by Jason Ryan
On May 5, 1983, Riley left his home overlooking Whale Beach for the local corner store, bounding out the door dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Australian Federal Police officers were watching him, and had been for weeks, even staking out his house the night before. American authorities claimed their suspect was a prominent marijuana and hashish kingpin who was at ease operating in war-torn Lebanon and the jungles of South America. According to the kingpin’s brother Roy, who had been interrogated by American agents, Les was a man who valued his freedom above all things and would rather die than go to prison.
Riley walked down the driveway to the road and sidewalk that paralleled the beach. He headed north, but did not make it far before a car drove toward him at high speed and stopped a short distance away. A man seemed to be propelled from the car, heading down a hill toward the beach. Riley stared hard at the car as two other men exited from its doors and approached him.
“I want to talk to you,” said Detective Senior Constable Stephen Emes as he placed his hand on Riley’s arm.
Riley, alarmed and unaware the strangers were policemen, immediately threw his arms in the air, breaking contact. Spinning on his heels, he sprinted off in the other direction, running only five paces or so before he spotted another man heading for him. Riley changed course instantly, dashing down a steep embankment toward an oceanfront home, unsure who these men were and what they wanted with him. The policemen gave chase, yelling for him to stop. At the bottom of the hill, he was tackled by Emes, though Riley broke free and regained his footing immediately, making it to the home’s front door and slipping inside, startling the family within, including a nine-year-old girl who attended school with Riley’s kids. Australian Federal Police officers swarmed the house.
Riley ran through a kitchen, into a living room, and then passed into a bedroom, where Emes tackled and lost him again, Riley punching his way to freedom and exiting onto a veranda. He placed his hands on a railing and prepared to jump onto a nearby tree, which he could climb down to the ground below. Before he could leap, however, a police officer appeared in the yard below, leveled a shotgun at him, and yelled for Riley to stop. Emes and Detective Acting Sergeant Raymond Alan Tinker then stepped out onto the veranda, sealing any chance of escape. Surrounded, Riley threw his hands in the air and shouted, “I give up, I give up.”
The police grabbed Riley and threw him down on the veranda, where they handcuffed and searched him. They knocked him on the head once, says Riley, drawing blood. He told the police they were free to search his home and that they’d find no guns. They obliged, placing him in the rear seat of a police car, handcuffed to another officer, and toting him back to his house. When the police arrived at Riley’s rented house, they found his common-law wife, Suzanne. She was sobbing, huddling close with her two young children. As she regained her composure, the head detective informed her they had an arrest warrant for her husband for narcotic offenses in the United States.
“Are you from South Carolina?” asked the detective.
“I don’t want to answer that. Why do you have to do this to us over here?” said Suzanne.
“Your husband has been arrested as a result of a request received from the American authorities under the provisions of an international treaty. Do you understand that?” said the detective.
“You don’t have to honor that treaty, do you?”
“Yes.”
“I want to see my psychiatrist,” said Suzanne crying again.
Back outside Tinker read Les the lengthy warrant for his arrest. Riley’s body shook. As law enforcement would say, the suspect appeared extremely agitated. Tinker inquired if he was okay.
“I’m worried about my wife and children,” said Riley. “They’re innocent of all this.”
Tinker assured him they were in good hands. In fact the detectives had taken a keen interest in the children, asking them where they might find “Uncle Wally,” hoping the kids might clue them in to his whereabouts. Detectives asked Riley about Butler, too, telling him they knew he lived just up the street. Riley replied that he had seen Butler earlier that morning, driving his white Volkswagen.
As detectives searched the Riley house with Suzanne, they found small amounts of hallucinogens and bags of cash, which were hidden under a sink, behind a mirror, in a closet, and in the drawers of bedside tables. Other police went to Butler’s house, meeting his fiancée, and then Butler, who pulled into his driveway.
“Federal Police, step out of the vehicle, please,” they yelled at Butler, who calmly complied. Before being arrested and handcuffed, he consented to a search of the house and inquired if his fiancée, Rebecca, was okay.
At noon, more than three hours after police first confronted Riley, he and Butler were driven separately to federal police headquarters. During the trip Riley spoke with the men who arrested him, telling them he was aware of the drug investigation in the United States, but it was not the reason he left the country.
“How did you find me,” Riley asked. “Who told you?”
“You don’t expect me to tell you that, do you Les?” replied the police detective.
Arriving at police headquarters, Riley was questioned, but he repeatedly asked for a lawyer. He refused to sign a record of the unsuccessful interview, or read it aloud, as the police requested. Meanwhile, police stayed at Butler’s house, finding cash under a carpet and speaking with Rebecca. She told the police she really didn’t understand what this was all about and that she and Butler left the United States to avoid this kind of treatment.
“We just got scared. Two federal officers came to the house one day and asked a lot of questions about laundering but they went away. He wasn’t arrested or anything like that,” she said. “… If they call buying a few properties for Les laundering then I guess they have a good case, but I don’t understand it all. He did nothing wrong.”
She, too, was curious about how police had found them, asking a police officer if their phone calls had been traced. The officer pleaded ignorance, explaining he wasn’t part of the investigation, just the squad making the arrest.
“I guess you wouldn’t tell me anyway,” said Butler’s fiancée. “One good thing though, I’ll get to see my family again. I’ve missed them a lot.”
Months of travel and exotic surroundings had not distracted them from near-constant anxiety. Each time the Butlers and Rileys hopped a plane, changed houses, or moved between islands, it was only to buy time, delay the inevitable, and lead themselves farther away from loved ones and anything familiar. Now Rebecca and Suzanne were alone in Australia, their lovers handcuffed and taken away, charged with significant crimes. In a matter of hours, life had turned severely unpleasant, though Butler’s fiancée tried to see a silver lining.
“You know, I had this premonition that something was going to happen today, it worried me all last night. But in a way I’m glad you caught up with us,” she told the Australian police officer, according to his report. “I’d always told Wal[ly] that it’s no use trying to hide forever and he should go back and clear things up one way or another. You can’t live a normal life looking over your shoulder all the time. It’s awful and it’s upsetting me terribly. It’s effecting [sic] Suzanne too; that’s why she is having sessions with a psychiatrist.”
The arrests provided Riley his first opportunity to see exactly what South Carolina investigators had uncovered and for which crimes he might be found guilty. The enormity of the government’s case revealed itself as the thirty-eight-year-old marijuana kingpin reviewed the litany of charges against him. It became apparent that he could spend the rest of his life in prison for smuggling pot. Just as shocking as the severity of the allegations was who was behind them.
“Henry McMaster? From Columbia?” Riley said to his lawyer. “I’ve known him since he was twelve.”
Back home in South Carolina, McMaster and the rest of the Jackpot team rejoiced at having captured two suspected kingpins. The arrests sent law enforcement into high gear, and two prosecutors,
Cam Currie and Robert Jendron, along with investigator David Forbes, immediately prepared for a trip to Australia. Although they couldn’t argue before an Australian judge, they could meet with Australian authorities before a bond hearing and advise them of the importance of keeping Riley and Butler detained until the men could be extradited.
The sudden developments, while reason to celebrate, had actually caught the Jackpot task force off guard. Currie, who had briefly dated Lee Harvey at the University of South Carolina fifteen years earlier, didn’t even have a passport. In the next thirty-nine hours she’d board six flights, stopping in Atlanta, Houston, Los Angeles, Fiji, Melbourne, and Sydney, picking up a passport and Australian visa along the way. After her last flight landed, she slept for a few hours before heading to an Australian courthouse. There she spied Riley and Butler in the center of a courtroom, standing in the dock reserved for the accused. Meanwhile, an Australian tabloid ran a front-page article about the arrests, alleging Riley to be “America’s ‘Most Wanted Man.’ ”
Following the arrests in Australia, as well as the guilty pleas of nine cooperating suspects to drug- or income tax–related charges, Operation Jackpot was ready to ask a grand jury to indict. On May 19, 1983, two weeks after the capture of Riley and Butler, a grand jury returned criminal indictments alleging the existence of two massive drug smuggling rings based in South Carolina. Four days later the indictments were unsealed and made available to the press and public. The charges were staggering. In the last ten years, the indictments alleged, thirty-nine men and one woman smuggled more than 347,000 pounds of marijuana and 130,000 pounds of hashish into the United States. The street value of such drugs was astounding, totaling $697,216,000, given prices of $60 per ounce of marijuana and $175 per ounce of hashish.
Suddenly South Carolina residents learned the identities of all the men and the one woman targeted by the mysterious Operation Jackpot and the government’s recent streak of property seizures. Their nicknames—Flash, Rolex, Bob “the Boss,” Willie the Hog, and Disco Don—read like a roster of mobsters. Their regular travel destinations for acquiring drugs and depositing money—the Bahamas, Colombia, Jamaica, and Lebanon—conjured contrasting images of exotic, white-sand resorts and rugged, war-torn coasts. Surprisingly, more than half of these alleged international criminals were natives of the Palmetto State.
The first set of charges, formally known as Criminal Number 83-165 and informally known as the Foy indictment, alleged that twenty-six men, including kingpins Barry “Flash” Foy and Tom “Rolex” Rhoad, smuggled 159,600 pounds of marijuana and 30,000 pounds of hashish into the United States. Even more prodigious, however, was a second ring of twenty-four people, allegedly headed by Riley and Butler, which brought in 187,500 pounds of marijuana and 130,000 pounds of hashish. The case against them was outlined in the Riley indictment, or Criminal Number 83-166, including kingpin charges against Riley, Butler, Harvey, and Willie Frank Steele. Ten men were accused of participating in both smuggling rings.
Speaking to reporters, U.S. Attorney Henry McMaster emphasized the uniqueness of Operation Jackpot, praising the teamwork of federal investigators from five separate agencies and their ability to make a substantial case using historical and financial clues. He claimed these were the first indictments made by one of President Ronald Reagan’s drug task forces and that they targeted senior members of sophisticated smuggling rings. McMaster conceded that Operation Jackpot did not intercept any of the hundreds of thousands of pounds of pot or hashish, as “most of it got through, a lot of it’s been smoked.” However, said McMaster, the investigation would help put a significant dent in the availability of marijuana in the years to come.
“The defendants included in these indictments represent the top and middle levels of involvement,” said McMaster. “The indictments reach the people behind the scenes who, we believe, have been organizing, financing and operating these smuggling ventures with impunity for years.”
Criminals. Uncle Sam pointed his big finger at South Carolina’s gentlemen smugglers, cutting through their considerable charm, sex appeal, and smooth ways. No matter how suave their explanations, how cunningly they covered their tracks, or how desperate their tactics to disarm the suspicious, the government zeroed in on their transgressions. Point by point, the allegations typed in those two indictments plainly stated the smugglers’ extensive criminal culpability: Here is where you were, here is what you did, and here is the money you illegally made.
Yet to their peers these men had been—and still were—cult heroes and folk legends, on par with Robin Hood, daring to distribute forbidden goods. They were the embodiment of, and sometimes inspiration to, counterculture songs by rock musicians like Jimmy Buffett and the Eagles. They were men who casually walked away from commitments to college degrees, who counted sun, sex, sand, and sailboats as more worthwhile than starter homes and good standing in their communities.
To their families—before they were on the run—they were healthy, wealthy, and happy, whether or not they were vague about their sources of income. Many parents and siblings were glad to celebrate their drug running success, impressed by the new cars and gorgeous girlfriends. Siblings joined their older brothers’ criminal networks, and many parents lived vicariously through their sons. Rhoad’s father was said to watch his son and other smugglers unload marijuana and hashish on his rural riverside property, Turkey Pen, near Branchville, South Carolina, though he was never charged for any wrongdoing.
Skip Sanders’s actions and lifestyle were approved by his father, too. “the message I continually got from older guys, including my own dad was … live it up. dip the cooter, get the cash,” writes Sanders. “worry about tomorrow when tomorrow gets here.”
Other parents refrained from asking about their children’s line of work, preferring to stay in the dark, or at least avoid confirming an obvious, yet dreaded, truth. Parents who disapproved took comfort that no one was getting hurt and that pot was thought to be no worse than alcohol. Only a few dared lecture their adult children or siblings, and did it at the risk of alienating loved ones who were clearly incorrigible. These men and women stayed silent, asking themselves what’d be the point of causing conflict with someone so self-assured. If they weren’t lawful, at least they didn’t forget to call on birthdays and Mother’s Day.
In the eyes of lovers, the already exceptionally handsome men became even more intoxicating with each revelation of their daredevil status. To date these men was to be transported instantly to paradise, showered with expensive gifts, stimulated by innumerable drugs, and given lodging and much sexual attention in beachfront homes and the cabins of luxury sailboats. If the constant cheating could be crushing, the men at least did not make much pretense about it. It turned out to be a frequently forgivable offense, and few women had the nerve to leave.
To themselves the smugglers were harmless renegades who, through lots of trial and error, had carved a comparatively hassle-free niche in an American society chock-full of rules and obligation. The men had been sidelined when following traditional paths. Whether through schooling or work, their talents and zest had been marginalized by conventionalism. Smuggling satisfied their entrepreneurial urges and afforded freedom. Above all else the gentlemen smugglers abhorred following any rules but their own.
But to the government investigators and prosecutors behind Operation Jackpot, the gentlemen smugglers were the most egregious violators of federal law in the state of South Carolina. What their crimes may have lacked in repugnance they compensated for in frequency and flagrancy. For McMaster, a number were former classmates at the University of South Carolina and its law school. More important, they were men whose disregard for America’s drug laws knew few bounds. They were men he, as U.S. attorney, could not tolerate.
In some ways, however, the indictments mischaracterized the gentlemen smugglers. The two alleged smuggling “rings” were artificial and arbitrary law enforcement constructs perhaps more appropriate for the mafia or a gang than the
se drug runners. Indeed, the smugglers were fond of saying they were part of disorganized crime. There was no central kingpin, just a network of scammers always available for hire with allegiances that shifted with the flow of money. Many men on the South Carolina coast organized smuggling ventures. It just so happened that a few people, including Byers, Foy, Riley, and Harvey, were better at it than others.
In some areas of the indictment, too, the government overstated its claims. Butler, for example, was elevated to a senior level of influence. But he was no kingpin. Although he played a critical role in securing secluded off-load sites, the other smugglers often ignored him. “Weird Wally” spent most work nights nervously wandering the property he provided with a radio, fulfilling a minor lookout role. He was a valued friend to the smugglers, and an enjoyable fishing buddy, but in no one’s estimation, save the government’s, was he top dog. It would have been more accurate, of course, to describe Harvey as Riley’s equal and partner.
Also overblown was the value of the drugs imported by the smugglers, though the quantity was an understatement. The government did not compile an exhaustive list of every smuggling venture accomplished by the accused, nor did they pretend to do so. The ventures they did outline in the indictments, however, assumed the shipments of drugs were composed of top-grade marijuana and hashish, free from moisture, rot, twigs, sticks, and stones. In reality, many shipments were subpar, requiring innovative remediation. One smuggler recalls spreading rotting marijuana across a tarp-lined field in the South Carolina midlands, drying it by spraying it with grain alcohol and exposing it to sunlight, before mixing in spices and other pot and repackaging it. Still, it could not be sold for top dollar. The smugglers also sold pot and hashish at wholesale prices, perhaps a quarter of what could be made selling it to users for “street value.”