by Bob Hamer
Matt began to scribble notes as fast as he could write, outlining probable cause for a search warrant of the storage locker. He closed his eyes and replayed the surveillance in his head, visualizing all he observed and then wrote vigorously. He repeated the process several times until he had an extensive rough draft affidavit.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Caitlin arrived home from the hospital and was surprised to find the condo empty. The smell of vegetable soup simmering in the Crock-Pot was all that greeted her.
She checked for voice-mail messages. One was from her mother and a second from her sister but nothing from Matt. It wasn’t that late, so she assumed he would be home shortly. Actually, she welcomed a little bit of quiet time.
She opened her Bible and turned to 1 Thessalonians 4, smiling as she recalled the sermon on death several weeks before. The pastor quoted soul singer Ray Charles: “Ain’t none of us getting out of here alive,” then went on to say death is difficult for Christians just as it is for nonbelievers. As Christians we grieve, but not like those who have no hope.
Hope is what she wanted to give Jaana and her family. Hope in a medical miracle but confidence in life everlasting as well. She struggled with how to present the message of eternal hope and sought God’s guidance in finding the right opportunity. She closed her eyes and started to pray.
The phone rang and interrupted her conversation with God.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Babe, I don’t have much time. Something’s come up, and it looks like I may be stuck here most of the night.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Oh yeah, your Humpty Dumpty look-alike showed up at Zerak’s store, and now I’m writing a search warrant affidavit. Just time-consuming, that’s all.”
“Matt, you aren’t going to search the market, are you?”
“No, I followed Yasir from the store, and he led me indirectly to here.”
“Matt, that family has enough problems now. I hope I haven’t made more for them.”
“Don’t worry yet. Let me run out these leads, and we’ll see where they take us. Right now Zerak’s not on my radar, but that’s not saying he won’t be. He’s buying their product, but I’m not convinced that makes him a terrorist. Gotta go.”
“Well, be careful. I love you, Cowboy.”
“I love you, too. Don’t wait up. It could be a late one.”
WITHIN A HALF HOUR Dwayne arrived at the scene. Matt filled him in on the details, and Dwayne looked over the rough draft.
“You missed your calling,” said Dwayne.
“What do you mean?”
“You should’ve been a doctor. I can hardly read this scribble.”
Matt was experiencing a variety of emotions—excitement, fatigue, satisfaction—and refused to reward Dwayne’s attempt at humor with any type of acknowledgment, including a laugh.
As Dwayne continued to review the affidavit, Matt asked, “Should we go to the manager and find out who rented unit 270? Do you think the judge will require it?”
“Yeah.” Dwayne thought for a moment then said, “No, let’s not. We have no idea who owns this facility or who the manager is. They may be part of the conspiracy. I think you’ve got enough here. I would add a paragraph explaining why we did not contact the manager. That should be sufficient.”
Dwayne continued to read, then added, “Let’s do this. I’ll stay here for now. Go back to the office and finish typing up the affidavit. I’ll call out the cavalry and get a couple of rookies to sit on this place until you can get the warrant signed. When the judge looks it over, if he has a problem, then we can interview the manager. No sense alerting anyone if we don’t have to.”
Matt looked at his watch. It was only 6:45 but seemed much later. With any luck they could have the affidavit signed by nine or ten, and they would be done by midnight or one. It almost made him sorry he followed the box truck. Too bad this wasn’t TV, and it could all be done during a commercial break.
BRIAN WEINSTEIN AND LIZ Chavez arrived within a half hour of Dwayne Washington’s call. Both were probationary agents with less than a year on the job. Their mission this evening was to watch the storage unit and ensure no one removed any items until Matt could obtain a search warrant.
Matt drove over to the Hollywood Division of the Los Angeles Police Department and met Detective Pete Garcia, a member of the Joint Terrorism Task Force. From there, both men used the LAPD computers to access as much information as possible about the storage facility, the owner, and any of the tenants. Pete also arranged for an LAPD truck to be available for the search. As soon as Matt obtained the warrant and they were able to enter the unit, backbreaking work would be the order of the evening. That event might still be several hours away.
Property records determined the storage facility was owned by a real estate investment trust with corporate headquarters in Delaware. A further check revealed no known link to terrorism. In fact, the REIT owned property throughout the greater Los Angeles area as well as a casino in Atlantic City and a riverboat on the Ohio River. Matt laughed out loud when he pulled up the property records and said it looked like a Mafia front. He might have been correct, but this evening wasn’t the time to follow up on mob leads.
Matt also ran the plate on the Porsche. It came back to a leasing company in Detroit, Michigan—another dead end, at least this evening.
Pete found several police reports filed from the address of the facility, but all involved theft from the various units. Pete was able to identify the manager and ran a background check on him. He lived on site and had no criminal history. Task force officers could talk with him after the warrant was signed.
Matt finished drafting the warrant and affidavit and e-mailed a copy to the duty Assistant United States Attorney who would have to approve it prior to Matt’s submitting it to the evening magistrate. The affidavit was nearly nine pages double-spaced. About half of it pertained to the actual observations Matt made earlier in the evening, and the remaining half concerned his opinions as to why he believed contraband would be found in the unit. Considering the speed with which he drafted the affidavit, Matt was more than satisfied with his final product.
With approvals from the AUSA in place, Matt headed to the Beverly Hills home of the federal magistrate for her signature. Matt was lucky. Judith McKean, the duty magistrate this week, was always accommodating. On the federal judicial totem pole, magistrates were one step below district court judges. They handled search and arrest warrants, misdemeanor trials, some civil actions, and most of the criminal procedural steps prior to the case being assigned a district court judge. Judith McKean was the most thoughtful of all the magistrates and usually made the agents share a cold drink with her as the affidavit was being reviewed. Sometimes, when time was of the essence, the extra bit of geniality was nerve-racking, but the judge never made unnecessary modifications to the affidavit, so an agent’s patience was a virtue. Tonight should be smooth sailing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The upscale Beverly Hills restaurant was more suited to Wadi’s newly cultivated tastes for exquisite cuisine. Sammy Chu, who was more suited for his brother’s hole-in-the-wall storefront, grabbed the waiter’s sleeve as he passed by the table. “More bread and bring the dessert menu.”
Wadi and his Chinese criminal associate were celebrating their continued triumph at profiting from American vices. Counterfeit cigarettes proved a most lucrative venture in supporting the cause and far less dangerous than narcotics. Sammy’s overwhelming success these past several years demonstrated the lack of enforcement efforts at thwarting the sale of the contraband. Untaxed cigarette sales of counterfeit U.S. brands took a backseat to what law enforcement agencies perceived as more dangerous criminal problems. Wadi and Sammy hoped that perception would continue for the foreseeable future.
“Can we use a fifty-three-foot container the
next time?” asked Wadi.
Sammy laughed and spoke as he ate. Small chunks of food were expelled with every other word Sammy uttered. “My dear Middle Eastern friend, you are getting greedy. The forty-foot container no longer suits you?”
“It is not greed; it is wise business sense. We venture the same risk for a twenty-foot container as we do for the forty or fifty-three footer. It makes sense to maximize our profits with each importation.”
“I will check with my associates in China. It should not be a problem, but the price of importing will be reflected in the larger container.”
“As long as it is proportional, I will pay. Order me another container, the fifty-three footer, if possible. If not, we will take the forty,” said Wadi. “Can you also assist me in getting the cigarettes into Toronto?”
“That can be done. We will still bring the package into Long Beach. Our drivers will take it across the border in Buffalo. That, however, carries a much larger price tag because of the difficulty in guaranteeing success. Our people at the border only work certain times so we must often wait several days just outside the crossing point before we attempt to move the product,” said Sammy.
“I understand,” said Wadi. “As long as you are fair in your dealings, I am sure we can do business.”
“I will get you a price, and you can make a decision as to whether it is worth the effort,” said Sammy.
They finished their meal in silence. Knowing Wadi was picking up the tab, Sammy ordered two desserts.
MATT LEFT JUDGE MCKEAN’S residence and called Dwayne.
“It’s a go. No problem with the warrant. I should be there in a half hour.”
“Great, the troops are ready. It shouldn’t take long to load up the truck once we get in. I’m assuming it’s all cigarettes. We can inventory everything tomorrow,” said Dwayne.
“From what I could tell, it was all cases of cigarettes, stacked from floor to ceiling. With enough help, it should go quickly.”
“I’ve got a couple of rookies watching the place. Thought we’d just give them the bolt cutters and let them break the unit open. Is that okay with you?”
Matt appreciated Dwayne’s asking. It was always irritating to put together a case and then have SWAT or probationers or, worse yet, a supervisor seeking publicity steal the glory by cuffing a suspect, escorting him for the media perp walk, and taking credit for the score. But this was merely a search, no big deal. “Yeah, that’s fine. In fact, they can load the truck all by themselves for all I care. I joined this outfit to avoid heavy lifting.”
“From the way you described the unit, I’m sure there is plenty of work to go around. Get here as soon as you can.”
THE TEAM GATHERED JUST down the street from the entrance to the storage facility. Seven members of the task force, including the supervisor, were present. Dwayne briefed the team and then assigned responsibilities.
“Brian, we’ll let you do the honors.” With that Dwayne handed Brian a massive pair of bolt cutters. “Liz, you can pop the door. Pete will drive the truck in. We’ll load it as quickly as possible and inventory it tomorrow. It’s getting late. Let’s just get in and out. No one has been to the unit since Matt saw the two subjects leave, so it should be a nice quick hit.”
This was no midnight raid on a Hell’s Angels clubhouse, so the task force members left their cars parked on the street and walked toward the facility. As fate would have it, just as Pete drove the truck toward the entrance, a late-model station wagon was pulling out. The now opened gate precluded the need to announce their presence to the facility manager until they were inside and ready to initiate the search.
Dwayne headed toward the office as the team made their way to unit 270.
Dwayne rang the doorbell several times to the manager’s office, but there was no response. With that he radioed the command to cut the lock.
Brian applied the bolt cutters to the lock and used every bit of strength he could muster to effect the ultimate outcome.
“Too bad we don’t have video. This would make a great commercial for Master Lock,” chimed an agent.
“Or YouTube,” said another.
Brian continued to apply pressure, and his failure to cut through the steel was becoming a personal embarrassment. He was making some headway but very little.
The more experienced agents were less than kind in their remarks, questioning Brian’s manhood. Each snide remark caused the probationer’s face to redden even more and his will to intensify. With Dwayne’s arrival the catcalls subsided.
Applying some technique he must have learned from watching professional wrestling on television, Brian performed a series of rapid grunts and groans, and the blades of the tool penetrated the lock. A huge smile came over his face, but the agents ignored him, demanding instead that Liz open the door so they could finish what had become a very late evening.
Liz reached down, grasping the handle of the metal sectional roll-up door. As she pulled upward, it began to move smoothly along the roller tracks. The door reached a height of about three feet when an audible click and sizzle could be heard.
Matt and Dwayne looked at each other, puzzlement registered on both their faces. Fate was about to confront the team.
Before either could shout a warning, Liz continued to lift the door, and an explosion ripped through the metal object, throwing Liz to the ground. Her shrill screams could be heard over the roar of the flames as her nylon raid jacket burned brightly.
Controlled chaos prevailed.
Matt ripped off his shirt and jumped on Liz as she rolled on the ground, her screams continuing. Using his shirt as a blanket, he managed to smother the flames. His stomach knotted when he saw her hand was now a charred extremity where there was soft tan skin just seconds before; her nylon jacket melded onto her skin. Liz lapsed in and out of consciousness.
Pete Garcia threw the truck into reverse and moved the potential explosive hazard well away from the flames shooting out from the concrete storage unit. The pungent smell of burning flesh and sulfur permeated the air.
Dwayne dialed 911, summoning medical and fire assistance.
Matt, with the help of others, moved Liz safely from the front of the storage unit and administered what aid he could before the paramedics arrived.
The entire contents of the unit continued to fuel a sea of orange and red flames as smoke billowed out of the storage locker.
The agents could only watch as the evidence was destroyed by a series of ignition traps set throughout the unit designed to explode with any unauthorized entrance. The task force’s lackadaisical approach to the search and their carelessness cost them a team member.
Emergency personnel arrived within minutes. Matt provided the first response treatment, preventing shock and minimizing damage to Liz. His quick thinking probably prevented a greater tragedy, but with Liz safely en route to the hospital, he reflected on the serious mistakes made this evening.
Never in his career had he been faced with a booby-trapped search venue. He faulted himself for not watching GQ and his associate secure the unit. He was so eager to call Dwayne that his enthusiasm clouded wisdom. These were terrorists, not white-collar criminals seeking to evade taxes. His cavalier approach to tonight’s work was inexcusable. The war had become even more personal.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wadi sat on the gray, concrete park bench at the entrance to the Santa Monica Pier. Even though it was a chilly autumn weekday, the pier was a popular place. Teenage couples and poorer families with small children dominated the crowd. Wadi watched as he waited for Ismad to arrive. The sounds of the carousel and the laughter of children enjoying the afternoon were in sharp contrast to the life Wadi knew in his country. He looked at his watch. Ismad was late, but Wadi enjoyed the opportunity to relax, so he didn’t mind the extra minutes alone.
Wadi learned early tha
t morning the FBI had raided the storage unit and 325 master cases of counterfeit cigarettes were destroyed—3,250,000 cigarettes went up in smoke. At least, all the evidence was consumed in the fire. The preparations for a possible intrusion proved useful. It was another loss for the cause but a small one that should have no repercussions in the organization’s overall plans.
The facility was chosen because it had no exterior video surveillance system. A Saudi female from Detroit with false California identification rented the unit. Wadi doubted there was any link to him; otherwise, he would be in custody. It was problematic as to how the feds identified the storage locker, but the cause would move forward. He and Sammy had already negotiated for the next container, and it would be en route from China shortly. Next time they would be more careful.
Wadi walked over to the concession stand and purchased a cotton candy. As he returned to the still empty bench, he spotted Ismad walking down the pier behind a teenager on Rollerblades. The boy was wearing ragged cutoffs, with green spiked hair and more piercings than Custer at the Last Stand. Ismad was dressed in black and glared in disgust at the young man’s appearance.
Wadi greeted Ismad with a traditional hug, but Wadi sensed Ismad was returning the greeting more out of duty than respect. Ismad had difficulty hiding his belief that Wadi had assimilated too much of the Western ways. Wadi deliberately smiled as he pulled off a piece of cotton candy and placed it on his tongue, realizing the action further incensed his associate. Wadi knew Ismad understood the importance of Wadi’s position and believed enough in the cause to meet with the cell leader. Besides, Ismad needed Wadi if he were to be successful.
They sat on the bench, eyes forward, looking across the pier. Ismad referenced several overweight people walking past. Their heavy footsteps clomped loudly on the concrete, like the Budweiser Clydesdales in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Without looking at Wadi, Ismad said, “Americans are soft.” He paused, then added, “And stupid. In the name of tolerance and diversity they will allow us to win. They will hand over their country and realize it only at the eleventh hour, even as we continue to bring terror to their shores.”