The Last Undercover

by Bob Hamer

  In typical NAMBLA fashion, our gathering—even for a meal—featured a debate. No one exercised any type of decisive leadership in selecting a restaurant. I nominated Hooters, reasoning that no law enforcement official would ever look for a gathering of BLs there. No one seemed enthusiastic about my choice or my logic.

  David Mayer finally suggested that Todd, David R. Busby, and I join him at Johnny Rockets, across the street, while the others found another eating establishment inside the mall. I concurred, viewing this as another opportunity to discuss sex tourism, a prosecutable offense, with those who had already expressed interest in it. As I have mentioned before, had I been targeting the organization as such, or had my mission been to disrupt NAMBLA, it would have made more sense to join Peter, Floyd, and Chris—all steering committee members—for dinner. Instead, criminal prosecution of the members, not the dismantling of the organization, was the goal. If the dismantling or disruption came about because of the criminal prosecution, it would be an added bonus, but that was not my assignment.

  The four of us made our way across the street and found an outdoor table on the sidewalk. Johnny Rockets is a fifties-style diner. Bobby-soxer waitresses, jukeboxes, chrome countertops, and red vinyl counter stools created a Happy Days atmosphere. We ordered as my tablemates drooled—but they were looking at a different menu.

  As with the Times Square Toys “R” Us visit the previous year, Johnny Rockets provided the eye candy my BL friends desired. David R. Busby seemed to always be the first to point out a viewing target. Heads quickly turned. It was difficult not to react to their leering; I very much wanted to reach across the table and strangle whichever of the three was commenting on each boy who passed by our table.

  Finally, though, when David R. Busby announced he had a foot fetish, and even provided a Web site address that featured pictures of little boys’ feet, I had to excuse myself from the table. I did not know his criminal history; I didn’t even know if his name was, in fact, David R. Busby. But what I did know was he was a sexual predator, a boy lover who was fixated only on prepubescent boys as his sexual object of choice. I could guarantee he offended in the past, and that he would offend again.

  After I returned, Busby treated us to a magic trick he used to entertain boys he was grooming. Taking a plastic straw and folding it in a prescribed manner, he then snapped it, causing a loud pop, just the type of tactic that would capture the interest of his preferred quarry.

  Todd renewed an earlier conversation about gaydar, a topic of a recent 20/20 broadcast. Todd said they proved it existed. Both David Mayer and Todd said they had “nearly 100 percent gaydar in the United States” but admitted that outside the U.S. it was a more difficult assessment because of cultural differences. David, with advanced degrees in social work and psychology, said that he had also been observing the body language of those attending the conference and had drawn some interesting conclusions.

  That comment caught my attention: had he made observations that might allow him to expose me? My apparent interest, posture, and relaxed manner during the meeting times must have fooled him; he had no evaluation for me. Instead he assessed Chris, the socialist from Chicago, Mike from Cleveland, and John, the “gaythiest,” as suffering from various psychological problems. I was relieved to know I passed his psychological profile.

  We talked of traveling outside the U.S. for sexual gratification and exchanged e-mail addresses. David Mayer spoke of Big Ruby’s and the gay beaches of Costa Rica and Mexico. He regaled us with stories of the “boy bars” of Thailand. Todd told of a near-death experience in Jamaica when he paid to have sex with an eleven-year-old boy but was unsuccessful. All these were stories they would later repeat on videotape. We all agreed a “safe haven” was our mutual goal.

  The conversation also had its lighter moments, especially when David Mayer suggested that James was the heir apparent to the throne and crowned him the “future first lady.” With the Mohawk hairdo, David referred to John the gaythiest as “Chief” or “Schmohawk,” and Paul’s friend, Brian, was given the moniker “Trixie.” David’s humor and Todd’s warm personality at least made the table talk tolerable.

  I have often told younger agents interested in undercover work that unlike many in their agent peer group, a successful undercover agent must see the “gray.” The UC world is no longer black and white. I advised them to find qualities of the target with which they could identify, latch on to those qualities, and proceed. Hatred of the person or the crime may be a strong motivator, but most criminals can easily detect hatred. After all, a big part of their survival depends on being suspicious of almost everybody. For the undercover agent, hatred of the target may be difficult to conceal, but to be successful, it is necessary. I had to keep reminding myself of my own advice as I sat at the table with these pedophiles. That was why any scrap of honest amusement was a welcome relief from the almost constant revulsion I experienced when I had to listen to their fantasies about the boys around us.

  I knew at some point my recorder would run out of time, but I wasn’t sure when that moment would come. I had no way of reviewing the recordings while at the conference, so I only hoped I could get my targets to rehash their experiences and desires at a later date. Our comfort level with each other was high, so I had little fear of being able to induce them to recap much of our discussion sometime in the future.

  Dinner concluded and we made our way across the street to the mall, joined the others, and returned to the inn. Worried I was running out of recording time since I only had one device left, once we returned I decided to head for bed, attempt to get a good night’s sleep, and prepare for Sunday’s meeting.

  29

  LEGOLAND MAKES IT UNANIMOUS

  The next morning, as I made my way to the courtyard where the continental breakfast was being served, Mike from Cleveland, who described himself as being well versed in computers, was discussing Internet safety with several members. Privacy was a concern—especially for BLs—and Mike was explaining spyware detection and other techniques for insuring that files were not accessible to inquiring law enforcement officers who might be online. Certainly, this discussion was not illegal, but it emphasized to me once again that the purpose of these meetings went beyond advocacy and age-of-consent discussions. The break-time conversations dealt more with the issues that truly concerned the membership: travel to safe havens, ways to avoid law enforcement detection, and the acquisition of underage sex objects.

  I ate and ambled over to the conference room. Tim and I spent a few minutes alone, discussing “the state of NAMBLA.” He described the organization as the weakest he had seen it during his twelve-year membership. Referring to these as “dark times,” and admitting the membership rolls were shrinking, he had no solution for increasing the base. Tim, who professed the most paranoia of all the attendees, wanted to increase membership, but was unwilling to even acknowledge his membership apart from those at the conference—not exactly a good prospect for becoming a NAMBLA missionary. In fact, Tim would not even acknowledge his true name. Reenergizing the membership and the organization was the same theme discussed at last year’s conference, with no resolution or visible results. But unless members were willing to go public or the organization was willing to take a more public stance, how could it ever expect to increase the support base? Few members were willing to go public. Most sought to conceal their membership, as well as their proclivities—unless they were among those who shared their tastes.

  John, the gaythiest, walked in, and we spoke briefly before others joined us. Short and stocky, he definitely would catch your eye if he were walking down the street. Heavyset, in his late fifties, with his Mohawk hairstyle, earrings, shorts, and black support stockings, John had my vote for the Bulletin centerfold. He was a twice-convicted sex offender who went on two state-imposed vacations while living in Illinois. The first was for two years, three months, and the second was for two years, nine months. Both counted as strikes in California, and he feared a third co
nviction would result in life in prison. John admitted he left Illinois after being caught a third time with a juvenile. When questioned, however, the boy refused to cooperate, and John left the state as quickly as possible. He lived on the streets of Miami for a few years and then moved to San Francisco where, he said, the public assistance was more lucrative.

  After the members assembled, the morning session began.

  The topic of next year’s conference topped the morning agenda. I offered to host the conference in San Diego. Chris offered Chicago. November in San Diego versus November in Chicago seemed like a no-brainer. In keeping with my mandate not to attempt to disrupt this vaunted organization, I argued that I was concerned about the declining membership and suggested that in order to encourage more participation we should have the next conference in whatever region had the greatest proportion of the membership. But—with touching humility, I thought—I offered that if the steering committee or the membership chose San Diego, I would be honored to host the conference.

  Sam Lindblad inquired as to whether the host hotel in San Diego would know we were NAMBLA. There was some concern that, even after the fact, the hotel might cooperate with authorities if it learned NAMBLA held their annual conference in “America’s Finest City.” I assured them that would not be a problem because of San Diego’s openness to the gay community. Peter acknowledged that the Miami River Inn knew us to be NAMBLA. When the conference was held there six years previously, it was done so under the NAMBLA banner. Sam, however, was deeply concerned that my hotel management contacts in San Diego might be “Bush supporters” who would “kowtow” to law enforcement pressure. Peter was not worried that any members invited to the convention would act in such a way as to draw law enforcement attention to the organization. He mentioned that in a meeting a few years earlier in New York, several members were talking in a manner that “made the manager uncomfortable,” but Peter assured him “everything was on the up and up.”

  And, then, the clincher: Bob from Atlanta reminded the membership that San Diego had Legoland. With that all-important piece of intel before the voters, San Diego received a unanimous favorable vote. Democracy in action.

  I’d like to say my humble act was what won the day. However, it was pretty clear the siren call of Legoland did it. Not that I was incapable of rendering the appropriate dramatic flourish when needed; obviously, my soulful, tear-drenched tell-all at the New York conference helped put me across as a true-blue, card-carrying NAMBLA stalwart, but I could play the full spectrum, even a tough guy when I had to.

  I remember one especially memorable performance, when my audience was actually a Mafia leg-breaker. The beginnings of my participation in this little drama were unusual, in that I got involved with the case through one of the most hated assignments in the Bureau: complaint duty.

  Complaint duty consists of assisting walk-ins and taking phone calls from those who have an issue—real or imagined—for or with the Bureau. In an average-sized Bureau office, each agent can expect to draw this duty about once a month. The problem with it is there is absolutely no prescreening process; you have to talk to any crank who ambles in off the street or picks up a phone and dials the number. As you can imagine, many of the complaints registered by these folks are spurious, at best. Nights with full moons are always the worst.

  For example, every time I drew complaint duty, Joan would dial up and tell me the Russians were beaming microwaves into her apartment and burning her retinas. She forcefully and repeatedly requested I activate the “heat shield” the FBI apparently controlled; which would provide her with at least minimal protection against the attack.

  Another guy, whom we dubbed “Harmonica Joe,” called about as frequently as Joan and, with a booming bass voice, would announce he intended to serenade me with a harmonica solo. If I wanted a few minutes of music while logging in the other callers, I would put him on the speakerphone; Joe actually wasn’t bad.

  Other callers could be belligerent and abusive, often blaming the Bureau for some perceived misstep by the federal government. We were a convenient target and most phone books had our number listed on the front page. Seldom, if ever, did the callers have a complaint over which the FBI had jurisdiction, and if we did have the investigative responsibility, I usually had little knowledge of the statute governing the matter. I’m sure it was as frustrating for the caller as it was for me. I can count on one hand the number of calls that led to the opening of an investigation.

  Once, though, I got that rarest of all opportunities: a complaint call that actually made sense. I had the Sunday duty and had been receiving my quota of nut calls. I was looking forward to the end of the shift when the phone rang for the umpteenth time. The caller clearly identified himself and came to the point, after apologizing for interrupting my Sunday afternoon. I liked him already.

  He was a television producer who ran into some problems with a business associate on the East Coast, he told me. The associate claimed the producer owed him ninety thousand dollars, a claim the producer denied. Rather than looking to the courts for redress, the associate engaged some New Jersey mobsters to collect. The producer had just received a call informing him a collector was coming to L.A. the next day. The collector expected payment in full, he said, or Hollywood would be reading the producer’s obituary in the Los Angeles Times.

  I was liking this call more and more. I obtained as much information as I could and agreed to meet with the producer after my shift so he could fill me in on all the details. What I liked most about the producer was his refusal to be bullied; he was not going to pay and was willing to testify. That evening we worked out a scenario for the next day, and I spent most of the evening getting all my ducks in a row.

  The Los Angeles FBI offices are just off the 405 freeway on Wilshire Boulevard in West Los Angeles. We are directly across the street from the Los Angeles National Cemetery, where fourteen Medal of Honor recipients are buried, and within walking distance of Westwood Village, the home of UCLA. The producer lived in nearby Westwood, and to make it even more convenient, we set up the meeting with the New Jersey mobster at a restaurant in the Village. The mobster was actually staying at a motel just a few blocks from our office and was going to walk to the restaurant.

  I contacted a prosecutor from the Organized Crime Strike Force and he approved the plan, which was pretty simple. We would have two agents inside the restaurant watching our producer, who would be wearing a transmitter, capturing on tape each extortionate threat. I also asked another agent to assist me on a quick-hit undercover assignment. The agent I asked was relatively new to the office and nicknamed Hard Body: he was a former college linebacker and maintained his playing weight. He was my muscle, and I’d do all the talking. This was going to be fun!

  The next day, everyone was in place. Our producer was seated in the rear of this upscale restaurant. Sitting a few tables away were two agents. Hard Body, the prosecutor, and I were a block away in a Bureau car, preparing for our respective roles.

  As soon as the mob guy showed up he introduced himself as Anthony—a perfect name for a nice Italian boy. Once we knew Anthony was in the restaurant, Hard Body drove the Bureau car into the parking lot behind the restaurant. This would put us closer to the action and would allow for better reception of the transmitter. The prosecutor was in the backseat listening intently to the conversation. Once Anthony said all the magic words and we had our violation, Hard Body and I were to spring into action.

  I was relaxed and looking forward to the next few minutes, sitting in the front passenger seat as Hard Body pulled into the lot. I crossed my legs, and immediately a siren started going off. Were we being arrested? Was this some kind of reverse sting? Did Hard Body commit a traffic violation as he turned into the lot?

  We looked around, and then I looked down. While crossing my legs I had inadvertently hit the siren toggle for the Bureau car. All three of us burst out in laughter as I shut off the siren: “Your highly trained FBI in action . . .”

/>   But had Anthony heard the noise? Would he have second thoughts about his extortion mission? We listened intently for a few seconds and it became obvious Anthony was oblivious to my faux pas. As we listened to the transmitted conversation, he threatened to break the producer’s legs. Then he threatened to break the producer’s arms. Finally, he threatened to run the producer over with a car. It was perfect. Anthony said all the right words and was burying himself deeper with each tirade. John Gotti would have been proud. Our prosecutor was more than satisfied, so Hard Body and I went to work.

  We walked into the back of the restaurant and quickly found the producer. Anthony was sitting across from him. The wise guy was in his late forties, heavyset, and looked like a character out of The Sopranos ; he had obviously done some mileage for the mob. I understood why my producer was intimidated.

  I pulled up a chair and turned it around, straddling it as I positioned myself a few inches from Anthony’s face. His hands were on the table, and I kept them in my peripheral vision. Hard Body stood off to the side, ready to rumble. We were both packing and weren’t going to take any chances. If Anthony made any sudden moves, we were ready. Anthony was the real deal, or at least so we assumed.

  “Who gave you permission to come into this town?” I asked him, looking him in the eye.

  Anthony balked.

  I repeated the question, only louder. “I said, who gave you permission to come into this town? We’re with Pete Milano, and this man”—I indicated the producer—“is with us. Nobody, I repeat, nobody leans on him without our say-so.”