by Sally Denton
He left the windows down on his pickup truck, wailing for the air conditioner to take effect. He felt his shirt already sticking to the seat. A perfectionist, he carefully draped his suit coat across the seat next to him. Checking his hair in the rearview mirror to make sure it hadn’t been blown out of kilter by the fan, he rolled up the window and shifted into gear.
As he pulled out of the driveway of his Lawrenceburg home he felt a mixture of relief and remorse. His marriage was falling apart before his eyes—something that probably should have happened ten or fifteen years earlier. He and his wife were in a stalemate and he knew his days at the house he had built for his family were numbered.
His state police career had always been a strain on the marriage. But in more recent years, the nights away from home, the drinking, the danger, the secrets he kept, had culminated in irreconcilable distances between himself and his wife. After years of arguing, they had finally fallen into a snare of silence, neither possessing the necessary energy for battle. Their tacit agreement to stay together “for the kids’ sake” seemed suddenly shot full of holes. Their two girls, Connie and Christie, had graduated from high school and were starting lives of their own.
“Shoulda left a long time ago,” Ralph said to himself, reminded of his encroaching age by the sight of his thinning gray hair in the mirror. Yet something drew him home every night, like an old loyal dog.
He turned his thoughts to less resolved matters: Drew Thornton and Bradley Bryant. Ralph was on his way to Louisville to meet with FBI agents who planned to open a widespread investigation of corruption in Lexington, using the federal racketeering statute nicknamed RICO.
By summertime 1979 Ralph had heard numerous references to a narcotics and paramilitary group called the Company. DEA reports that had been provided him identified the “incorporation” date of the Company as early 1976. According to those reports, two Vietnam veterans who had met with considerable success bringing marijuana into Georgia via Colombia and the Bahamas founded the group at a tiny Italian restaurant in Alton, Illinois.
Somehow, between 1976 and 1978, the smuggling group had mushroomed to include a stable of attorneys, a slush fund for bail and dirty tricks, a fleet of airplanes, and numerous landing strips.
Bradley Bryant, Ralph was told by the DEA, was the “East Coast kingpin” of the group. How Bradley had gotten connected with the organization was not clear. But Ralph knew one thing for sure: If Bradley was in charge of East Coast operations, then Drew Thornton was certain to be his first lieutenant.
What other Lexingtonians were also involved?
Faced with a lack of resources and jurisdictional authority, and working under the direction of a governor with close personal ties to the suspects, Ralph’s efforts to infiltrate the Lexington organization seemed doomed from the start. A review of Governor Julian Carroll’s official phone records reflected hundreds of phone calls from the governor’s office to the residences of Drew Thornton, Henry Vance, and Bradley Bryant every month since 1977. Governor Carroll, a good ole boy from Paducah, would be leaving office in a few months, and the future of state law enforcement would remain a mystery until after the primary elections in September. Ralph knew that the general election probably wouldn’t matter—Kentucky’s governors are always picked in the Democratic primaries. Unable to succeed themselves, gubernatorial candidates line up years in advance to begin bickering over who can deliver which counties and who can raise the most money.
Rumor had it that a dark horse was going to lead the pack, a high-rolling gambler and millionaire named John Young Brown, Jr., who had been the last to enter the race. Brown and his beauty queen wife Phyllis George had awed the voters with their movie-star friends, flying in and out of mountain towns in a flashy helicopter, vowing to run the state as a business.
If Brown were to be elected, the Kentucky State Police would be his tool, leaving the only possibility of serious law enforcement in the hands of the FBI, which Ralph referred to as The Eye.
His relationship with The Eye dated back many years, to the mid-sixties. He had been trained by them, worked with them on hundreds of cases, and was respected by their technicians as among the best “sound men” around. They were his drinking buddies, traveling partners, and yarn-telling friends. Like Ralph, most of the agents were old-fashioned law-and-order cops who made sure they got the job done without taking themselves too seriously along the way.
Situating himself at the conference table in the FBI’s Louisville offices, he told them what he knew and what he suspected, hoping to initiate a generalized probe.
“I think the focus should be on Jimmy Lambert,” Ralph told them, referring to the Lexington nightclub owner and former Kentucky Fried Chicken franchisee. “We’ve had him under surveillance and we know he was in close contact during the spring and summer of 1979 with both Drew Thornton and Bradley Bryant. Politicians and Lexington police officers spend a lot of time at his house and at the Library Lounge, where he gives them free booze and who knows what else.” Ralph was convinced that the Library Lounge was the center of the prostitution, drugs, and gambling ring operating in Lexington.
“Meanwhile,” Ralph said, “police in Mississippi notified us this week that Bradley Bryant’s organization planned to smuggle a load of marijuana and cocaine into Starkville, Mississippi, but something went haywire. I think Customs down there may have ended up with a couple of snitches in the group,” Ralph told the FBI, unknowingly referring to Trussell, Leach, and Fisher, who had recently fallen out with Bradley. “Maybe Bradley’s about to get taken down by them.”
Ralph continued, outlining the evidence in the disappearance of Melanie Flynn and the murder-for-hire of Ray Ryan, “Drew Thornton and the Lexington police are in the middle of both of those,” he said.
“While we’re on the subject of Melanie Flynn,” one of the agents said to Ralph, “there’s someone you need to talk to.”
The agent went on to tell Ralph about a young woman named Mary Shasta. “She’s a Christian psychic who thinks she knows what happened to Melanie. We’ve interviewed her and think she’s credible, but don’t really have the jurisdiction to open a case. Why don’t you take it from here?”
Ralph wrote down the woman’s name and telephone number in his childish scrawl and agreed to get in touch with her.
Jan Fisher had heard through the grapevine that Bradley was going to kill him because he had sided with Colonel Atwood in the dispute between the two men. So it was with trepidation that Fisher answered a phone call from Bradley on July 31, 1979. Fisher listened with skepticism to Bradley’s apologies and attempts to downplay their spat. Bradley blamed his short fuse on the pressures associated with the Wood murder, the Bryson bankruptcy, the falling out with Atwood, and intensifying animosity between him and Drew Thornton. If Fisher would accept his apology, Bradley would give him an opportunity to make a sizable amount of money.
He told Fisher to meet him at the Memphis airport the next day— the first of August—to conduct surveillance. Bradley and a Lebanese weight lifter met Fisher in Memphis and bodyguard named Turk Paz. Immediately upon arrival, Paz grabbed Fisher by the arm, loaded him into the backseat of a car, and set out on the hundred-mile drive from Memphis to Starkville, Mississippi. Using aliases to check into a Ramada Inn in Starkville, they forced Fisher to stay alone in a room with Paz. After a few hours, he was summoned to Bradley’s room.
Entering the motel room, Paz gripping his right arm, Fisher was relieved to see Johnny Trussell, whom he considered to be reasonable and a friend. He noticed Bradley was particularly sullen and preoccupied with two cartons—a blue suitcase and a black box.
“You and Johnny are taking a trip,” Bradley said to Fisher.
“Where to?” Fisher was nervous, the earlier death threat combined with Paz’s bullying didn’t bode well.
“Don’t ask any questions,” Bradley replied. “Pack your passport, driver’s lic
ence, and one change of clothes.”
Fisher glanced around and was disturbed when Trussell lowered his eyes. He had faith in Trussell and didn’t really believe any harm would come to him as long as Trussell was there. He opted to stay calm, silently formulating an escape plan. But less than an hour later, Fisher found himself being shoved onto the Twin Beech airplane that was equipped with extra fuel tanks, a radar receiver, a single-band radio, and survival gear. Trussell took his place in the pilot’s seat, and motioned to Fisher to sit beside him. He watched as Bradley handed the mysterious cartons to Trussell and noted how Trussell acknowledged their significance. Relieved when Bradley and Turk Paz deplaned, Fisher turned to Trussell for an explanation.
Once airborne, Trussell explained that he was under instructions from Bradley to fly to Santa Marta, Colombia, to retrieve Don Leach, who was being held hostage by the Colombians, and return to Starkville with sixteen hundred pounds of marijuana. Before Fisher had a chance to bemoan the fact that he was allergic to marijuana and feared a severe attack if confined with a planeload of pot, Trussell replaced those anxieties with an even worse scenario.
“I’m supposed to throw you into the ocean,” Trussell told Fisher. “Brad hasn’t forgiven you for returning those guns to Atwood.”
Fisher glanced at Trussell, wondering incredulously if the plans for his demise would be pursued.
“Don’t worry,” Trussell said. “We’re going to rescue Leach and get the hell out of Colombia. I’ll deal with Brad later on. This plane isn’t capable of carrying a ton of dope. Besides, we were all under surveillance in Mississippi and the cops will be waiting for us when we return to Starkville.”
Fisher asked about the contents of the two cartons.
“You don’t need to concern yourself with those.” Trussell knew one of the boxes contained an ultrasophisticated radar device that Larry Bryant had apparently stolen from an F-4 jet fighter at a U.S. military base. The other contained a Starlight night-vision scope that Larry Bryant had gotten from the China Lake Naval Base. Trussell was under strict instructions not to discuss the contents with anyone, under any circumstances. As an ex-cop, he knew the seriousness of transporting stolen military equipment to foreign countries, and was not about to incriminate himself, even to Jan Fisher.
“That one is full of money,” Trussell lied, pointing to the suitcase. “We’re supposed to give it to the Colombians in exchange for Leach.”
Early the next morning, the Twin Beech began its gradual descent over the Caribbean. Both men were exhausted from flying all night.
“You know how to swim?” Trussell asked Fisher.
“Why?” Fisher asked, eyeing Trussell apprehensively.
“Because we’re going into the water.”
Before Fisher had time to figure out what was going on, Trussell had dropped the plane so its wingtips nearly grazed the sea.
“I’m going to beach it,” Trussell said, noticing Fisher’s nervousness. “I’ll tell Brad we developed engine problems and were forced down.”
Certain tacit rules exist in the drug world that provide freedom from liability. A smuggler escapes financial responsibility for an ill-fated venture only if he is busted, his plane crashes, or if he is forced by circumstances to abandon his aircraft to avoid apprehension. Without the presence of one of the excuses accepted industry-wide, a smuggler whose undertaking sours often faces death at the hands of his accomplices.
Intentionally or not, the airplane slid under Trussell’s guidance onto the shoreline, coming to a standstill partially immersed in water. Fisher watched Trussell unload both cartons, holding them aloft as he waded neck-deep to dry land. Fisher dove into the shallow water and followed Trussell.
Once ashore, Trussell guided Fisher to a dirt road. He had accurately calculated his location and grasped his bearings. They were within walking distance of the farmhouse where Bradley had left Leach two weeks earlier. When a native driving a pickup truck offered a ride to the unlikely hitchhikers—two soaking-wet gringos carrying suitcases—Trussell gratefully directed him to the hostage hideout. But upon arrival at the remote farm three Colombians whose identities they didn’t learn until later greeted them.
“Neither one of us spoke any Spanish,” Fisher recounted. “So we explained our situation the best we could…about the crashed airplane.”
The Colombians put Trussell and Fisher under guard and dispatched scouts to check out the Twin Beech.
After being held in captivity for two days, Trussell and Fisher were finally transported to Santa Marta where they were reunited with Leach. Robbed of their jewelry and passports, they were given eight hours to contact Bradley Bryant to notify him of the unfortunate turn of events. If they were unsuccessful, they were told, all of them would be killed.
Leach told Trussell and Fisher that Bradley’s Colombian associates had placed Leach under “house arrest” as soon as Bradley left the country and that Senator Lopez had received a phone call from Bradley the day before the Twin Beech was scheduled to arrive. Leach had been told that Trussell would land at 4 a.m., and that the senator had bribed Army personnel who would have been on duty at that time. Leach was taken to the airstrip, located on Senator Lopez’s farm, to await the plane’s arrival. He assisted the Colombians in lighting smudge pots to illuminate the field. The Colombians waited impatiently and angrily for the plane that did not arrive.
When informed about the plane crash by his captors, Leach had been led to believe that Trussell and Fisher were both dead. Although he had been treated well, Leach expected he would spend the rest of his life in Colombia unless Bradley repaid a substantial debt. Bradley’s growing reputation for reneging did not inspire Leach’s confidence. Leach’s prospects suddenly brightened when Trussell and Fisher arrived upon the scene. He assumed Trussell and Fisher were bringing payment for his release. However, the Colombians didn’t seem satisfied with the suitcase and added Trussell and Fisher to Leach’s captivity. Unable to reach Bradley, the three reviewed their options, and agreed upon a scheme to win their freedom.
“We felt like Brad had written us off,” Fisher complained. “So we started negotiating with the senator, telling him we had a DC-9 parked on a runway in Florida.” The Colombian official was interested in having the three Americans run Colombian gold marijuana from South America to the United States. He had lost faith in the abilities of Bradley and Jimmy Chagra to direct a successful smuggling organization, and was hoping to create; a new export operation. Trussell, Leach, and Fisher assured the Colombian that if their passports were returned to them they would retrieve the DC-9 in Florida and fly back to Santa Marta the next day to load it with dope. They boasted of their own alleged connections, convincing the senator that business could continue as usual without Bradley or Chagra. The Colombians provided them each with a one-way ticket by commercial airline back to Miami, extracting vows that they would return immediately to retrieve the load of drugs that was already waiting. Why the Colombians were dissatisfied with the military equipment as payment for Bradley’s delinquent debt would remain unclear.
Once back on American soil, the three men made arrangements to return to their homes in Savannah and Tampa. Each had decided to sever their ties with Bradley Bryant—-decisions that would eventually contribute to Bradley’s downfall.
Bradley was unaware of the extent to which Drew and his former associates intended to betray him. He knew that Drew was undermining him and vowing retaliation for the hundred thousand dollars Bradley owned him. But he still felt invulnerable.
Using the alias “Bradley Wilson,” Bradley rented a self-storage unit at the U-Store-It warehouses located on New Circle Road in Lexington. He then ordered two of his employees to drive a car loaded with weapons from Tampa to Lexington, to be stored in the warehouse.
Bradley’s cousin Larry was en route to a planned rendezvous with the eccentric Alvin Snapper. Snapper’s inventi
ons included the breakfast drink Tang and the IBM typewriter ball. He and Larry Bryant had become partners in an electronics security firm following their meeting a few years earlier at a convention of antique weapons collectors. Bryant had taken an instant liking to Snapper—who, coincidentally, was a Kentucky native—and was impressed by Snapper’s ownership of the world’s largest private collection of automatic weapons.
As Larry maneuvered his Ranchero into Snapper’s curved driveway, he managed to hide the mini-truck behind a World War II tank that was parked in front of the garage. His cagey partner greeted him at the Spanish-style stucco house. Peeking out from behind the front door, Snapper motioned to Bryant to enter.
A few minutes later the garage door opened, and the two men began loading five starlight night-vision scopes and one low-lightlevel television camera into the bed of Larry Bryant’s vehicle. Across the street, unbeknown to Bryant and Snapper, FBI agents were photographing their activity.
Larry Bryant then traveled to the isolated China Lake Naval Base. Located in California’s Mojave Desert, China Lake is the Navy’s supersecret test center where exotic weapons and electronics systems are developed. Air space is restricted from the ground to infinity for the eighteen hundred square miles of desert owned by the base, and state-of-the-art measures are taken to prevent access to the area where classified missile and air-warfare maneuvers occur. Yet Larry Bryant was able to penetrate one of the government’s most complex security systems in order to retrieve a remote-controlled helicopter, fifteen hundred rounds of .30-caliber M-1 tracer ammunition, and a radar receiver section from a sidewinder missile.
Awaiting word from Larry that the items he requested had been acquired, Bradley oversaw the hundreds of details for his next planned dope run. He spent the fall of 1979 traveling between Philadelphia, New York, Miami, Savannah, Atlanta, Lexington, Dallas, San Diego, Denver, and Las Vegas—staying at the top hotels, for which he paid with cash. He communicated with his friends, family, and associates by wire rather than telephone. He established an elaborate system for contacting subordinates, using portable pagers to relay messages directing accomplices to contact him by calling a series of numbers that had been coded for public pay phones in various cities.