by Jason Ryan
“Henry, you know, you’re just as crazy an SOB as I thought you were,” said Lofton. “I quit, as of Friday. If you want to send somebody down to review my files, I’m happy to do it, but Friday I’m out of here.”
Dickson stayed in the office only a few weeks longer before he, too, quit.
Lofton and Dickson were not unique in their observance of McMaster’s maneuvers for attention and publicity. In the early 1980s, the White House was in regular receipt of letters and news clippings from the young Reagan appointee meant to express support for the president and keep him abreast of reported progress in the War on Drugs. Among the first of these letters was a note dated April 13, 1982, in which McMaster sent Reagan an editorial from Columbia’s the State newspaper applauding the president’s recent visit to the islands of Jamaica and Barbados—the first such visits by a sitting president of the United States. McMaster felt similarly to the State’s editorial writer: “In my opinion, and in the opinion of everyone I know, you are doing everything just right,” wrote McMaster. “Pour it on!”
On October 25, 1982, McMaster wrote the White House to thank Reagan for his response to the drug problem in America. “I deeply appreciate the excellent job you are doing on this and the host of other issues facing our country. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” On December 17, 1982, McMaster sent Reagan five articles regarding drug task-force work in South Carolina. Six days later McMaster wrote the President to inform him of the seizure of 955 pounds of cocaine in Sumter, South Carolina, and included news clippings featuring photos of McMaster and U.S. Senator Strom Thurmond holding a bundle of cocaine.
On January 3, 1983, he sent another press clipping mentioning the new drug task forces across the country and thanking the President for all his “splendid help.” Reagan responded to these letters with a note of his own, thanking McMaster for his dedication and promising support to those “fighting it out on the front lines in the war against crime.” Despite Reagan’s kind words, the letters seemed to tire the White House staff. On January 10, 1983, presidential writer Chuck Donovan sent a White House colleague McMaster’s latest letter along with a scribbled note: “Here he is again. Hope he has time to fight crime.”
Perhaps it was inevitable that the hard-charging McMaster would bruise some egos when he took the helm of the U.S. attorney’s office and set his own agenda for prosecuting cases. He took personal offense to those who broke the law, and he sought innovative ways not only to catch crooks, but also to embarrass them. He regarded the press as an ally and would eagerly present his cases to television and newspaper reporters. Always, he viewed the world in black-and-white.
In May 1982, for example, McMaster’s office filed 173 lawsuits against individuals who defaulted on their student loans. His office also provided a list of these people to newspapers, some of which printed the names, embarrassing the debtors. McMaster said he found this shaming tactic effective and later filed another wave of lawsuits.
“Of course, we had been filing a number of these cases each week all along, but that never got anybody’s attention,” said McMaster. “These mass filings did.”
If some of his employees saw him as ostentatious, others were glad to work under a prosecutor as emboldened as the criminals the office sought to convict. The members of Operation Jackpot, in particular, were grateful for McMaster’s support.
“If it wasn’t for Henry, the task force would have never gotten off the floor,” says Mike Lemnah, the agent detailed to Operation Jackpot from U.S. Customs Patrol. “I really liked the guy. He supported us 100 percent.”
Claude McDonald and David Forbes, too, were thankful for McMaster’s backing and his promise to secure any resources they needed. They also appreciated the way he removed obstacles. Forbes recalls one problematic agent in the DEA protesting the free rein enjoyed by Forbes and McDonald. His departure was swift.
“The supervisor here at the time called us all a bunch of cowboys, didn’t know what the hell we were doing,” says Forbes. “His ass got shipped to Washington, D.C. and put on a marijuana desk because he wouldn’t get with the program. By Henry McMaster, I guess, and Strom Thurmond.”
In Thurmond, McMaster had a powerful supporter with significant influence in South Carolina and Washington. By 1983 the former Dixiecrat had served as South Carolina’s governor and worked as a U.S. senator for more than twenty-five years. During much of the Reagan administration, Thurmond served as president pro tempore of the Senate and chairman of the Judiciary Committee. His constituent service was legendary, as was his penchant for fitness and his romantic prowess. On his sixty-fifth birthday he impressed reporters by performing one hundred push-ups in his office. He was married twice, the first time to a secretary in his governor’s office, Jean Crouch, who was twenty-four years his junior. After she died thirteen years later, he eventually married a former Miss South Carolina, Nancy Moore, who was forty-four years his junior. Thurmond’s obvious vigor enchanted South Carolina voters, who would ultimately elect him to eight Senate terms.
McMaster made it a point to update Thurmond on the progress of Operation Jackpot and visited with the senator when he came to Washington. During his trips to the nation’s capital, McMaster often stayed with Wellesley, who was still interested in Operation Jackpot’s progress. Wellesley would then tag along with McMaster and meet Thurmond at ceremonies and receptions. Outside the senator’s presence Wellesley remembers occasionally voicing concerns about another politician interfering with the investigation or a bureaucrat initiating a turf war. McMaster would dismiss the worrying, smiling and responding in his thick Southern accent that “Strom wouldn’t put up with that.”
With such forceful backing McMaster frequently challenged bureaucrats to get his own way. One of his deputy prosecutors, Daniel, recalls participating in a conference call in which McMaster butted heads with a high-ranking IRS official while they waited for Associate Attorney General Giuliani to join their phone conversation. Traditionally, says Daniel, the IRS decided when to prosecute suspects for tax offenses, and potential case reviews could take up to two years. Such a process, McMaster believed, was incompatible with the quick pace of Operation Jackpot, especially when South Carolina prosecutors had secured plea agreements with many of the accused, those men agreeing to plead guilty to tax offenses and forgo trial. These cases were essentially closed, McMaster believed, so there was no need for the lengthy IRS reviews. The IRS official disagreed, insisting they follow protocol.
“It will not happen,” said the IRS official.
Soon, Giuliani came on the line, and McMaster repeated his request to forgo the reviews, which sounded reasonable enough to the senior justice department official.
“That’s not going to be any problem, is it?” asked Giuliani.
“No, sir,” said the IRS official. “We’ll get right on it.”
McMaster resisted Washington’s yoke when it came to the disbursement of seized assets as well, devising legal maneuvers to benefit local law enforcement agencies, including the South Carolina state police, at the expense of the U.S. Treasury. For example, when South Carolina smuggler Jack Burg negotiated a plea deal with the government, he accompanied federal investigators to the Caribbean twice in order to withdraw about $600,000. By voluntarily giving up the cash to the U.S. Attorney’s office, as opposed to relinquishing it through a formal seizure by the government, McMaster explained, he was able to sidestep a requirement that it be forwarded entirely to Washington. He split the spoils in half and eight months later awarded the South Carolina State Law Enforcement Division $290,000 at a press conference, announcing the money would be used to buy a surveillance plane for drug investigations. Thurmond was on hand for the event, wide-eyed and marveling at the twenty-nine stacks of $10,000 placed on a table before television cameras.
“That’s the most money I’ve ever seen in my life,” said Thurmond.
Most alleged smugglers, however, were not willing to make similar donations, so government investigators continued to se
ize assets suspected of being purchased with drug proceeds. Roy Riley was a frequent target, with investigators taking BMW, Jeep, and Volvo automobiles. The seizures infuriated Riley. When his lawyer later warned him investigators were set to seize a Mercedes wagon he owned, he rushed to an auto dealership in Columbia, South Carolina, and traded it in for a Volvo. This tactic did not stave off investigators for long. Lemnah and other agents soon pulled Riley over and took the new Volvo, blocking his car and drawing their guns on Riley to prevent him from driving away.
“He was so pissed he couldn’t see straight,” says Lemnah.
Other seizures were less dramatic but well publicized, such as the home and two lots on Nantucket, Massachusetts, forfeited to the government in January 1983. Owned by offshore corporations controlled by Tom “Rolex” Rhoad, the twenty-five acres of island property were valued at more than $1 million.
These successes contributed to good morale among the task force members, and they sometimes gathered after hours at a Charleston-area riverside cottage rented by Forbes, Lemnah, and two other federal agents. On Friday nights they’d relax by catching shrimp and drinking beer. When McDonald came, his colleagues ribbed him for nursing a single beer all night long. Such teasing contributed to the camaraderie enjoyed by the investigators.
“[It was] a lot of work, a lot of hours, but it was worth it,” says Lemnah. “No one complained.”
At times the investigation served as an escape from turmoil at home. Both Forbes and McDonald were divorced while working on the task force, and both had children at home. Marital problems, however, were seldom discussed at the office. U.S. Customs Special Agent in Charge Clark Settles, who supervised McDonald, and later Forbes, says federal agents weren’t particularly “touchy-feely.”
“I expected the guys to do their damn jobs and take care of personal things in their own time,” says Settles.
At this stage of the investigation—nearly a year after the start of Operation Jackpot—a critical part of the agents’ jobs was to convince suspects it was in their best interest to cooperate with the government. Through lengthy debriefings with cooperating suspects, the agents could further their understanding of smuggling rings and help prosecutors prepare charges. By the spring of 1983, the prosecutors had also convened a federal grand jury in Columbia to present evidence of drug smuggling, hoping to secure indictments.
As they had done with certain residents of Hilton Head who worked for alleged kingpins Les Riley and Barry Foy, the agents tried to impress upon suspects that all was lost, their guilt a foregone conclusion. Each confrontation involved an artful mix of bluffing and intimidation. Forbes says he presented the facts plainly during these interactions and made it clear to suspects that the government was willing to negotiate prison time in exchange for cooperation, but that their assets would be taken no matter what. He held true to his word on that last point, helping coordinate the seizure of cars, land, and homes before charges were even filed.
“We got your ass,” Forbes told suspects. “How long you wanna do?”
To some the act was heavy-handed and transparent. One smuggler recalls being brought to the top floor of the federal courthouse in Columbia to undergo a polygraph test about his recent debriefing. The ceiling in the room was low and the federal agents none too pleasant. One of their favorite tactics, the smuggler says, was for the agents to suddenly snatch a piece of paper off the polygraph machine, crumble it, throw it in a corner of the room, and scream that he was a lying son of a bitch.
Other suspects who cooperated with the government reported similar treatment. One man who was minimally involved with the smuggling rings said the investigators often played the good cop/bad cop routine, with one investigator being exceedingly rude and the other very polite. As the bad cop raved and screamed that the suspect was a liar, the good cop would plead for cooperation to make his partner calm down.
“Listen, man, you’ve got to watch this guy, he hasn’t had his cigarettes,” the good cop would say.
With or without intimidation from government agents, the prospect of prison, humiliation, and loss of professional standing loomed large for anyone associated with the drug runners. Dickson, the prosecutor originally assigned to supervise the task force, recalls receiving a phone call from his colleague Lofton when Hilton Head lawyer Andy Pracht was brought in for questioning.
“Look, Wells, we just gotta back off. This guy’s in here crying in the conference room,” said Lofton. “We gotta cap it at like five years or something like that. This is just terrible. All he did was help them off-load boats. I mean, he wasn’t a mover or shaker or anything, but he’s willing to tell who’s involved.”
Pracht did share information with the government and pleaded guilty to tax evasion and currency violations. As word got around about his cooperation, he found himself reviled by men he formerly counted as friends. His former smuggling colleagues coined a new, rhyming nickname for the lawyer: “Pracht the Rat.” He wasn’t the only one to earn that harsh moniker.
Telling on your friends was unforgivable. At least that’s how most people felt. Among the smugglers, contempt for rats was so intense that many professed they wouldn’t piss on the loose-lipped men should they catch fire. What particularly rankled some smugglers, too, was the impression that a number of the government’s initial cooperating witnesses spilled their guts when they had relatively little exposure to serious charges. They were minor players with big mouths who were unwilling to accept responsibility for their criminal actions. To many minds they served the case to the government on a silver platter, sparing themselves at the expense of their friends. It didn’t help when at least one federal agent approached a drug runner and told him his former friend and fellow smuggler was the first person in the history of the DEA they had to beat with a hose to make him stop talking.
Or perhaps it was all just bitterness talking. Some who cooperated with investigators would argue they took a more practical approach when cornered by the government. If they didn’t cut a deal and talk, someone else would when put in their place. And whereas some smugglers might wax romantic about the good old days, others felt little loyalty to kingpins who offered them pittances for illegal work and often didn’t deliver on their promises, whether it was larger sums of money or legal representation. For some smugglers, too, debriefings with investigators were cathartic. For too long their lives had been moving too fast. They wanted to straighten out, stop drinking and drugging, and tell no more lies.
Horseshit, others say. They’re nothing but rats.
One man who wouldn’t talk was O’Day, the Virginian who sailed aboard the hash boat Second Life at the invitation of Toombs and Pernell. After refusing to testify about his smuggling ventures in front of a federal grand jury in October 1981, O’Day was indicted in June 1982. While considering whether or not he should contest the charges against him, he was surprised to learn that so many of his former smuggling colleagues, including Toombs and Pernell, provided information to Virginia investigators and agreed to serve as witnesses against him.
“I was a little disappointed with that, Barry [Toombs] being about the worst one, and other people I thought were my friends,” says O’Day, who pleaded guilty without cutting a deal. “I just expected a little bit more loyalty from people, but didn’t have it coming, I guess.”
To federal investigators there was little surprise that so many smugglers could be flipped and made to tell on their friends. They’d seen it happen before, over and over again.
“When you’ve got them by the balls,” says Forbes, “the hearts and minds will follow.”
Chapter Ten
With his family life in turmoil, his smuggling partnership in ruins, and feeling seriously out of sorts, Les Riley gathered his longtime girlfriend and their kids and headed to the Caribbean. Although he was aware of a criminal investigation into smuggling in South Carolina, Riley says what really bothered him were his friends and acquaintances who seemed to swarm him wherever he went, bringing
their problems with them. His girlfriend, Suzanne, was suffering from the extreme stress of living their undercover lives, and she was the one “who overlooked a lot of shit, particularly when I was running around,” say Riley. He wanted desperately to right the ship. He later wrote in a letter to a judge:
I saw that there was no way the family structure could, or should, survive the social environment surrounding myself. The use of harder drugs, such as cocaine, which I now deplore, was becoming more prevalent. So was greed and dishonesty. Consciously and subconsciously I wrestled with the demons of hedonism and despair. My dreams of a decent and good life were ebbing away. I really didn’t know a way out. Ensnared as I was in a morass partly of my own making and in a major way, beyond my control. I knew deep inside of me that I had to change. I needed guidance and counsel but had no one to turn to. I needed desperately to free myself from the maddening world of drugs and to put all of this behind me.
After a year in the Caribbean, and as the Operation Jackpot task force began seizing property in South Carolina, the Rileys decided to move again, leaving St. Barts to travel through South America, Europe, and Asia before arriving in Australia. Riley spent his time fishing, and by December 1982, the family had moved into a home on lush and ritzy Whale Beach, north of Sydney. Each morning they’d send their children off to school in their uniforms of khaki shorts and checkered shirts. For now, they thought, they had found peace.
“Surely, we reasoned, no one would bother to seek us out on the other side of the world, but we were wrong again,” Riley wrote. “This was absolutely too much for Suzanne and she was admitted to a hospital suffering a nervous breakdown due to stress from our ordeal and the fact that our past was apparently inescapable from former associates.”
Among their visitors were Wally Butler and his fiancée, Rebecca. After leaving the United States, the couple moved in with the Rileys at their Whale Beach home. A few weeks later, when the quarters got too cramped, the Butlers moved down the street. Both families thought of Australia as a temporary home, a pleasant place to stay before moving on. Before he had left the Western Hemisphere with his family, Riley had talked about heading to French Polynesia with Bob “The Boss” Byers, who was also fond of the Pacific, and leaving the fast life behind. The Ocean 71 sailboat Riley had used to smuggle his first load of hashish was docked nearby, ready to set sail whenever they were ready. They’d go soon, he thought. But he never got the chance.