“The FBI,” I offered, looking at SAC Floyd Wainwright.
He responded, “The authors of the Harrison Narcotic Act were unsure if an outright ban on heroin and cocaine would be constitutional, thus it is a tax code provision. Accordingly, the FBI’s view is this is a problem for local police and Treasury agents, who seem more concerned with moonshine. We are willing to help, but not take the lead. Because of the scope and international dimensions of this case, however, we will make our resources available to you. Before you ask, the CIA is working with us on this regarding information gathering. Of course, they are prohibited from leading any domestic law enforcement initiative.”
“Your willingness to consider this assignment is deeply appreciated,” said the inspector. “You may not need the money, but you will receive a special hazardous pay rate, a substantial bonus at the end, and an automatic promotion to sergeant. We ask that you give us an answer within two days. Unfortunately, you cannot discuss this offer with anyone. You can call Captain Wilson or me with any further questions.”
Inspector Schmidt rose to stand, signaling an end to the meeting.
“No need to wait,” I said. “I’ll do the job. How do we begin?”
Everyone got out of their chairs, smiled, and pumped my hand in what seemed a spontaneous gesture of both relief and good will. A tense meeting suddenly had become more cordial.
“I’ll be your primary point of contact in the Division,” said Captain Wilson. “We have an arrangement with the Justice Department and the U.S. Marshals Service, under which they will swear you in as a Special Deputy U.S. Marshal. In short, a federal agent, not a D.C. cop freelancing. Your undercover identity is James Sixkiller, a traditional Cherokee name. We thought you would enjoy that. We checked, and no Oklahoma Cherokees are in Coleman. With the help of FBI and CIA experts, we constructed Sixkiller’s life. Where you were born. What happened to your parents, everything. Coordinating with the Bureau of Prisons, we will insert this identity into BOP’s record system. Come back tomorrow, and we have prepared a complete, tabbed notebook: biographical section; juvenile and adult rap sheets; Admission and Orientation Handbooks for El Reno and Coleman; selected articles from former prisoners on prison survival; a summary about Jesus Ramirez; a more complete intelligence overview covering much of what we’ve discussed today; information about Jamie Hudson, your FBI housemate; and a list of critical phone numbers, including ours. The notebook carries a ‘Secret’ classification, but is paragraph marked. Before each paragraph a code will appear in parenthesis as (U), (C), or (S) or unclassified, confidential, or secret. Even though it includes unclassified material, keep in mind all of this is sensitive and for your protection. We cannot allow you to carry the notebook out of the Division. One of the secretaries will set up a desk to study and make phone calls. How long do you need to become familiar with the notebook?”
“Three or four days,” I guessed. “Also, my captain made it clear to me he would like to know what’s happening.”
“I’ll take care of the problem,” replied Inspector Schmidt. “I have known him for years and can smooth things over a little. We are detailing you to Internal Affairs (IA) for one year. That is your story to co-workers. Everyone understands that cops from IA don’t talk about what they’re doing or where. The re-assignment will help insulate you from pressure by the curious or pushy about your whereabouts or work. As of tomorrow, however, you begin here. After one week here, you meet the famous trainer we call Jerry for a few days of counseling and role-playing. Jerry is a former prison guard who has received special training in helping to place federal agents undercover. For you, Jerry has no last name, and he can be very intense to work with. Meanwhile, we will make the necessary changes to insert you into Coleman. Come in late tomorrow if necessary.”
A few more handshakes, and the meeting ended. I couldn’t help but make mental notes of these three people. To some extent, my life would depend upon their diligence and honesty with me. I was pleased the inspector named Captain Wilson as my primary point of contact. His penetrating blue eyes conveyed directness and integrity. They told me he understood what I had committed to do. He would be an ally if things unraveled. The inspector had a job to do. Although he was a politician-bureaucrat responding to pressure from the Chief, and indirectly from the President, he needed me to succeed. His motives were a bit different, but he was also in my corner. Roberts was likable and a little inscrutable. I believe that cops who work narcotics too long become cynical. They believe no real victory is possible. The best outcome is “to make a difference.” I was more wary of him.
I thought about why I accepted this assignment. Partly it was the right thing to do. Maybe my work can help alleviate the pain on the streets. Personally, the mission appealed to the darker side of me drawn to danger, fear, and conflict. I complained about the seduction, but saw it coming. I didn’t know what “it” was going to be. The edge is normal for me. My worst fear was getting too old to enjoy the fear.
Gordy’s
“Mike!” I gestured across the locker room for him to come over. My area was empty, and the next shift had headed up for roll call.
“I got stuck on a run,” said Mike. “What are you doing still loitering around here? Time to saddle up and go home. By the way, I didn’t hear you on the air until this afternoon.”
“Yeah. That’s why we need to talk. How about Gordy’s in ten minutes?”
Mike regarded me somberly and said, “Sure.”
We found the same corner booth as before. It was my dime. We ordered beers, and Mike sat back to contemplate me, a friend of many years.
“I passed most of the morning with some new acquaintances from headquarters. They’d also invited an FBI SAC from a major city to join the discussion. I’ve accepted an assignment lasting from four to five months. It’s dangerous and will take me far from this area.”
Mike continued to sit back, look out the window, and drink his beer.
“Why? Don’t you get enough adrenalin with people trying to kill you here?”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“That’s so lame, especially because you always understate danger. You couldn’t resist, could you? Well, you are who you are. I’m going to miss you – you stupid son of a bitch. Can you call?”
“I think so. I have a favor to ask.”
“You need a will? Ask a lawyer.”
“Would you call and visit with Karen occasionally? She’s not going to handle this well. Maybe take her to dinner and a movie; she likes you. I’m trying to think of ways to decrease her sense of isolation.”
“Sure. But, I wonder if having me around will make it better or worse.”
“I see your point. Try it and notice how she reacts. If it doesn’t seem like a good idea, just ease back to her comfort zone.”
“Jake, remind me of why we became friends.”
“You found somebody crazier than you to hang out with.”
“Good luck, and please return.”
“Thanks. I will. Remember, while I’m gone, you are the thin blue line.”
Smiles, another beer, and lighter conversation concluded the evening.
Karen
Karen’s reaction could have been worse – maybe. There is no way to dress up a bombshell, so I did not try. I told her the Chief of Police had handpicked me for a lengthy and somewhat dangerous assignment. I added that the purpose of the FBI re-investigation was to give me a national security clearance of secret because of the importance and nature of the work. I told her the job involved a lot of travel, and I might be out of contact with her for long periods. I emphasized that I would call, but could not disclose my location. Watching her trying to keep a stiff upper lip almost killed me.
“How long?” she finally asked.
“About four to five months.”
The stiff upper lip gave way to some sniffling as I held her tightly. I told her I loved her and reminded myself this scene has been played out so many times before in other h
ouses, for other reasons. The expectations, however, were different. She married a cop, not a soldier. Accepting this was asking a lot of her, and I hoped she would not pull away from me emotionally to save herself. I worked a dangerous job, but at least I returned home every day.
“How dangerous is it? Tell me the truth.”
“The Chief picked me because I have the talents to achieve our goal. My ability to read and remember almost everything will be important. They have created a new identity for me, and I become this different person based on the details of his fictional life. All of these efforts are in cooperation with other relevant governmental agencies to ensure that this ends successfully.”
She was studying my eyes and body language for additional information.
“I’ll tell them no tomorrow if this might ruin our marriage. That’s more important than anything.”
“Would you do that?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
“No. You will always be my husband. On the one hand, I’m proud they picked you for this. On the other hand, I’m afraid. I can tell you’re downplaying the danger involved. This is your nature, a man who loves living on the edge. I knew that when I married you. This is a big one, however, long and dangerous. I guess I’ll learn how tough I am.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I held her again.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “I read about a new position I want to try. We need to make the most of our remaining time.”
And she led me upstairs by the hand.
Jerry
The Intelligence Division had booked a suite with two twin beds for prison training in a local hotel. Jerry and I arrived about 4:00 p.m. on Tuesday. He was a taciturn, fit, black man around 50. The door had barely closed when he said, “What’s your name?”
“Jake Stone,” I said.
“Wrong! It’s James Sixkiller – you never heard of this guy Stone.”
“Where and when were you born?”
“Stilwell, Oklahoma in 1944.”
“Why are you inside?”
“I got caught after I landed in Tulsa with a planeload of Mexican marijuana.”
“What kind of work did you do in El Reno?”
“I made furniture for government offices.” He grilled me until we broke for dinner, where he continued to call me Sixkiller. A common saying exists about prison guards with twenty years of experience. They have one year of experience, repeated twenty times. Jerry was an exception. With his sharp intellect, he had memorized my new identity to ensure that I didn’t trip up.
Over the next three days, we covered a dizzying array of information and slang known to all experienced cons during daily conversation. What are the basic prison types and charac-teristics: minimum or Federal Prison Camp (FPC); low security or a Federal Correctional Institution (FCI) with a double fence perimeter; medium security could be an upgraded FCI or part of a high security U.S. Penitentiary with double or triple fences with electronic detection systems. Some penitentiaries have high walls, and all have the highest staff to inmate ratio. In addition, about five other administrative facilities exist for special purposes, such as medical or temporary detention.
Jerry emphasized knowledge needed for daily life. Know that a call out is an appointment; get used to being counted five or six times a day and night. Become familiar with the staffing in your unit, this determines where you live and who your team members are. Each unit has an overall manager, a case manager, a counselor, and a secretary who manages inmate schedules. Understand the role of a basic correctional officer, or guard, also known as screws, hacks, and other uncomplimentary titles.
The overview covered the use of phones by inmates; dining etiquette; regulations; prohibited acts and the disciplinary process; money and the commissary; pat downs and searches; visitors (Karen can’t come); health care; cell and job assignments; permitted and standard work clothing, including approved colors; emergencies; authorized personal property by category, and more.
Even though this was only a transfer from another federal lockup, they still need to decide where to put me and what assignments to give me. This process takes about five days while I stay in administrative segregation or the hole. Jerry told me to bring two soft-cover books, as hard covers are not permitted; practice deep breathing for stress relief; do whatever exercises are possible in the confines of the hole; such as pushups, squats, and jogging in place. Accept the offer of one hour of recreation five times a week. Do not talk to other people unless spoken to; respond with minimal, polite answers. Although designed for two, this small space houses three or even four. The pecking order of who gets which bunk bed or uses the toilet first is based on length of time there.
I ended up with a list of Basic Dos and Don’ts:
• Do not lock eyes or stare at another prisoner. He may perceive it as sexual interest or a physical challenge.
• Do seek out other Indians. Because of an old law,9 a disproportionate number of Indians are doing federal time. So, I shouldn’t have any trouble finding them. Jerry emphasized that race is everything in prison. It dictates gang composition, your friends, and who might help you if necessary. Jerry explained most prisoners will consider a few Indians irrelevant to a gang scene dominated by Blacks, Latinos, and white supremacists.
• Do carry yourself well and with confidence, but keep a low profile.
• Do protect your personal space, while respecting the space of others.
• Do not be seen as friendly with guards. People will suspect you of being a snitch.
• Do be careful with everything you say. It can be miscon-strued.
• Do not get sucked into a debate about anything.
• Do watch the hands of the persons around you, especially in unsupervised areas such as a corridor, bathroom, or even in general population. Shanks are everywhere. A rapid hand movement will signal an attack.
• Do not allow anyone to call you a “punk” or “bitch” in front of others. These are special words in prison and require an immediate physical response. The guards understand and will not bring disciplinary charges. This response marks you as someone not to be taken lightly, an important asset.
“Well,” said Jerry after three days with a cheerful smile on his face. “Are you ready to be a successful inmate?”
“I prefer to go home,” I replied dourly.
“Think of the time as shock treatment to prevent you from slipping into a life of dissipation and crime.”
I smiled at his calculated cynicism.
Chapter 18
Insertion
Central Florida, September 1969
I had several more discussions with Inspector Ray Schmidt and Captain Roy Wilson, who emphasized that I should say only “Roy” or “Ray” during phone calls because all prison phone conversations are monitored. Accordingly, I memorized a dedicated number in the Intelligence Division used only by two cleared secretaries to answer incoming calls. Also committed to memory were certain codes for the status of things, both inside and outside prison. The secretary who answers the phone says “Hello.” After chatting for a minute, she passes me to Roy or Ray for a coded conversation. The (false) names of the two secretaries were on my list of approved contacts as friends.
The insertion began after Karen and I bought tickets to Orlando, and drove an hour east to Cocoa Beach for a vacation. The beach and oceanfront room proved wonderful, but our conversation and behavior were strained at times. We tried to enjoy the moment, but both of us were watching the calendar. No amount of denial allowed us to remove the sword of Damocles.
For the most part, we managed pretty well until the blacked-out sedan rode into view. Karen stiffened at the sight of the car and the two men in dark suits and sunglasses who got out. She gave me a long hug and kiss, and urged me to be careful.
I was ambivalent about doing this to her, and for what? More drug kingpins will replace these, assuming the plan is successful. If I am destined to die young, her loss is my fault
. I volunteered and turned away to face the agents. Although clueless about what a convict was doing at a beach resort, they were good at following orders. Turn James Sixkiller and his folder over to the U.S. Marshals for a routine transfer from the Orlando Federal Court to Coleman Prison.
Karen returned to the room and made herself a cup of tea. Her trembling hands tried to put the cup back into the saucer. Jake was gone and so was the stiff upper lip, replaced by tears.
I had to be strong for Jake, she thought. He needs to face these unknown dangers without thinking I might not be able to handle the stress. Facing fear of the unknown is worse than fear of something tangible. I have no idea where he is going and what he will be doing. I hate to admit it, but I am also angry with Jake. He realized this was a major blow to us, and he did it anyway. I did not marry a soldier, and he presented me with a fait accompli. Maybe I’ll go to the library when I get home and review literature that addresses the lives of women married to cops and soldiers.
The Hole
Receiving and Discharge was the first stop for photos, fingerprints, and a written psychological evaluation to look for security-related problems. Later, guards would handcuff, shackle, and take me to the hole. What nothing can prepare you for was the sound. No other sound exists like a heavy prison door, made of casehardened steel, gathering momentum on its rails, and slamming against the wall and latching. The impact is so intense that, for a second or two, you can hear the high frequency harmonics from the steel as it recovers from an impact that vibrates your bones. It also does what no speech can do. You are inside and powerless; freedom is on the other side of that sound. I pushed from my mind Dante’s All hope abandon, ye who enter here! Only the Warden knows…
The hole, eight-by-ten feet, had four stacked bunks and three other inmates, eliminating the prospect of sleeping on the floor. No mail, one shower each week, bad food, one phone call every week, beds made prior to 8:00 a.m., and six “official” counts per day including one at 3:00 a.m. and one at 5:00 a.m. This was life for only a few days. My cellys seemed well-behaved, except for one Florida cracker named Bo. He didn’t like Indians and called me “nickel.” The other cellys were Reggie, a quiet, muscular young black man, and a Mexican farm laborer who spoke no English. I tried to follow the advice of Jerry. Exercise proved to be difficult, but possible. The sweltering heat and body odor made the sense of confinement overpowering. Sharing one toilet did not help. The noise in a prison during the day is nonstop and numbing: conversations; commentaries; insults; obscenities; and opinions are constantly ricocheting across and down corridors until quiet hours begin at 9:00 p.m.
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