she's leased to the United States Navy! How's that for a kicker?"

  The FBI lost no time in checking out Dick's information. Within two weeks of the initial contact, the Justice Department's FBI had Dick listed on the payroll as a covert operator.

  Dick strolled into the kitchen while I stirred a pot of spaghetti sauce. He grinned, reached in his pocket, withdrew two one hundred-dollar Dicks and slapped them down on the table. "Our first paycheck, Pussycat."

  "Congratulations, Dick," I said, putting down the wooden spoon and giving him a hug. "Where did you meet Sonny? And does the FBI pay you in check or cash?"

  "On this first pay day, Sonny asked me to meet him in the parking lot behind the Federal building
downtown. He said we'd meet at various places around town like the library, a restaurant, or a shopping center parking lot. And it's strictly cash. No checks. Sonny has me sign a receipt in code name."

  "You don't sign the receipt in your own name?" I asked, slicing the garlic toast for dinner.

  "Nope. Sonny said we'll use the code name to protect my identity. Guess that's a good idea. The FBI now knows me as 'Twink'.

  I looked up from the salad I was building. "How did you come up with that?"

  "You'll appreciate this." Dick poured two glasses of Burgundy wine, handed me one, then sat down at the kitchen table and leaned back. "Sonny says that Sarasota's under the jurisdiction of Tampa's FBI field office. When Sonny took the twelve-item list to Tampa to be read by Rodney Morgan, one of the Assistant U.S. Attorneys, Morgan handed it back to Sonny and laughed, saying that it was just a twinkle in Dick Lee's eye." Dick took a big swallow of wine and smiled. "I'll blind them with enough light to think they're watching a ten story building go up in flames. Twinkle in my eye...my ass! That's why I chose 'Twink' for my code name."

  Every two or three weeks after that, Dick met Sonny at different locations around Sarasota. Dick would ease himself into Sonny's gray, government-issue four-door vehicle, and hand over printed or hand written information gleamed from Clark, Jackson or Reed. Sonny, in turn. plunked down cash in Dick's upturned hand.

  "You know, Jen," Dick said as he looked for a snack in the refrigerator, "aside from everything else I'm learning about working with the Feds, there's some interesting internal stuff going on. For example, today I picked up some scuttlebutt that many FBI agents resent the sweetheart deals that politically appointed United States Attorneys garner. They get top drawer legal training with the FBI's help, then quit the Bureau as soon as they’re able and make a fortune going into private practice."

  "We're getting quite an education here." I said, sipping a glass of orange juice. "Before this, neither of us knew that all FBI Special Agents in the Law Division are armed with a law degree in addition to their weapons."

  Dick raised an eyebrow. "Find anything else interesting while researching the Bureau?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes. There are seven or eight library books sitting on the coffee table. A few are written by former FBI agents and their true stories have one general theme: If the book criticizes the Bureau, the author's been vilified and persecuted by the FBI. Then the Feds call in the IRS to plague the author for years and years. The other books that I've looked at appear to be written by spin-doctors for the sole purpose of enhancing the FBI's reputation and image. If you get a chance, you might want to browse through one or two."

  "Don't know where I'd find the time." Dick yawned. "Just feed me some highlights."

  Okay, here goes: The FBI has fifty-nine field offices across the country that keep track of every name mentioned in any document in its files So you, and maybe I, have been alphabetized and cross-referenced in these FBI indices. There are over ninety U.S. Attorneys, and many more Assistant U.S. Attorneys who prosecute FBI cases. There's a lot more, if you'd like to hear it?"

  "Later." Dick said, drifting toward the office. "I want to call Sonny before he leaves for the weekend."

  Meanwhile, Clark and Jackson's trust in Dick deepened. One day Dick flew in the door, excited.. "Jen, you're not going to believe how widespread this operation is. Drugs are brought in from Europe, Asia, and South America, and distributed all over the country. Tons of money are washed through casinos in Las Vegas then banked in secret accounts in places like the Cayman Islands, Belize, and Luxembourg."

  "I'm familiar with Cayman because I've been there. I'll look up the others on the map. This whole involvement is beginning to really scare me."

  "You'll get used to it, Pussycat."

  Dick called Sonny almost daily, his happiness increasing with each FBI contact and the ever increasing melodrama. Within weeks, his eating and sleeping habits altered. Before "Operation Fuzzball," he enjoyed leisurely multi-course meals at the end of the day. Now he grabbed a sandwich on the run. Prior to the intrigue, Dick slept for seven or eight hours a night. Soon, four or five hours of sleep had him bounding out of bed with his batteries fully recharged.

  "They’re just not ready for someone like me, Pussycat," Dick boasted, parading around the living room after a meeting with Sonny. "They don't know what to make of me. Sonny told me today that they've never seen anyone with a memory like mine, that they just can't believe it. He said that someone should pattern a computer after me, cause it would be a whiz-bang at bringing up disconnected bits of data and correlating it into a cohesive, operable design. Wow! Get ready for a wild ride, Baby. Grab hold and hang on for dear life."

  "I'm glad the operation's taken hold and they're beginning to believe that you can deliver the goods. I have confidence in you and know you can do the job. Now, how about us? You're giving the FBI every scrap of information you can gather, and we still don't have an attorney to protect us. You were going to see the lawyer who represents your friend Ron, the private detective."

  "We've got plenty of time," Dick explained. "I'm just getting things set up. Later I'll get the help we need. I've already asked Sonny about the reward application forms from the FBI, DEA, IRS and Customs. He said he'd handle it. He's our contact and I trust him. Don't worry."

  My concerns grew. The following month I asked Dick about the agency forms and why we didn't have any? He brushed me aside "Sonny told me they're having some problems with 'red tape'."

  Several months into the investigation, Dick made an announcement. "Sonny said the reward forms are on the way."

  A week later, he brought in a batch of IRS paperwork. "Before you ask, Pussycat, Sonny told me that you'll soon have similar forms from the FBI, DEA and Customs. And when we get closer to the bust, you'll receive our witness protection program, change of identity, new social security numbers and so forth.'"

  "I sure hope so."

  Dick settled at the office desk and poured over the forms. "I'm to name the taxpayer who committed the violation. You know, I've already got a list of about twenty-five people or corporations, all the way from Charles Rainier, to the Royal Casino Hotel in Las Vegas. And there's a lot more to come. You and I will be sitting in high cotton when this is over. How about typing these out while I give you the names. I'll sign them when you're finished and get them back to Sonny tomorrow for an official signature."

  Dick handed the forms over to Sonny. Weeks, then months went by and still the IRS had not executed the forms or returned our copies. Nor had Sonny delivered the long-promised forms from the other agencies of the Justice Department. Sonny claimed more 'red tape'. Again, I asked Dick to find an attorney to represent us.

  And again, Dick put me off. "Later, Jen. I've got too much on my mind right now. Today I found out what the FBI's operational plan is and how they want the sting to work. Sonny intends to penetrate the drug smuggling and money laundering organization through my relationship with Clark and Jackson. I'm to introduce two or three federal agents to Clark and Jackson as drug smugglers. Sonny told me that the FBI is really excited because they've been trying to get inside this organization without success for nine years. He said they were counting on me. That if anyone could do it, I could."

  With Clark's bad luck and Dick's resolution, the lemon tree began to bear bitter fruit for Clark, Jackson and Reed. Ironically, Clark informed Dick that he could earn a finder's fee by bringing in a new customer, someone Dick knew and trusted in the drug trade who needed money-laundering assistance.

  The hook was in place. So was the bait.

  When Dick told Clark he had an old Chicago friend named Brad who ran the same type of business as Bruce in California, Clark hungrily snatched the bait. Dick assured Clark that Brad would soon fly to Sarasota for a face to face meeting with he, Jackson, and Reed. Knowing the Justice Department had moved its agents onto the chessboard of this deadly game, I first asked, then implored my husband to seek leg
al help. He believed Sonny's assurances that all would be taken care of in good time. Dick--like a soldier of fortune whose addiction to excitement skyrocketed whenever the threat of danger loomed high--filtered his promise to hire an attorney and put on the back burner. In his thinking, protecting our lives must have somehow taken away from the thrill.

  Dick glowed with excitement. "Sonny told me today that a DEA agent who has a lot of experience impersonating drug dealers has been imported to play the part of my make-believe friend, Brad Hanson from Chicago. Brad's role will be to impersonate the head of a Chicago drug cartel. Another Fed will also be brought in to act as Brad's second in command, a black fellow from the Midwest, Jake Bartel, who looks a lot like Harry Belafonte. I met the guy and he's pretty savvy about sting operations. The Feds are also bringing in a third man, an IRS agent from the West Coast, to round out the charade."

  "Dick, there's no stigma attached to recognizing your own worth. We need legal advice." But again, Dick remained deaf to my reasoning--and blind to the FBI's excuses, which were now more unconvincing than ever. At least to me.

  Dick delivered Brad Hanson from the DEA to the offices of Stateside Equity and introduced him to Clark, Jackson, and Reed. After the meeting, he came home and plopped down in his favorite easy chair.

  "How did it go?" I asked, feeling strained and nervous. "Did the guys believe this Brad Hanson is a Chicago drug dealer?"

  "I'm not sure yet." Dick said with a questioning look. "The first meeting felt awkward. I'll bet they'll check Brad out before they're satisfied. Don't worry, the Feds have that covered. You see, there really is a Brad Hanson from Chicago who has a drug involvement background. The Feds have him locked away somewhere--incommunicado."

  The following Friday evening, Dick came home with a cheery, "Hi, Pussycat." He lit a cigarette and took a big drag. "Guess what? We're invited to Clark's house for Sunday dinner." Smiling broadly, he added, "Clark wants me to bring our DEA agent Brad along as well."