Standing Next to History: An Agent's Life Inside the Secret Service

by Petro, Joseph

  TO THE THREE MOST IMPORTANT WOMEN IN MY LIFE:

  MY MOTHER, DOROTHY;

  MY DAUGHTER, MICHELLE;

  AND MY WIFE, SUSAN

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE - TAKING A BULLET

  CHAPTER TWO - ON THE ROAD

  CHAPTER THREE - PROTECTING PEOPLE YOU LIKE

  CHAPTER FOUR - THE TWO OF THEM

  CHAPTER FIVE - JUST A KID FROM ALLENTOWN

  CHAPTER SIX - ROCKY

  CHAPTER SEVEN - MOVING UP IN THE WORLD

  CHAPTER EIGHT - WORKING FOR THE PRESIDENT

  CHAPTER NINE - DOWNTIME

  CHAPTER TEN - HEALING SOME OLD WOUNDS

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - THREE WORDS IN GENEVA

  CHAPTER TWELVE - LEAVING THE PRESIDENT

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - SHEPHERD ONE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - THE QUAYLES

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - LIFTING THE BURDEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  INDEX

  Copyright Page

  PROLOGUE

  The irony of doing a “spontaneous” presidential event is the amount of planning it requires.

  The operations center for the Presidential Protective Division (PPD) is a suite of cramped offices on the ground floor of the majestic Executive Office Building (EOB)—once home to both the State and War departments—next door to the White House.

  Referred to simply as “Room 10,” ours was typical of EOB offices—a crowded maze of desks and filing cabinets and highly polished floors, where phones were always ringing and people were always shuffling in and out. Most of the president’s staff is headquartered in the EOB and suffers those same crowded, hectic conditions, with the notable exception of the vice president, whose more spacious and serene official suite of offices is on the second floor.

  I’d been working in Room 10 for the past year as assistant special agent in charge of PPD and, on that April morning in 1984, was busy sorting through duty schedules when Mike Deaver called from the West Wing. “Meet me on West Exec,” the president’s deputy chief of staff said. “We’re taking a helicopter ride.”

  Deaver was one of Ronald Reagan’s “triumvirate.” He, along with chief of staff James Baker and counselor to the president Ed Meese, made up the inner circle of the first administration, and, at that time, Deaver may have been the closest to the president. His office was next to the Oval Office, and had a door leading directly into it, making him the only member of staff who could enter unobserved. He oversaw the “Reagan image,” a job he’d held since the California governor days. Years later, one newsmagazine would note that while Reagan cooked the steaks, it was Deaver who managed the sizzle. Another article suggested that if the first administration had been a film, Deaver’s on-screen credit would have read “Directed By.”

  Grabbing my jacket, I hurried out of the building’s side exit where it opens onto West Executive Avenue, the private street that separates the EOB from the White House. Senior staffers park their cars in West Exec, and that morning a four-door Chrysler sedan with a military driver was waiting for us. Deaver was just coming through the door of the West Wing, followed by Bill Henkel, head of the president’s Advance Office. A cantankerous, no-nonsense guy who’d learned his trade in the Nixon White House, Henkel managed presidential trips and events. The three of us jumped into the car, and the driver headed out the gate for the Southeast Freeway. Before I could ask what was going on, Deaver announced, “Baltimore. Opening day. No one knows.”

  I had to smile. We were on the way to tell the owner of the Baltimore Orioles that the president had just invited himself to throw out the first ball of the season. To make that happen would take more than one hundred people.

  On the ten-minute ride to Anacostia, the old Naval Air Station that is home to HMX—the Marine Corps detachment that flies the president’s helicopters—Deaver outlined the particulars. The president would throw out the ball, spend the first inning in the Oriole dugout, and then we’d come home. The entire event would last only half an hour.

  One of the “white tops”—a green and white Sikorsky H-3— was waiting for us. Whenever the president is on board, it’s designated Marine One, the same way that any plane the president flies on is designated Air Force One. For the three of us, the designation was less glamorous, just another HMX “plane.” Despite the fact that it’s a helicopter, for some odd reason in White House terminology helicopters are planes, and I have no idea why. We left from Anacostia because only Marine One takes off and lands at the White House. Not even the vice president in Marine Two can land there.

  As we took off, I was on the phone to the Baltimore office of the Secret Service, asking them to have agents meet us at the landing zone. I then telephoned the Secret Service garage, which in those days was at the Washington Navy Yard, and told them we needed to get cars heading north right away. Baltimore is a forty-minute drive from Washington, and agents needed to be in place when Marine One landed with the president. The garage dispatched an armored limousine, several follow-up cars, and what we called an off-the-record car—a nondescript Lincoln Town Car—just in case we needed it. Finally, because we plan for any contingency, which in this case meant that the motorcade might not get to Baltimore in time, I phoned the field office again to station two extra cars at the landing zone.

  Deaver, Henkel, and I then got into a discussion about where the president would stand when he threw out the ball. Deaver and Henkel wanted maximum visibility, to put him where the whole crowd could see him, which meant the pitcher’s mound. For that same reason, the mound was my last choice. They wanted footage of the president on the evening news in front of an enthusiastic crowd because that’s good for their business. But it wasn’t good for the Secret Service. The president would be too exposed and too far from the safety of the dugout. I wanted him to step out of the dugout and throw it to home plate from there. Deaver and Henkel didn’t like that. I offered the on-deck circle. They didn’t like that either. We debated the possibilities, and eventually settled on third base. I agreed because it was only another twenty feet or so farther away, and they agreed because he would still be visible to the crowd.

  Generally speaking, unannounced short trips like this one are low risk. Since no one is expecting the president, it’s unlikely that an assassin will be waiting for him. But there could be a bizarre spontaneous action by someone who just happens to have a gun. Even though it’s a remote possibility, it cannot be ignored. What’s more, the longer the president stays in view, the riskier it gets. People have time to think, to scheme, to realize there is an opportunity. To cover that threat, while we were flying to Baltimore, I phoned back to Washington, to brief Bob DeProspero—the agent in charge of PPD—and we decided to put the president in a bulletproof vest.

  The security detail on duty at the White House was ready for the trip to Baltimore, because they’re always ready to move at any time to go anywhere. In this case, all they needed to do was get the president on Marine One and fly up. What I didn’t know was that the president had a few ideas of his own.

  First, he wanted to warm up, and sent his staff scurrying around the White House for a baseball. I have no idea where they found one, except they did, and somewhere in the building they also found a glove. So, fifteen minutes before he climbed onto Marine One, the seventy-three-year-old Ronald Reagan went out to the Rose Garden with a staffer and had a catch. Then he put some money in his pocket.

  Our landing zone in Baltimore was the Water Works
, a fenced-in area across the street from Municipal Stadium. Half a dozen field agents had already secured it and were waiting for us with a small fleet of cars. No sooner had Mike, Bill, and I gotten out of the helicopter than it took off for the White House to pick up the president.

  The game was an hour away, and crowds were beginning to arrive. The three of us—men in dark suits who’d just stepped off a marine helicopter—attracted attention as we hurried through the opening-day throng. Obviously, we didn’t have tickets, so we needed to talk our way inside. I spotted a Baltimore police lieutenant, identified myself as a Secret Service agent, and explained that we needed to speak with Edward Bennett Williams, the Washington lawyer who owned the Orioles. The officer escorted us through the turnstiles and into the clubhouse, and we informed Williams that the president would be arriving.

  With time running short, the three of us rushed through a series of briefings. I asked the Baltimore police to put extra personnel in place for crowd control, to block the route between the landing zone and the stadium, and to secure the area in front of the clubhouse entrance where we would park the president’s car. I then walked the route the president would take from the clubhouse entrance to the dugout and back again. Although most of the crowd would be in the stadium when the president arrived, there were always people showing up late or mingling outside, and there could be no question of letting them get anywhere near him. So I double-checked that the streets and parking area were secure, then stationed several field agents behind the dugout and in the stands to watch the crowd. The head of publicity for the Orioles roped off an area behind third base for the press, while the team’s head of security briefed his people. Mike stayed with Williams and his other guest, baseball commissioner Bowie Kuhn, while Bill and I hurried back to the landing zone, because, by this time, the president was on his way.

  But the limousine and other cars weren’t there yet. I got on the radio with the limousine driver, tried to work out how much longer he’d be, and realized that he might not get there in time. Sure enough, a few minutes later, three helicopters came into view.

  Anyone who watches television news, seeing Marine One taking off and landing on the White House lawn, might get the impression that the president’s helicopter flies alone. It doesn’t. There are always at least two others with him, and sometimes more. At a minimum, there’s one for the press, which may also have some White House staff on it, and one for the Secret Service. Each helicopter seats ten to twelve people. The press and agents fly out of Anacostia and rendezvous with Marine One in the air. During any flight, the three helicopters are always moving around and changing positions so that it is difficult to identify Marine One.

  In Baltimore, as soon as the press and agents were on the ground, Marine One came in for a landing. That’s when the cars from Washington finally pulled up. But the limousine was low on gas. For the most part, these specially built armored cars are not only indefatigable, but are maintained daily. They don’t even have flats, because they have special tires with padded cells inside so that if one loses air—due to a puncture or because someone shot at the tires—they won’t go flat for several miles. However, the limousines are gas guzzlers, getting four miles to the gallon, and this one had just driven all the way up from D.C. I wasn’t sure we had enough gas to get the president to the stadium and back again to the landing zone and decided that while the president was at the game, the limousine would be refueled. However, I wasn’t comfortable sending the limousine to a gas station, so we got one of our agents to bring gas in.

  The crowd outside the stadium saw the three official helicopters landing and saw the police blocking off streets, and word spread that the president was there. We got him quickly from the landing zone into the clubhouse, where Williams and Kuhn welcomed him. The Orioles backroom staff was there, too, along with manager Earl Weaver and a few of the players. The president greeted them all—we called this “the grip and grin”—and before the National Anthem ended, he was in the dugout.

  At one point, I found myself standing next to the Orioles’ star infielder, Cal Ripken, who didn’t seem overjoyed that the president was there. “Every time a president comes to one of our games,” he told me, “we lose.” Ripken must have known what he was talking about, because that day the Orioles lost to the White Sox 5–2.

  When the stadium announcer told the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States,” the place erupted. Ronald Reagan stepped out of the dugout with the team and greeted the crowd with his usual stage presence. Rick Dempsey, the Orioles catcher, waited at home plate as the president went to third base, wound up, threw the ball, and hit Dempsey’s mitt. The crowd erupted again. Dempsey ran up to president and handed him the ball. The president worked the crowd for another few seconds before we ushered him safely back inside the dugout.

  Had he planned to stay for the game, we would have moved him to the owner’s box, where he would be less exposed to the crowd. But a single inning in the dugout, at least on this occasion, was acceptable. The president sat down on the bench in between Williams and Kuhn, the first batter stepped up to the plate, and, suddenly, Bill Henkel mentioned hot dogs. He told me the president would eat a hot dog so that the White House could have its “Picture of the Day.” Okay, baseball and hot dogs go together, it’s a traditional thing, and why shouldn’t the president have a hot dog at a ball game? The answer is, because the president of the United States shouldn’t be eating any food that the Secret Service doesn’t control.

  In principle, nothing edible gets near the president unless we know where it comes from and who has handled it. Even at state banquets, while it appears as that he is eating the same food as everyone else, his meal is cooked by White House stewards. If he’s overseas, his stewards find out what’s being served at the banquet and bring the ingredients with them from the United States. They even dress the same way the other waiters dress, in order to serve him without drawing attention to themselves. The hot dog wasn’t anticipated, but Henkel wanted it, and apparently the president was looking forward to it. I radioed up to one of the agents on top of the dugout and asked him to select a hot dog vendor at random. He found an older guy and brought him down to the dugout. The vendor could see who his customers were, but didn’t necessarily appreciate the fact that while he was waiting to mustard up a snack for the president, he was losing business back in the stands.

  The Orioles retired the side, came up to bat, and we moved the vendor along the bench to the president, who looked up at him, grinned widely, and said, “Three hot dogs, please.”

  The vendor readied the hot dogs and handed one to the president, one to Williams, and one to Kuhn. The president gestured to Williams and Kuhn, “I’ll take care of this,” reached into his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, handed it to the vendor, and said generously, “Keep the change.”

  The vendor took the money, stared for a moment, hesitated, then turned back to the president. “Sir. The hot dogs are two bucks apiece.”

  There was an awkward few seconds because the president didn’t have any more money, but Henkel was very quick and slipped another five-dollar bill into the president’s hand.

  The president smiled again, handed the money to the vendor, and repeated, “Keep the change.”

  The inning ended, the president thanked everyone in the dugout, and we moved him back through the clubhouse to the cars. The freshly fueled limousine got him to the Water Works. We climbed into the plane and headed home.

  The H-3 has only one cabin. There is a single seat for the president with a small writing table, and across from him a bench seat for two people. There are two bench seats behind that, one on each side, and a single seat at the rear, next to the radio equipment, which is where I usually sat. There is also a jump seat behind the cockpit for a second agent. There’s a minifridge at the back with soft drinks—strictly self-serve—and a little tray with mints and gum. True to form, there were plenty of jelly beans on board. But that was no surpri
se because, in this administration, there were plenty of jelly beans everywhere.

  Henkel and I were sitting together just behind the president, who was leaning over his desk, scribbling something on one of the Marine One embossed note cards. I didn’t pay much attention to what he was doing until he sat up, leaned back, and handed the card to Henkel.

  It read, “Dear Bill, I owe you five dollars. Ronald Reagan.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  TAKING A BULLET

  If you fail in this business, you could lose the president.

  At no point did anyone ever say to me, your job is to take a bullet for the president of the United States.

  Legend has it there’s a blood oath that Secret Service agents take in which we swear to lay down our own life to save the president’s. There is no such pledge, no such promise, and, maybe even more important, no such requirement. It’s a myth, nothing more than part of the mystique that surrounds the Secret Service. Instead, the reality of the job—and this, perhaps, best defines the fundamental principle of the Secret Service—is to do absolutely everything possible to prevent such a decision from ever having to be made.

  It goes without saying that protecting the president can be dangerous, and, yes, there may be a moment when, because of where we are, getting killed is a real possibility. But police officers face that same possibility every day. So, too, firemen, soldiers, sailors, and pilots. Danger is hardly unique to the Secret Service. Because no one ever knows for sure how he or she will react in a life-threatening situation, we try to leave nothing to chance. We practice assassinations at speeches and at rallies and in motorcades, getting in and out of the car. We don’t use professional drivers; we train our own agents to drive the presidential limousine because that driver is the most important person in the motorcade. Armored to our specifications, the limousine is much heavier than a regular car and a lot harder to drive. It doesn’t respond the way a standard Cadillac limousine would respond. In an emergency, the driver may have to do something—break through a barricade or execute a J-turn—and even though there is always a supervisor sitting next to him, there might be a few seconds when the life of the president hangs on the driver’s instinctive reaction. So we work a lot of assassination scenarios around cars, all of them authentically played out with presidential limousines and crowds and explosives, and with mock assassins firing guns.