After I was ushered into another interview room, I was quickly joined by Sue Ann and two very serious, tough men from Corruption. Agent Peter Nimitz and his partner impressed me with both the power they exuded and the professionalism with which they carried out our meeting. However, I had now learned not to get too hopeful too soon.
“You have done quite a job here, Mr. Goldman,” Agent Nimitz remarked. “I congratulate you on your persistence and your research abilities. From here, we’ll present your case to our bureau chief and he’ll decide if we’ll take it.”
I nodded my head.
“However, I will tell you,” he continued, “we have a big problem with prostitution cases. It takes a number of agents and massive resources to build a case that will stand up in court. Usually we prefer to tackle crimes of a higher nature, such as drugs or gangs.”
“Well,” I said, “I’ve done the best I can.” I paused before remembering FBI Agent Jones’ words, “But there are children involved.” My eyes met both men. I decided a little Jewish guilt might go a long way. “Audrey has three children and they need you. Agent Nimitz, you would be a hero to those kids.”
“Agent Nimitz already is a hero,” his partner interjected, glancing over at him. He then began to rattle off several huge crime rings Agent Nimitz was responsible for busting. I nodded in appreciation before adding, “Then I have come to the right man.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Return of the Spencer County PD
March 13, 2010
With all the doors that had closed, reopened, and then closed again, I found that, instead of losing hope, I was gaining focus. I was more determined than ever to keep on top of all my contacts, to continue my search for more hard evidence, and to make sure I was no one’s doormat. I knew my experience with Audrey had hardened me a bit, but it had also strengthened my resolve. And I was not about to sit around and wait for a call from the FBI or the FDLE. Instead, I decided it was about time to put any concerns for my own safety aside and call the Spencer County Police Department, regardless of their ties to Royce and, by extension, Audrey.
On Tuesday morning, I dropped Johnny off at school and spent the entire car ride home psyching myself up for the phone call to Spencer County. By the time I was back in my home office, phone in hand, I was ready to finally make the call I should have made from the beginning. I made the call without worrying about the consequences.
The phone rang, and rang, and rang. With each new ring I could feel my own nervousness start to creep back in. I was seconds away from hanging up the phone, when a voice came on the line.
“Spencer County PD, how may I direct your call?” The woman’s voice had a touch of southern sweetness that was very disarming.
“Yes, well, I have some significant information on a large prostitution ring operating in Spencer County, and I was hoping you could connect me with someone I could speak to about it. Someone in VICE.”
“Of course, one moment please,” she said, immediately transferring me to another line.
“Lieutenant Ferraro,” I heard. I took a deep breath knowing that this was it, there would be no turning back. I slowly exhaled and again began my long story that I’d told so many times before. At no point, however, did I give him my name.
“I want to meet with three people,” I said. “The head of the VICE department, a long-time detective, and the head of Internal Affairs. And Captain Santos in particular must not know of this meeting,” I said. This was the only way I would feel safe because of Captain Santos’ friendship with Royce.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Ferraro asked, “How did you get this information?”
“I’m married to the madam,” I said quietly, knowing that would be enough. It was. He immediately put me on hold and when he returned, he said he would work on putting things together and that the head of Internal Affairs would be calling me soon.
“Thank you,” I said, and hung up the phone. I felt a mixture of relief and excitement. Oh, my God, I'm so glad I did it, I thought... Oh, my God, what have I done? Would there be some sort of retaliation? Would my lifeless body be found in the Everglades? Or would there be, most unbelievably of all, an actual investigation?
I felt I needed to calm down, so I headed downstairs for some food and some mindless television before planning my next course of action. Fortunately, some of the most mindless TV comes on in the afternoons and so I took advantage of the oxymoron known as the entertainment news program “Access Hollywood” that was being re-aired from the night before. The featured story focused on the socially redeeming job that is the paparazzi. Apparently, another scandal had been revealed thanks to one of the more tenacious paps who had uncovered the story after snooping through a celebrity’s garbage. I was all set to sneer at the dismal state of humanity when suddenly, it hit me. I called my lawyer.
“Adam, I'm looking at a report about paparazzi and garbage. Is it legal to take someone else's garbage?” I asked, an idea percolating in my head.
“Actually, it is,” Adam replied. “Once you put your garbage out on the street, you lose what they call the 'expectation of privacy.' Why?”
“Well, I can't get Audrey's, because she lives in an apartment and puts it into a community dumpster, but Royce lives in a house, and I thought I would make the drive and see what I could uncover. What do you think?”
“It's legal, Paul, but probably really foolish. This guy is dangerous and if he were to catch you… ” he said, not at all encouraging my latest brainchild.
“I'll be careful. Don't worry. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and went to my computer. I searched for the company that handled the garbage in Royce's town, and then I called them to see what days they picked up. Turned out, it would be the next day.
That night I tucked Johnny into bed and reminded the baby-sitter of my cell phone number before hopping in the car to make the twenty-five minute trip to Royce's house, which was on a long, lonely stretch of road in the countryside. I was excited by the idea of my little covert operation and bars of the theme to “Mission Impossible” played in my ears as I drove. The closer I got, the more dangerous this whole thing seemed. Turning on Royce’s street, I saw two filled garbage cans on the curbside. I slowed the car, glanced up the driveway to his house, and squinted. I was relieved that I couldn't see his house, since it was set far down a winding tree-lined driveway. Good, I thought. If I can't see him, he can't see me.
I drove slowly past the cans and parked about fifty feet farther on. I waited to see if someone else might catch sight of my nocturnal activities, but the street was quiet and dark and almost no cars were present. Seizing the moment, I cautiously opened my door, not wanting to allow even the faintest squeak to draw attention. Suddenly, all the interior lights of the car came on like so many brilliant searchlights, certainly silhouetting me. I got out of the car as quick as I could and closed the door behind me, shutting off those damn searchlights. I ran to the cans, and opened the lids. One was full of roof tiles and I guessed Royce had recently done some roof repairs. The other had a couple bags of garbage, which I quickly removed, closed both lids, and sprinted back to the car. I steeled myself against the searchlights coming on again, threw the bags in the back seat, and jumped into the car. My “operation” had taken about two minutes. Out of breath, I made a quick u-turn, and headed home.
When I got back to my house, I thanked the sitter for her hour and paid her. After she left, I fetched the bags from my car and dumped them onto my kitchen floor. Grabbing the latex gloves I had purchased specifically for this mission, I began the task of inspecting one item at a time.
The first thing I saw was a shopping bag printed in Chinese followed by an airline ticket. There were also two pieces of paper, both crinkled into a ball. I opened the first, and it was a fax from the same person whose name was on the airline ticket. It read:
My name is Albert Chang and I am inquiring about a visa request and passport sent to you two months ago by overnight courier. I am now becoming conce
rned as your website indicated that 3-5 work days is all that is required. Please see my itinerary with my flight scheduled for the 18th of this month. I ask that you please help me in this moment of concern with your kind reply. Thank You.
Albert Chang
I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I read it three times. Could this really be evidence linking Royce to forgery? If it was I had hit the jackpot. Royce was forging entry papers, visas and passports, for people to enter the country. But what people? I hastily unwrinkled and smoothed out the second paper ball. It was a fax of a photo. The photo answered my question. A young Asian girl was standing in front of a blank wall in what I could only guess was a photo to be used for a passport. My mind started racing with possibilities. Could Royce be importing women from Asia to be part of his ring? I had heard of immigrants being kept in sex houses as sexual slaves before, but that was on the news. Now it was real, right in front of me. I placed both the papers aside, amazed that I had found such potentially damning evidence.
I continued to hunt through the bags. There was an empty United Airlines ticket envelope. Albert Chang came in on Continental, so who came in on United? I wondered. The next piece of evidence answered that question. A receipt from a perfume store in the Singapore Airport. In order to have the purchase be duty-free, they had to give the airline and flight number: United Airlines flight 584. Then, another receipt, dated the next day, from a Sprint store. A cell phone was purchased, and on the receipt was the name given as the customer: Susan Wright. A very American name for a very Asian girl. Then, two empty envelopes, addressed to Albert Chang. The return addresses were Christian organizations. Finally, I came across the biggest find of all: Royce's phone bill, detailing every call he made for the past month. Exuberant in triumph, I peeled off my gloves and flung them to the ground.
Paying no attention to the mess on the kitchen floor, I rushed upstairs to my computer. Spreading the phone bill out over my desk, I did the same thing that I had done with Audrey's phone logs. I started with the first call and analyzed the whole list. The ten calls per day to and from Audrey were there, along with countless others. There was a number in Texas that he called every day, five times, before calling Audrey. I Googled it, and up popped an advertisement of a man selling, of all things, land in Poland. The ad finished with “call DOC in Texas,” and gave the number.
There were also a dozen calls to New York, and a dozen calls to England. Even more interesting, it seemed that Royce would make a call to Doc, then call Audrey, then call several different women. Also found were calls to lots of different men, most of whom lived in Spencer County, the county where Royce lived. The men Audrey called were from Palm Beach, Broward, or Miami-Dade counties.
After I was finished with the phone bill, I took another look at Albert Chang's fax. I noticed something interesting at the top of the fax, an email address. Entering the entire address into Google, what came up made me lose my breath in shock. It was another Christian organization, with offices all over the country and Canada. Chang was on page 2, as the head of the branch in Royce's town.
I calculated a working hypothesis: Royce gets the names of the tricks from Doc, who perhaps is the owner of a website where men request hookers. He takes these names and numbers, and passes them on for servicing. Royce keeps the tricks from his area, and has his own girls service them, thereby cutting out the middleman and his, or her, 20 percent cut. Then he gives the other tricks to Audrey for herself and her girls.
What about Albert Chang, the Asian girl, and the Christian connection? I asked myself. Could it be simply a coincidence, that Albert Chang flew all the way from Hong Kong, requested a passport and visa for a girl from Royce, just to work for $8 an hour for a non-profit Christian group? Doubtful. So, what was going on?
Satisfied with part of my analysis, unsure of the rest, I shut off my computer, stepped away from my desk, and stood at my window, looking down on the street below.
Though the thought had been in the back of my mind for some time, it came up loud and clear while I watched the neighborhood kids playing ball.
Was I a fool?
This investigation first began out of anger and perhaps even revenge. I had wanted to hurt Audrey. As things progressed, however, my motivation became less about retaliation and more about doing what was just and right. It became about wanting Johnny to see his father as someone of courage and resolve. He would never understand it now, but some day he would know. Some day he would understand what I had done and what I risked. But, was my investigation putting Johnny in harm’s way? How would I live with myself if something were to happen to him?
I was pretty sure I was going to win my case, so why didn’t I drop it? The simple answer was that I was putting a lot of trust in what I believed deep down was my Divine protection in this whole affair. But, was this faith ego-driven, in which case it could be completely misguided, or was it for real? My father had told me many times not to mess with Royce and his low-life and violent crowd, and if the cops were on their payroll, by extension not to mess with them either. I was ignoring my father’s advice completely.
I went to bed, and lost sleep over these and other questions. When I awoke after a few short hours of fitful sleep, I was still concerned. I waited all day for the call and, when it came, it was a Detective Damian Walker.
“I asked to speak with either a long-time detective, the head of VICE, or the head of Internal Affairs. Which are you? I asked.
Damian chuckled. “Well, I'm not head of anything, so I guess I'm your long-time detective.”
I gave him the short version of my story. He listened quietly, without interruption.
“I’ll set up the meeting for tomorrow, away from the station house. If you like, we can meet at Sandsprit Park.”
“Sounds perfect,” I replied. “And since it’s Friday, we could take the bench right next to Audrey and her girls having their weekly business meeting.” Needless to say, we changed our meeting to a public parking lot, for 10 a.m.
After I hung up the phone, I thought, if they're on the take they might just drive me out to the Everglades and shoot me. There would be nothing I could do about that. I called Terri Lynn, gave her the names of all the men I was going to meet, and said, “Please ask your ‘guys’ to scream at you right now if I'm not safe tomorrow.” Terri heard nothing, which helped to relax my nerves a little despite the echo of my father’s advice still ringing in my ears.
The next morning, I drove to Hobe Sound and waited for a call on my cell phone from Damian, giving me directions to his car. I jumped when my phone finally rang.
“We are in the green Ford SUV, with darkened windows,” Damian said in practically a whisper. I couldn’t remember what the name of the movie was, but I felt like I was in it. The secret meeting place, the potential for danger, it was all there, writing its own script. I slowly slid out of my car and scanned the busy parking lot, squinting out over the heat rising up in waves from the asphalt. I noticed a green SUV. My brain was screaming at me to get back in my car and drive away. My legs apparently didn't get the message, because they were taking me to meet with the men in the green SUV with the darkened windows.
When I reached the SUV, the door seemed to open by itself, and I was beckoned inside. I peered in, and saw three faces masked with sunglasses and scowls. I cleared my throat and got in.
Maneuvering awkwardly into a seat, I was introduced to Damian Walker, a Detective with twenty-seven years of service, Lieutenant Robert Newman, head of the VICE unit, and Bill Rockland, head of Internal Affairs.
Without wasting any time for niceties, Damian instructed me to retell my story. I did, and when I came to something for which I had evidence, I handed it to Rockland, who would pass it to the others. The first thing I gave him was a photo of Audrey.
He handed it to Damian and asked, “Is this one of the girls you observed at the park?”
“Sure is,” Damian replied.
I was surprised. It seemed someone had reported a f
ew months prior that several hookers were meeting at Sandsprit Park on Fridays, so Damian went out, got their license numbers, and ran a check on them. The cars belonged to Audrey and a woman named Samantha Tyler. He then did a little bit of investigating. Little was right, because unfortunately, his work ended there. He knew nothing about Royce.
An hour later, I had given them everything. Royce’s and Audrey’s phone logs, Royce's passport forging information, the information on the imported Asian girl, the possible Christian connection, emails, bank statements, and a list of ten suggestions where they should begin. I gave them the address of Royce’s other condo in Indiantown, which could be where the ring sent the tricks to be serviced. Then, I asked all three, “Well, what do you think? Will you be able to arrest and convict?”
“You know,” Lieutenant Newman began, “it’s very difficult to prove prostitution.” My heart sank as I prepared to hear the usual runaround. Everything about our meeting had seemed different, serious, dangerous, and possible. Now, it seemed I would be hearing the same excuses.
“They can say they’re running a ‘dating service,’ ” he continued. “It’s not illegal to pay someone to come to your house and be your date for the evening, or to dance for you. That’s how the over 200 escort services in southern Florida stay in business. However, we’ll take this case. George will begin investigating, doing surveillance on Audrey and her girls, and try to build a case. Don’t expect results overnight. But, sometimes the girls or the pimps get sloppy.”
“Should I be optimistic, or pessimistic?” I asked.
By this time, their original scowls had disappeared, and Lt. Newman smiled and said, “Optimistic.”
And that was it. I shook their hands, and thanked them for their time. Before I got out of the SUV, however, I told them my motive for coming. “You might think I’m a disgruntled husband, but that’s not it. I’ll have no problem winning my divorce case with Audrey. I’m simply a concerned citizen, doing my civic duty.”
Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit Page 25