Within Arm's Length: A Secret Service Agent's Definitive Inside Account of Protecting the President

by Dan Emmett

  RONALD REAGAN

  During most of my active-duty obligation, including in the final months, I was stationed at Camp Pendleton, California. While I had enjoyed my marine experience, I had decided to leave the marines when my expiration of active service rolled around in November 1981. That decision was confirmed on March 30, 1981. I had just come in from a five-mile run with my marines when the news on the radio in our company office announced that President Reagan had been shot outside the Washington Hilton.

  With the attempt on President Reagan’s life, and with my military service coming to a close, I became focused once again on my never-forgotten childhood ambition of becoming a Secret Service agent. The only problem was that I had absolutely no idea how to go about it. But I was a marine officer, and, even after I put my uniforms away and my hair grew to normal length, I would be a marine officer for the remainder of my life. As always, I would not give up and would somehow find a way to achieve my goal.

  CHAPTER 3

  Never Give Up Unless You Are Dead

  November 19, 1981, found me at the wheel of my 1978 Camaro leaving Camp Pendleton, bound for Georgia at the highest rate of speed I could manage without being arrested or killed. My luck ran out in Mississippi, when a young trooper who showed no mercy stopped me and was not the least impressed that I was a marine officer returning home from four years of active duty. He was polite and professional as he handed me the ticket.

  Upon arriving back in my hometown and establishing temporary residence at my parents’ home, I began the quest of applying for the position of special agent, United States Secret Service, with absolutely zero success. This enterprise of becoming a Secret Service agent was becoming a great deal more difficult than I had originally thought, and for months no one in the Secret Service Atlanta field office would return my calls.

  Then one slow day in the summer of 1982 between my primary activities of working out, assisting in the teaching of a scuba course, and taking flying lessons, I called the Atlanta Secret Service office for the fourth or fifth time in as many months and asked to speak to an agent. The secretary, as usual, asked what it was in reference to. Having learned from my mistake of actually declaring that I was interested in applying for the position of special agent, I stated that I would only discuss the matter with an agent. Fearful I was a psycho who might want to hurt the president or do some other thing she could get into trouble for, she connected me with the duty agent. After learning of my motive for calling, he hurriedly tried to dismiss me by saying that the Secret Service was not hiring and probably would not be for some time.

  Rather than saying, “Thank you for your time, sir,” I continued to keep the hapless duty agent on the phone, wearing him down with questions about the Secret Service until he finally gave up and said he would send me an application, which he did. This was far too important an issue, and I would not take no for an answer. The Marine Corps had taught me, among many other things, that when an objective cannot be taken one way, find another, but never give up unless you are dead.

  I completed the paperwork, sent it in, and waited while continuing to pursue my varied interests. After several weeks, the office manager called and informed me that the special agent in charge (SAIC) wished to interview me for an agent’s position. My persistence had paid off. I was at least going to be afforded an interview, and it was now up to me to capitalize on this opportunity, which was apparently offered to very few.

  At the appointed time and date, I appeared in the Atlanta office for my interview with Special Agent in Charge Jerry Kivett. As I sat in the waiting area of the field office, I realized that this was without doubt one of the most important days in my life and that I had best not botch it.

  I was escorted into Mr. Kivett’s office by the office manager and sweated in my seat after trying to give the firmest handshake I could muster. I then quickly offered a silent prayer that I did not stumble over words or make a poor impression on this man, who now held my future and the dreams of my youth in his hands.

  Mr. Kivett was something of a Secret Service legend. With only a short amount of time in the organization, he had been assigned to Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, soon to be President Johnson, on November 22, 1963, and was aboard Air Force One when LBJ took the oath of office to become the president of the United States.

  Mr. Kivett came directly to the point, which was no surprise to me. While burning holes in me with his stare, he asked, “So, Dan, why do you want to become a Secret Service agent?” I gave the best answer I could muster, beginning with the childhood memory of Clint Hill on President Kennedy’s limo in Dallas and how the image had created a lasting impression. From there I continued to speak, but I have no recollection of what I said. After continuing to stare at me for what seemed like minutes, he asked if I had seen the footage of President Reagan being shot, along with the Secret Service agent who was protecting him. “Yes, sir,” I answered. He then asked if I thought I could do what the agent did when he placed himself in the path of the bullet meant for President Reagan.

  I recall thinking for a moment and then saying something to this effect: “The Secret Service must have a great training program. From my past experience in the marines, I know I respond well to training. While I hope I will never be placed in the position of the agent who was shot, I am confident I would respond according to training.”

  Mr. Kivett’s face assumed a slightly pleasant expression, and he said, “That is a very good answer.” I was seated before a man who had been in President Kennedy’s motorcade in Dallas on November 22, 1963, a man who had been under fire during the assassination of a president, a man who understood better than almost anyone what being a Secret Service agent really meant. Had I incorrectly answered his question—had I given almost any response other than the one I did—there is no doubt that he would have simply sent me to the door leading out of the office. Instead, he sent me to the office next door to be interviewed by Mr. Robert F. Coates, assistant special agent in charge (ASAIC) of the Atlanta field office, for round two.

  Attired in a three-piece suit minus the jacket, Mr. Coates was in his late forties, balding, and just as intimidating as Mr. Kivett, but less formal. After practically ordering me to sit, he continued the quest to determine my true motives for wanting to become a Secret Service agent.

  It became readily apparent to me that these men did not like to waste time. Mr. Coates, like Mr. Kivett, quickly came to the point and asked, “Are you looking for a job?” I replied, “No, sir, I am looking for a career in federal law enforcement.”

  Both men’s questions were designed to weed out grossly unfit candidates. Mr. Kivett’s were aimed at spotting the head case who wanted to die as a martyr protecting the president or the person who possessed no stomach for this type of work. Mr. Coates’s question was designed to identify the person just looking for a neat-sounding job, with no serious thoughts of what being a Secret Service agent really meant. There were other questions from Mr. Coates regarding my background and some designed to test my knowledge of the Secret Service. Then the initial interviews with these hard men from the “old school” ended, and I was on my way home, where I would wait for the next phase in the selection process, assuming there was to be another phase. While I felt I had done the best I could, I had no idea if my best had been good enough.

  A couple of weeks later, I was called again by the office manager in the Atlanta office and was told that Mr. Kivett had selected me to take the written exam for the position of special agent. The test was known as the Treasury Enforcement Agent Exam. It was difficult—designed to test vocabulary, reading comprehension skills, observation skills, and, for some unknown reason, the ability to do what I considered very complicated math word problems. I took the test with four other applicants and was informed later that I was the only one who passed, scoring a 73 out of a possible 100, with 70 being the passing grade. For the first time since my application, I became optimistic about my prospects for joining the Secret Service.<
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  The test I squeaked through was the same one that had been given for at least three decades, when the Service only hired a handful of agents each year. It was designed to be difficult. My test booklet was so old it practically was falling apart. Prior to 1983 most new agents were only hired when older ones retired. The mandated number of agents never really changed unless there was a crisis or incident, and even then it did not increase significantly at once. When JFK was killed there were fewer than four hundred agents in the entire Secret Service, with less than forty on the president’s detail. As a result of his death there was a hiring increase in 1964. The numbers again increased in 1968 after Robert F. Kennedy was killed. Prior to his death, the Secret Service did not protect major presidential candidates but the Service was immediately mandated to begin protecting these candidates after his death. In 1976 President Gerald Ford was the target of two assassination attempts, by Sara Jane Moore and Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme. More agents were hired. With the attempt on President Reagan’s life, the number of agents was increased from sixteen hundred, where it had been for years, to two thousand. These slots had to be filled as quickly as possible.

  Months passed with no word from the Atlanta office. Then one day, with no warning, I was requested by telephone to appear back in Atlanta for the panel interview phase of the selection process. The panel was one of the last major hurdles to be cleared in the selection process and consisted of three senior agents, each of whom asked a long series of questions over an extended period of time.

  When I arrived for the interview, I was escorted to the office of Robert F. Coates, now the special agent in charge, having replaced Jerry Kivett after his recent retirement after over twenty years of dedicated service to America.

  After introductions to the members of the panel, Mr. Coates began the panel interview by asking the same question as he had in the initial interview months earlier: “Are you out looking for a job?” My answer was the same as before. “No, sir, I am looking for a career in federal law enforcement.” He then passed the questioning over to the other two agents, who spent the next several hours asking questions dealing with my Marine Corps service, experience with weapons, contact sports I had played in school, my workout routine, any illegal activities I might have been involved in, and my willingness to relocate if hired. They also posed a myriad of hypothetical situations, seeking my opinion as well as a recommended course of action.

  After returning home that evening, I thought I was doing the right thing by writing Mr. Coates a note thanking him for his time and for the interview. A book I had recently read concerning job interview etiquette had plainly stated it was considered appropriate and expected for a person to send a thank-you note to anyone who had afforded him or her an interview. I learned that this was not necessarily the case in the US government.

  Days later, I was at my parents’ house when the phone rang, and I answered it. The voice on the other end said, “This is Bobby Coates from the Secret Service. May I speak to Dan Emmett, please?” I replied, “This is Dan Emmett, sir.” Mr. Coates said, “I got your thank-you note, and we don’t go in for that sort of thing at the Secret Service.” He continued on to say that he was thanked by the government twice a month, meaning each time he was paid. At that point, I felt my chances of becoming a Secret Service agent were zero, and I thought his next words would be that I was no longer under consideration. After a pause for effect, he said, “Come on down to the office and pick up your background information forms,” and then the line went dead. I traveled back to Atlanta that day, picked up the papers as directed, completed them in record time, and returned them to the Atlanta field office. Then the wait began in earnest.

  THE RELUCTANT BANKER

  In order to pay the bills while waiting for my dream job at the Secret Service to come through, I worked as a management trainee at First Atlanta Bank. While I knew nothing of banking, a headhunting agency I had signed up with sent me to the bank for an interview. The bank was looking for former junior military officers who supposedly knew about responsibility and leadership and could be taught the banking business. It sounded good in theory and they offered me the job. I was broke, so I accepted.

  For a man who loved adventure and challenge, this was the worst job imaginable, combining boredom and monotony with an incredible feeling of total hopelessness. I had little in common with my coworkers, and carrying on even the simplest small talk was difficult. Most of my colleagues knew that I possessed no banking experience and had fallen into the job because of my military experience. Many did not like it and were not bashful about showing it. Each morning as I willed myself out of bed, my future seemed as dark as the cold Atlanta mornings I had to face each day.

  One day in April 1983 I had just been chastised by my supervisor for taking fifteen minutes for my afternoon break instead of the allotted ten. This was during a time when smoking was permitted in most buildings and employees took regular smoke breaks in addition to their allotted breaks. I reminded my boss that I did not smoke; therefore even with the extra five minutes of break time I was still taking about an hour less time each day for myself than the smokers. He, of course, was a smoker.

  Later that day, as I was sitting at my desk contemplating things in general, none having to do with banking, the phone rang. I stared at the annoying black object for a bit before picking up the receiver. I heard a voice say, “This is Bobby Coates, Secret Service.” I think I uttered something creative like, “Yes, sir.” He continued, “I have a job for you, a GS-5 in Charlotte, base salary 13K per year if you want it. Take a few minutes and call me back with an answer.” I stammered out something to the effect that I did not need a few minutes and would gladly accept the position. He stated that he would like to have me in Atlanta but that there were no openings and that GS-5 was the only pay grade available. I did not care in the least where the job was or even what the pay was. Given the state of mind I was in, I would have accepted the Mars field office if that had been the offer.

  Mr. Coates gave me three possible report dates and informed me that I would have to pay for my own move to Charlotte, North Carolina. In that I owned virtually nothing this presented no problem. I took the first available report date, May 16, 1983. We hung up, and I sat at my desk in a total daze. After eighteen months of trying I had made it. Barring any unforeseen catastrophe, I was going to be a Secret Service agent.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Charlotte Field Office

  On Monday, May 16, 1983, I appeared at the front door of the Charlotte field office, United States Secret Service, for my first day as a special agent. I wore a gray pinstripe suit recently purchased from J. C. Penney and presented as a gift from my parents. As one might expect, I had slept little the night before. It was almost 8:30 a.m., and no one answered when I pushed the buzzer at a door located at the end of a short hallway. Unlike the large offices, such as New York, which have a 24/7 presence, small offices such as Charlotte operate regular business hours, usually 8:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. There is a duty agent who locks up at night and sets the alarms. He then fields any duty calls that occur during non-duty hours forwarded to him by an answering service.

  Finally, at 8:35 a.m., a short, compact man who resembled the actor Robert Conrad, dressed in a blue sports jacket and gray slacks, appeared from the elevator bank just outside the office. He looked at me and asked if he could help as he placed a strange-looking key in the door of the office. I said, “Hi, I am Dan Emmett, first day on the job.” The seasoned-looking agent offered his hand, introduced himself as Paul and invited me in, directing me to take a seat.

  Other agents began filing in with their coffee and stopped to introduce themselves as well as get a look at the new guy. Another agent named Ron and I were the first hired in Charlotte since the late 1970s, and everyone wanted a look at the new meat. I rose as each of my new colleagues and mentors came by to say hello.

  The office manager arrived. She was matronly and friendly, at the same time possessing a hard
appearance, giving the impression she took no static from anyone. She had worked for the Secret Service since the 1950s and knew everything there was to know about administration within the organization. She had also seen every new agent to walk through the door at Charlotte for the past thirty years. In terms of the Secret Service, she had seen it all.

  She escorted me across the hall to the office of the special agent in charge, who directed me to remain standing and hold up my right hand in order that I might be sworn in as an employee and special agent of the Secret Service. In those days new hires were sworn in as agents on the very first day, not at the end of all training, as they are now. I was familiar with the words of the oath, as it was the exact same oath of office I had taken as a marine officer seven years earlier: “I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter, so help me God.”

  After my swearing in, which lasted less than a minute, the SAIC, as expected, briefed me on things in general, including his philosophy of good agent work ethic. As I sat in his office I continued to sneak peeks at the walls for photos of him with politicians. There were none. He then lectured me on an unexpected theme that I discovered later was of universal concern throughout the Secret Service.

  BOOZE, BROADS, AND BUICKS

  The SAIC stared at me for a moment and then proceeded to tell me that the fastest way for an agent to get into trouble was by abusing the three Bs: booze, broads, and Buicks. Roughly translated, this meant combining infractions involving alcohol, women, and misuse of the government car.