The Last Undercover

by Bob Hamer

  Lead to what? I wondered.

  Chris from Chicago interrupted. “Something we used to do at some of the old meetings was to make an announcement and ask anybody who’s an agent or a case agent or a spy for the media, please stand up and remove yourself.”

  Chris, who I would later learn was a longtime member and on the steering committee, was serious in his request. Often while undercover, drug dealers would look me in the eye and ask point-blank if I was a cop. Jailhouse lawyers promulgated the rumor that a failure to answer that question honestly would result in convictions being overturned due to “entrapment.” Once, after his arrest, a gang member, who asked that question while selling me drugs and heard my denial, laughed in my face and said the conviction would never stand. I responded, tongue-in-cheek, that the law required him to specifically ask if I “was affiliated with any federal law enforcement agency or working on behalf of any federal officer.” Convinced by my meaningless officialese, he responded with an obscene invective critical of the jailhouse lawyer who advised him during his recent period of incarceration. Apparently, Chris was under the same misimpression. I didn’t respond to his demand and remained seated.

  Rock continued. “I personally used to advocate . . . that we invite the police regularly into our meetings so that they could see what we were doing. . . . We’re not here to train people on how to seduce underage boys, and if you came for that, you might as well leave now.”

  Chris felt the need to chip in again. “We have a constitutional right to freedom of assembly and freedom of speech, and unless you’re agreeing . . . to our principles, then you shouldn’t be in the organization.”

  In one respect, Rock was going to get his wish. The “police” had been invited to this meeting—even though he didn’t know it. The entire meeting would be recorded, and we would learn what did go on at these conferences.

  I cannot imagine any other organization beginning its annual national conference with such a caveat: Don’t break the law, but if you plan to talk about breaking the law, make sure you do it with someone you really know and trust; otherwise, he could be the press or, even worse, an undercover FBI agent who has infiltrated the ranks. And of course, we will be sharing, but when sharing information about “items of interest that we all share,” don’t get into discussing specific activities.

  It sounded like double-talk, but, as Chris noted, it was constitutionally protected double-talk.

  Within the first few minutes of the conference, NAMBLA had affirmed its purpose: to abolish age-of-consent laws. What would this “First Amendment–protected” organization do to further that aim, its primary purpose? In more than three years as a member of NAMBLA, I never once heard of any effort to campaign or lobby any political figure at any level of government to abolish or even modify the age-of-consent laws—not once. There was no talk of hiring a paid lobbyist in Washington; there was no organized letter-writing campaign; there was no endorsement of candidates. Even though most letters to the editor of the Bulletin were answered in some manner, the only letter I ever saw that asked which politicians should be supported in the upcoming election went unanswered. Odd, I thought, for an organization whose stated purpose concerned legalized change of accepted social mores. It wasn’t the last inconsistency I would uncover during my membership in NAMBLA.

  Los Angeles, 1984

  One thing we knew we could count on with Darrel: he’d have plenty of highly paid legal talent to bring into the mix. In 1984, as we began preparing for the barrage of pretrial motions, Heather pulled me aside one afternoon.

  Her former boyfriend, Robert, was a major player in the Mexican Mafia, also known as La Eme. Many in law enforcement believed that outside the penitentiary walls, Robert was the acting head of this prison-spawned organization known for murder, drug trafficking, and witness intimidation. One magazine article quoted a law enforcement official who described Robert as “a very intelligent, very crafty individual—almost bordering on genius.”

  Heather asked me if I wanted to “do” Robert. He was truly a very worthy target, but I told her she’d already done enough and I didn’t want to put her in that position. She got a tear in her eye and said I had been so nice to her and her son that, as a present, she would introduce me to the acting head of the Mexican Mafia. It was a gift I couldn’t refuse.

  I decided to pose as a movie stunt coordinator and lead Robert to believe I was distributing heroin to my Hollywood associates. On the morning of my first meeting with him, I called a friend who worked at Universal Studios. He told me they were shooting on location in Malibu. Any location shoot is a major production rivaling a military operation for logistics. Typically, there will be acres of trucks, cars, equipment, and people. I told Robert where “we” were shooting and asked him to join me just up the block. I would break away for a short time from filming to discuss “our business.” The scene played well as he drove up and saw the massive trucks and lighting equipment so familiar to those around Los Angeles. He bought my act as a stunt coordinator and I promised him that one day I would invite him onto the set. He seemed pleased with his new Hollywood friend. Heather’s introduction sealed my drug bona fides, but the extra little details of my story made me a valued customer.

  On March 23, 1984, I purchased one ounce of heroin for eight thousand dollars. I paid him four thousand dollars and promised to make the second payment once I sold off some of the product. This arrangement allowed me more meetings with Robert and the chance to engage him in additional criminal conversations. At that time, street-level China White might only be two to three percent pure. The heroin Robert delivered graded out at nearly 100 percent, a powerful product by any trafficker’s definition. On the street, it would have been pure poison, instant death for anyone who mainlined it. This also meant an actual drug dealer would be able to “step on” the heroin many times by “cutting” it with substances like sugar or quinine. He could then sell the diluted mixture at a very sizeable profit.

  On March 28, 1984, I had a second meeting with Robert in which I paid him the additional four thousand dollars. Robert spoke broken English with a strong accent, and it was often difficult for me to understand him. I knew a jury might have just as much difficulty discerning his admissions. As we sat down that afternoon at an outdoor café, I stood up and, feigning embarrassment, asked Robert to trade seats with me. I told him I “blew out an eardrum doing a fire gag” and was deaf in one ear. I re-seated us so he could speak directly into my “good ear.” The ploy worked and allowed me to ask him to repeat his criminal admissions.

  Robert was doing his best to improve his lot as well as that of the Mexican Mafia. He wanted to upgrade its image—less gangbanger more businessman. He envisioned La Eme to be the equivalent of the traditional Mafia, not the Crips or Bloods. His personal heroin trafficking clientele included doctors and lawyers. Unlike some criminals I targeted, I could take Robert out in public.

  In a subsequent meeting at the Sheraton Grande, in downtown Los Angeles, Robert and I negotiated for a larger purchase. I asked a female agent to cover the meeting from inside the upscale hotel restaurant. My security inside the popular restaurant wasn’t a real issue but additional eyes could corroborate that Robert and I did meet. I had my back to the main dining room. Robert sat against the wall and was able to see all the customers and their activities. The meeting progressed without a hitch. He made valuable admissions, including a discussion about the cost of a multiple-ounce purchase. As we lingered, Robert shocked me when he said to a patron, “Good-bye.” I turned in time to see my female surveillance agent get up from the table and leave.

  “What was that all about?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know, but that chica kept watching me the whole time she ate.”

  I quickly responded that I had recently worked with Erik Estrada, who played Ponch on the TV show CHiPs , and that Robert looked so much like him she probably thought he was Estrada. He bought the quick recovery, but afterward I reminded my colleague that subtle
ty was crucial while on surveillance.

  Less than a week later, Robert called me, asking how many ounces of heroin I wanted to order. I ordered four and awaited delivery, which he informed me would take about a week. For the quality of heroin he was providing, a week’s delay was not unusual.

  On April 12, 1984, Robert and I agreed to meet at an upscale hotel near the University of Southern California campus. By this time, thanks to intelligence from a friend in the sheriff’s department, we had identified the person we believed to be Robert’s source for the heroin: Rick, a San Fernando Valley bondsman who often posted bail for local mobsters, Hells Angels, and members of the Mexican Mafia. Because of his association with those in the criminal element, I had spoken to Rick several times in my capacity as an FBI agent. We knew each other on sight. In the grand scheme of things, Robert was the bigger target—much more important than his supplier. Since I knew Rick, I had no intention or desire to see him as Robert and I concluded our transaction. So, in keeping with typical drug dealer protocol, I told Robert, “I don’t want to see any new faces,” and if I did, I’d call off the deal. He said he understood.

  Once Robert delivered the heroin, a team of FBI agents was prepared to take him into custody. His arrest would be a major blow to the Mexican Mafia and a tremendous victory for Los Angeles–area law enforcement.

  I sat in the lobby of the hotel, dressed casually. I had a Pittsburgh Pirates cap in my back pocket. In the early eighties, the Pirates had one of the ugliest caps in baseball and, in a town of die-hard Dodger fans, the cap would make me easily identifiable should I get lost in a crowd. Once Robert delivered the drugs I was to don the cap, signaling the arrest team that I had possession of the narcotics.

  I looked up from my lobby seat and my chest froze with apprehension when I saw Robert heading toward the hotel with Rick, the bail bondsman at his side. If they came in together and Rick saw me, I was a dead man and Robert would still be on the streets.

  7

  THE COURTROOM CRAPSHOOT

  Ijumped from my seat and headed toward the rear entrance of the lobby. I grabbed the Pirates cap and stuck it on my head, hoping to break up my silhouette, should Robert or Rick see me. A transmitter was taped to my ankle, and as I ran out the back, hopping on one foot, I was shouting into my ankle, “The hat’s not the signal. The hat’s not the signal.” If the moment could have been captured on camera it would probably have the makings of comedy—but at the time I was anything but amused.

  As soon as I got to my undercover car, I alerted the arrest team that Robert had brought Rick with him and that Rick knew me to be an FBI agent. Within seconds the operation order changed. I sat in the car, trying to come up with an alternate plan. Soon I observed Robert—alone—in the parking lot, looking for me. I signaled to him and he came over to the vehicle.

  He invited me inside to meet his friend. I repeated my earlier warning that if he brought in another person, I would back out. He tried to assure me that his supplier was honorable and that it would be good to meet him so I could do business directly with him in the future. I repeated my threats to withdraw from the transaction. He appreciated my caution but was also trying to placate Rick, who wanted to meet me.

  Since I was insistent on not meeting Rick, however, Robert needed to return to Rick to discuss how the deal would happen. I showed Robert the money, assuring him I was capable of making the four-ounce purchase. He returned to the hotel lobby to tell Rick I had the money and to modify Rick’s predetermined delivery plans.

  Inside the hotel, the backup team observed Robert and Rick talking. When Robert left the lobby to return to my car, a third person entered the lobby and met with Rick.

  Robert instructed me to follow him and said the deal would now happen in a restaurant next door to the hotel. I exited the undercover car and followed Robert. My Pirates cap was pulled down low and I feigned the same limp I had been using throughout our meetings. As Robert and I walked toward the restaurant, Rick and his associate followed a few feet behind. When I questioned Robert, he acknowledged that the two men shadowing us were his associates. And then, as I turned the corner heading into the restaurant, I heard the distinct and unwelcome sound of a shotgun racking.

  I feared the worst, thinking this was a rip, until I heard a familiar voice holler, “Freeze, FBI!”

  The on-site administrator had given the arrest order. My transmitter had been working only intermittently and the arrest team had no idea what was happening. All they knew was that I was walking with thirty-two thousand dollars to an unknown location out of their sight and outside the parameters of the operations order. Fearing a robbery or worse, the arrest order went out.

  Hearing the rack of the shotgun and realizing the FBI had made an arrest, I quickly drew my revolver, hidden under my shirt. I had Robert prone on the ground, waiting for somebody from the arrest team to round the corner, since I had no handcuffs. One of my colleagues cuffed Robert, and a frisk revealed he was not holding the heroin. I returned to the other two who were in custody. Rick loudly maintained his innocence, incredulous that he had been arrested. The third person, who had been meeting with Rick in the lobby, was carrying a folded newspaper. Inside the newspaper was evidentiary gold—four ounces of uncut heroin.

  Three people, including the acting head of the Mexican Mafia and a mob bondsman, were in custody. It was a huge victory for the good guys.

  Meanwhile, though, what we had assumed would be a quick guilty plea from Darrel turned into a judicial nightmare. He and his boutique lawyers pulled out all the stops: lies, half-truths, and innuendo. I admit, as I view the situation in retrospect, that I made some errors in judgment. Even though my motives were pure, the appearance of impropriety felled our case.

  Furthermore, as if the flurry of defense motions weren’t enough, I learned through a reliable source close to Darrel that he had put out a $100,000 contract to have Heather killed.

  Fortunately, we had the information early enough that we could whisk Heather and her son to safety, eventually placing them in the Witness Protection Program. Unlike what you usually see on TV, where the endangered person is ushered into the program immediately, the FBI paid for an out-of-town motel room for several weeks until all the necessary paperwork was completed. While awaiting the Marshals Service to approve her entrance into the program, we stored all of Heather’s belongings in my garage—which led to an interesting situation.

  Over the Fourth of July weekend, our church had a picnic. My wife went ahead, taking our two small children with her. I arrived a short time later escorting Heather—the drop-dead gorgeous prostitute—and her young son. I wasn’t too sure how the folks from our church would react, but to their credit, they welcomed Heather and her son and treated her like an honored guest. It was quite a sight and, thankfully, my wife was still talking to me at the end of the day.

  Darrel’s motions hearing dragged on for weeks in the summer of 1984, with witnesses for both sides testifying at great lengths. As I had originally feared, sex became an issue; Darrel testified to falling in love and being intimate with Heather. He claimed he only sold drugs because of his love for her. He also said he learned everything he knew about heroin trafficking from library books.

  Heather admitted to “sleeping” with him but denied ever having sex, claiming Darrel was impotent. At one point, during a break, Heather confided in me that she had been a prostitute for seventeen years and the first time she couldn’t get a guy aroused, she had to testify to it in federal court. I had to smile—a welcome relief, actually, during a pretty somber summer. Still, the law was on our side and we were confident that despite the smoke and mirrors presented by the defense, we would prevail.

  The judge waited several more weeks to issue his ruling. When he did, it was a bombshell.

  As we walked into the courtroom, the prosecutor from the Organized Crime Strike Force, Blair Watson, turned to me and said he didn’t have a good feeling about the forthcoming ruling. Blair had done a great job arguing
our case, but his premonition turned out to be correct.

  The judge said, “It would be easy for me to determine this, if I had some feeling that [Darrel] were not involved in drugs. I think the government has had every reason to look into his activities. I would think that they would be derelict if they did not. . . . [The defendant] is intricately involved in drug trafficking.” But the judge was “troubled” and “offended” by our recruitment of Heather, whom the judge called a “tragic figure.” He directed his comments to me on the sexual entrapment issues raised by the defense, characterizing my actions as a “deliberate closing of the eyes.” The judge said he believed me when I said I instructed the informants not to engage in sex, but he didn’t believe I meant it when I said it. Even though Heather and I testified that several times I warned her about engaging in sexual activities and she denied engaging in intercourse with the defendant, the judge broadened the definition of sex to include what a future president claimed under oath was not sex.

  And so, the defense prevailed in its motion to dismiss the charges due to “gross governmental misconduct.” In his written ruling, the judge based his decision on three aspects of our investigation: (1) the FBI’s “manipulation” of Heather into becoming an informant; (2) the FBI’s continued use of Heather after learning that she had become sexually involved; (3) the FBI’s continued use of her after learning that she was still involved in unrelated criminal activity.

  Ironically, in the same courthouse, the identical issues were raised in the Mexican Mafia case. Since Heather was the former girlfriend of Robert, who had spent sixteen of his last twenty-two years in prison, and she introduced him to me, his defense thought they could also prevail with the same argument. I will never forget U.S. District Court Judge Laughlin Waters’s words as he peered down from the bench at the defense counsel: “When the scene is set in hell, don’t expect angels to be singing in the choir.” Their defense motions were denied.