I felt a tinge of panic. "Look, you have to be there but I'd rather not go."
He frowned. "Now that would look suspicious. Clark's wife, Winnie, is making dinner for the group and they're expecting you to be there. Jackson will be bringing his wife as well. Nothing's going to happen other than a little small talk and some good food. Clark already indicated that these gatherings are strictly social, no business."
"You're right, I guess. I agreed to help and it goes with the territory."
Sunday afternoon we drove across town to Clark's unpretentious home nestled in an older neighborhood of starter and retirement properties. At curbside, the small frame house gave the impression that social security checks provided the bulk of a meager income. Clark's wife, Winnie, greeted us at the door. We took six steps through the living room into the step-saver kitchen where Clark stirred a big pot of okra chowder. The scent of baking pork chops and homemade apple sauce wafted through the modestly furnished home. Winnie, like her husband Clark, had a full head of snow-white hair and deep smile creases around her bright blue eyes. Looking like everyone’s favorite grandparents, the elderly couple appeared incapable of perpetrating anything more serious than cashing in a coupon for a non-purchased box of breakfast cereal.
When DEA agent Brad Hanson arrived, it was very awkward to pretend to know him as Dick's friend from Chicago. However, he cloaked the trying moment by greeting me like an old friend, launching immediately into a comfortable chat about nothing at all. Jackson and his wife, Ruth, being old and dear friends of the Rainiers, appeared at ease in the familiar surroundings. Clark poured drinks for the group and it soon became apparent that the afternoon had truly been designated as strictly social. Like long lost buddies, Dick and Brad swapped stories, joking and nudging one another.
After the delicious southern fare, Clark, Jackson, Brad, and Dick became involved in a lively discussion about weapons and guns. "I've got this old piece that's not any bigger than a pack of cigarettes," Clark beamed. "We used it in the liquor business during the depression days. The barkeep would keep one of these babies close at hand under the bar. The darn thing is nothing more than a twenty-gauge shotgun shell encased in a steel rod with a trigger attached to one side. Been outlawed for many years."
"Well, Clark, let's see the little beauty," Dick encouraged him.
Clark smiled and disappeared into the bedroom, returning with the five-inch weapon, which he passed around. "Let's try her out," Dick suggested. "What do you say, Clark? Do you think one of your neighbors will call the cops if we fire up this thing in the backyard?"
Clark grinned. "Naw. If anyone complains, we'll call it a fourth of July blowout. We've got a large oak tree out back that we can use for a target. No one lives behind us so nobody's gonna get hurt."
We all filed into the backyard and stood around as Clark handed the tiny weapon to Dick with a warning: "Cradle it in both hands. It's got the kick of a mad mule."
Dick took the gun, aimed at the wide tree and pulled the trigger. The loud explosion registered a look of surprise on his face. The wristwatch he was wearing blew off his hand and shot three or four feet straight up into the air, before landing at his feet.
"Are you okay?" I hurried to Dick's side, as he bent over to pick up his broken watch.
"Yeah, fine, just fine." His lips parted in a thin smile as he slipped the watch into his pants pocket. Sliding the gun into my hand, he rubbed his wrist. "Your turn, Jen. Give it a try. I know you're not afraid to shoot it, right?"
I shook my head quizzically. "I don't know. It blew off your wrist watch!"
"Don't worry," he reassured me. "It has a little bite, but if you hold it in your right hand and cradle it with your left for support, it'll be fine. My watchband must have been half-broken anyway. The recoil probably hit a weak link."
Catching my eye, he winked at me broadly.
I hesitated. "Are you absolutely sure it's not going to explode in my hand?"
"Go ahead, Jen. Shoot it. It's not dangerous." He leaned in closer and whispered to me. "It's important, Pussycat. Do it for me, okay?"
I held the gun as instructed, took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. My left hand felt numb for a moment, then quickly became painful. The group gathered around to offer sympathy, as I stood rooted to the spot, shocked and holding my left hand.
"Run some cold water on it," Dick suggested.
Winnie escorted me to the bathroom and turned on the cold water faucet, but it didn't help. I clenched my teeth as she filled an ice bag, seated me at the kitchen table and propped my hand against the cold pouch. An hour later, I could stand the pain no longer. I motioned Dick over. "My hand feels like it's broken. I'm sorry to say this, but we have to leave. I think it should be x-rayed."
Dick looked at me with unmitigated scorn. Thanking our host and hostess and saying good-bye to the others, we quickly left. In the car, Dick remained silent until we pulled away from the curb. "You're being a real pain in the ass," he shouted. "It can't hurt that much. Don't you realize the importance of my sticking around a little longer? Leaving a DEA agent disguised as a drug lord alone with Clark and Jackson is dangerous. Jackson's a real sharp attorney and Clark's no dummy. Brad needs covering. You could have held out a little longer...for God's sake!"
"What can I say? I'm sorry, Dick, but it couldn't be helped. I'm in a lot of pain and I held out as long as I could."
Dick silently seethed all the way home. Pulling into the driveway, he jumped out of the car. "Drive yourself to the hospital," he barked. "I've had enough of your nonsense for one day."
I drove to the Sarasota Memorial Hospital using my right hand. The x-rays revealed a small clean fracture on the edge of my left hand. Hours later, I returned home with my hand bandaged around a curved metal support and a prescription for pain pills. Dick met me at the front door, looked at my hand and snapped, "I suppose you're going to blame me for this, right?"
I felt hurt and angry. A dark look settled on his face. "Hey, you didn't have to shoot the gun if you didn't want to. Blame yourself, not me."
I couldn't say anything or raise my eyes to look at him. I didn't want to see his face. My hand hurt. I headed for the bedroom.
"Great, Jen. Be sanctimonious! Act like it's all my damn fault. Like I’ve turned you into a puppet on a string. I'm getting the hell out of here for awhile."
I heard the front door slam. As tears moistened my eyes, Dick's words reverberated over and over: "Like I’ve turned you into a puppet on a string.…"
A puppet, indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Vegas Connection
"We are all inclined to judge ourselves by our ideals; others by their acts."
-- N. Nicholson
A few days later, Clark's wife Winnie called to apologize for the incident with the gun. "Dick told Clark that your hand is broken. We’re so sorry."
"Appreciate your concern, Winnie," I said. "It's not too bad, just a small fracture along the edge of my left hand. I’m right-handed, so just grateful it wasn't that one."
"Can you manage okay?"
"I can work around most tasks, except folding the clothes coming out of the dryer or putting things on hangers."
"That would be a problem." She sighed. "I hope Dick’s helping with the laundry."
"Well…." I chuckled.
"I understand," she said. "By the way, I wanted to ask you about this Brad Hansen and the other fellow Dick introduced to my Clark. Do you personally know them?"
"Yes, Winnie," I vouched, "I met both Brad and Jake through Dick in Chicago."
With that, the older woman sounded satisfied.
A few days later the FBI put a bug on our telephone. "Be careful about what you say," Dick warned, "because from now on, they'll be listening to all our conversations."
In May of 1982, eight months into "Operation Fuzzball," Dick came in from another FBI meeting at the Federal building, poured a double Jack Daniels and plopped into
a favorite stuffed armchair. He smiled to himself. "I've gotten high praise from Sonny as a covert operator, now that Brad Hanson and Jake Bartel have been accepted by Clark, Jackson and Reed as drug lords. Clark has agreed to the first money wash in Vegas. I'm due back at Sonny's office in the next couple of days. The Feds will iron out the details of the first money wash meeting with our two criminals, Clark and Jackson on one side of the fence, and the two Feds, Brad and Jake, on the other. Not to mention, last but not least, one heck of a covert operator, namely yours truly."
"Where will the meeting take place?"
Dick grinned. "The FBI has booked two adjoining suites at the Hyatt Hotel, right here in sunny Sarasota. We'll all meet in the suite that’s bugged. Sonny and another agent will be in the adjoining suite listening to the conversation and recording every incriminating word Clark and Jackson say to Brad, Jake or me.
"By the way, at today's meet, Sonny also told me that an IRS agent has been imported from San Francisco. The new IRS agent is also booked at the Hyatt Hotel, waiting for me to give him the once over. If I tell Sonny he's okay with me, I'll introduce him to Clark and Jackson after the first money wash. If he's accepted by them, the Feds will then have an FBI, a DEA and an IRS agent in the door before the bust comes. I'll go see this IRS fellow tomorrow. I want you to come along, Pussycat. You've got good instincts. If this IRS man doesn't cut it, I'll send him packing."
The next afternoon Sonny ushered Dick and me into the hotel suite, and introduced us to Bud, the IRS agent. DEA agent Brad Hansen and FBI agent Jake Bartel greeted us with cool, government agency smiles. After thirty seconds of standard pleasantries, I seated myself in a corner chair, deliberately away from the center of conversation. When meaningful talk began, possibly out of courtesy, whoever spoke glanced in my direction and waited for a response. I offered none. Soon, I became as invisible as one of the table lamps. As the five men huddled closer together, speaking in low tones, I sat back and listened.
In an hour or so, as if on cue, Brad, Jake and the new IRS agent, Bud, excused themselves and left the suite, leaving Sonny, Dick and me alone. I changed chairs and sat down on the one that had been occupied by the IRS agent being grilled. The seat was still hot.
Dick smiled at me, then looked at Sonny with a frown. "I've got to tell you, man, this new guy Bud behaves stupidly and smells like a Fed. We've been here for over an hour and that's all it took for me to know I don't like him. He doesn't have the kind of experience required for an operation like this, or a command of the jargon to live up to who he's claiming to be. Clark, Jackson, or Reed would trip him up in three minutes. He dresses like a Fed, walks like a
Fed, and smells like a Fed. And you know what they say about looking like a duck."
Sonny and I couldn't help laughing.
"Sonny," Dick added, "I want you to get Bud's ass on the next plane back to 'Fisherman's Wharf.'"
First Sonny said nothing, then reluctantly nodded his head.
Dick turned to me. "What do you think about this guy, Bud?"
I hesitated, then looked at Sonny. "I have to agree with Dick. My perception is that another, more knowledgeable person is needed for this job. I also sensed that he would have a difficult time convincing Clark and company that he smuggles drugs for a living."
"I see." Sonny stood and moved toward the door. "Thanks for coming. Nice to see you, Jen. I'll let you know, Dick."
We left the hotel and drove home in Dick's Lincoln. "I'm glad you came along, Pussycat. Thanks for backing me up."
"Interesting hour or so. Glad you asked me along. I offered my gut-reaction to the proposed IRS agent, nothing more, nothing less."
Early the following morning, Dick bounded out of bed and carefully dressed. He paced the living room, lost in thought. "No breakfast for me, Pussycat. Just coffee. I've got to anticipate every word and action by every man in the room. Clark and Jackson will be in Brad and Jake's bugged suite at two o'clock sharp. And that's what I've got to be...sharp."
As the sun was setting that evening, Dick came home aglow with excitement. "Everything went great. Clark and Jackson took the bait in a big way. They're agreed to handle the first money wash for Brad and Jake. Although," Dick paused, "I think Jackson Deaton has some doubts."
"Problems?"
"Nothing I can put my finger on. I got the feeling Jackson's trying to bury some instinctive danger signals about Brad and Jake and the whole set up, but he's pushing it aside because Clark wants the new business."
I perched on the arm of his easy chair. Dick reached for my hand. "By the way, Sonny's sending that goof-ball, Bud, back to the 'Golden Gate'." They'll bring in another IRS agent for me to check out. I told Sonny long ago that I wouldn't automatically install one of their boys without my having the final say-so. This is my operation and I call the shots."
I reached down and gave him a hug. "When's the first money wash?"
"Oh, in about three weeks."
Not wanting to rain on his parade, I waited until we had finished dinner the next day to rehash the topic of legal representation. "The first wash is right around the corner, and the Feds are still stalling on the contracts. It's been nine months now. If we had an attorney, we'd surely have everything signed, sealed and delivered a long time ago. All this should be lined up before you take one more step."
"For God's sake, Jen," he said, bolting up from the dining room table and starting to leave the room. "Stop being so dramatic."
"What is your problem, Dick?" He turned around and came back to face me. "If Clark and company knew they were being set up for the Feds, do you think that the dozens of people involved would say, `Hey Dick, don't give it another thought. Our multi-million dollar business, our families, our freedom, don't mean a thing. And since we're involved in this nasty business we don't blame you for selling us down the tubes."
As Dick glowered down at me, I returned his stare. "No, no, no! That's not what would happen. You, me and maybe my kids would be dumped in the Everglades for alligator bait. What do I have to say to get through to you? Don't you realize we're out here on our own? It's our lives at stake here. And since you told Sonny you wouldn't do it for anything except the almighty dollar, then think about that! Dick, all we've gotten from Sonny is a stream of empty promises and a fistful of unsigned scraps of paper from one agency...that's all. And we know that `a verbal contract is as good as the paper it's written on.'"
"You really should be on stage," Dick said, clearly annoyed. "You're so dramatic. Don't worry so much. They'll sign. They need me. The Feds can't get their agents inside the organization without my help. They'll come through. I've already told you that Sonny warned me that plowing through government red tape takes forever. I trust Sonny. He's not going to let us down."
"Dick, you're not making any sense. An FBI and a DEA agent are already inside Clark's organization. The first money wash is set to go. If the first wash takes place before we're protected, we're sunk. You're a gambling man. I'll bet you $500 at ten-to-one in your favor that if you told Sonny you're not going to Vegas until we have protection and guarantees, the FBI would have a fat folder of signed contracts on our desk at the speed of light."
"That ain't gonna happen, Sweetheart. It's gonna be the way Sonny and I program it. You ain’t running this show. It's got nothing to do with you."
"It has everything to do with me," I countered, biting my lip. "I'm part of this. My life is on the line along with yours. The Feds won't need to keep their promises once you've taken Brad and Jake through the Royal Casino's money laundering procedure. The Justice Department won't need Dick Lee for 'probable cause' arrests and convictions. They'll draw from their own ranks...Brad and Jake. If you allow that to happen, they won't protect us or pay you one penny in rewards. Are you risking our lives because you want to believe the impossible--that the Feds keep their promises or play fair?"
Dick remained unimpressed. "I'm not worried, so why should you? Anyway, Clark wants me to take a quick tri
p to Vegas with him so he can introduce me to Jacob Davis, the owner of The Royal Casino. I'm to carry the wash money after it's arranged between Clark and Jacob Davis. It's important that I meet Davis and the guys in the casino cash cage. I talked Clark into inviting you along. I knew you'd like to go. Will that make you happy?"
I felt my mouth go dry. "Surely you jest! Don't treat me like a little girl who grins and claps her hands at being handed a plastic Bugs Bunny to pin on her blouse. Happiness isn't going for an airplane ride. It’s having a super sharp, preferably Jewish attorney to demand, inspect, revise and oversee our signed contracts with the Justice Department. Whatever happened to your knowledge that the Feds use tricks, schemes, and deceptions to get whatever they want. Remember the 'Sixty Minutes' television story about the married couple who worked undercover for the FBI? They too trusted the Feds to keep their promises. Then when the government got what they wanted, the Feds dumped them. The couple ended up destitute and running for their lives."
Dick turned and left the room, left my pleas hanging mid-air, left me to toss and turn through more sleepless nights.
A few days later, he announced, "Get ready for the Vegas trip. Clark's bought three tickets. We're booked on Delta Airlines this coming Friday evening."
What to do? I wondered. Well, maybe I'll soon be dead so I may as well take the plastic Bugs Bunny and the airplane ride. Friday evening we checked into The Royal Casino in Las Vegas. Clark, Dick, and I wandered through the casino bars until Clark spotted the owner, Jacob Davis, seated in a booth with two men. Clark introduced Dick and me to the casino owner. Davis nodded at Dick, glanced at me, looked at Clark and slightly jerked his head to the side. We weren't invited to sit down. Catching the hint, I excused myself. As I walked away, Dick and Clark slid into the booth.
I sauntered back to the main casino area and settled at an empty black-jack table. Playing against the dealer, I wondered if my stack of five-dollar chips grew taller due to good luck or because gambling casinos sometimes allow a lone female at an empty table to win in order to attract other players.
Tyranny of a Lover...Diary of the Wife of an Undercover informant Page 14