by Lou Reiter
“Taylor Sterling, Chief Garcia,” Taylor said as he extended his hand.
“So you’re the guy the League sent from California,” Chief Garcia said as he enunciated each syllable. The chief’s handshake was firm and he squeezed forcefully as he pumped Taylor’s arm like a well. “You’re in Texas now. Policing here ain’t the same as you fellows do in California.” Again enunciating each syllable slowly, reaching for full effect.
Taylor didn’t bother to acknowledge the chief’s dislike of California. He saw Garcia was set in his opinions, so why further complicate the interaction? Taylor said nothing in response.
Chief Garcia was a short, stocky man. He wore jeans, a dark blue uniform shirt, and scuffed brown cowboy boots. In place of a tie, he wore a large turquoise bolo. His thick mustache drooped at least an inch below his lower lip.
After the forced greeting, the chief returned to his leather throne behind the desk and waved for Taylor to take a seat in one of the hardback chairs.
“So,” he began, “the League is worried about a little money? Fuck, they charge me a shit pot load for my insurance premium.” The League was short for the Texas City County League that insured most police departments in Texas, although some very large departments were self-insured. “Whatta they tell you?”
Taylor opened his briefcase and retrieved a manila folder holding several documents. “It seems one of your units had four civil actions in the past two years. Two were settled for about $70,000, one for $200,000, and the last action is still in the court process. The League also has concerns about the fatal shooting of Emma Mae Jones. The League is expecting a notice of civil claim to be filed before long. Quite frankly, we’re becoming concerned about your special unit.”
“Yeah, the SNU. It’s made me famous here in the valley. Got one of the lowest crime rates here and it’s pretty much due to those guys. It’s a hard charging crime team and they scare the shit out of the narcotic dealers plaguing the city. The unit’s been putting those assholes in jail faster than a jack rabbit follows tail. Hell, I’ve got two boats, a handful of cars, a couple houses and nearly a million in cash from seizures and arrests those guys made. Don’t even have to share with the feds’ task force. It’s all mine! I’d say it’s a good trade-off.”
“And the Jones’ killing?”
“Mr. Sterling, I don’t like the term ‘killing.’ The old lady had a gun and shot at my cops from a couple yards away. She had coke hidden, maybe not a lot, but it was still coke. She was a criminal, no doubt about it!”
Chief Garcia leaned forward and put his head in his hands.
“This has been a shit storm for me and my department. Until the grand jury finding we had demonstrators every day marching in front of the station. The local news wouldn’t let up. When the grand jury came back clearing my cops, I thought we’d have a riot on our hands. But fortunately we didn’t. Every now and then we get some clown tacking up wanted posters for Bull and Clap. Those two have taken it the hardest. Both asked to leave SNU and go back to patrol duty. Can you imagine that? Voluntarily go back to patrol! Spence even left the unit, the department and went back to a shitty little ranch in the Texas panhandle. Pepy is the only one who stayed on. Strange, I don’t understand it.”
“Did you talk to them about their choices?”
“No. Shit, I’m the Chief of Police, not some shrink!”
Chief Garcia reluctantly agreed to have a department lieutenant work with Taylor as a liaison.
“I’m going to be getting daily reports on what you do, Mr. Sterling. So don’t fuck me up, you hear? Can’t figure why the League didn’t get a retired Texas cop to come here. You know, I can get you sent back to California in the blink of an eye,” he threatened, continuing to enunciate each syllable.
*****
Taylor knew the assigned lieutenant was simply a conduit back to the chief’s office, but he figured he could use him for directions and introductions. The “stoolie lieutenant” might also be good for sending pointed concerns or questions to give Chief Garcia something to think about. Taylor wanted to start his inquiry at the SNU office, which turned out to be a storefront address in an almost abandoned 1950s strip mall. Apparently no one regularly used the front entrance to enter the building. Tattered remnants of mail sent to the previous addressee littered the area and a peek through the dirty window slot showed empty file cabinets and a desk piled high with soda cans and discarded snack bags.
The lieutenant tried the front door. It was obvious the man had never been to the SNU office before. Becoming frustrated, he speed-dialed a number on his cell phone. After a clipped conversation, the lieutenant turned to Taylor and stated the entrance was in the rear.
Finally inside, Taylor found himself in a large room with several desks angled toward the center. Two doors led to small rooms on either side and a restroom was located in the rear. The walls were papered with mug shots and photos, some dating from years before. Clipboards weighted with blocks of ragged pages dangled from large coat hooks.
Each desk took on the appearance of a giant in-basket with reams of paper haphazardly scattered over the desktop. There was little organization evident in this maelstrom called an office. In one corner of the room, Taylor saw a MP5 HK submachine gun and two pistol grip Mossberg pump-action shotguns. Several manila evidence envelopes sealed with evidence tape mounded on the desks. Taylor viewed the entire room as chaos in action. He was reluctant to guess what could possibly be hidden in the two side rooms.
“Sgt. Cooke,” greeted one of the three men in the room. He extended his hand in welcome. “I’m the OIC of SNU. The office said you would be visiting.”
Taylor observed Sgt. Cooke was wearing jeans topped with a black t-shirt with SNU stenciled on the back. Black combat boots and a badge dangling from a chain around his neck completed his outfit. The second man was wearing similar clothing, but the third man was strikingly different in appearance. He was wearing a Canali-tailored Italian suit, retail value running about twelve hundred bucks. A silk white French cuffed dress shirt and Versace tie made a full statement. The Canali suit approached and extended his hand.
“Pedro Fuentes here, call me Pepy. Out of uniform. Got court in an hour.” Taylor was surprised this Pepy guy talked as snappy as he looked.
Taylor asked Sgt. Cooke to show him around the unit’s office so he could get the lay of the land. One of the small rooms contained case files housed in ancient metal file cabinets. Locks didn’t shelter the material in the file cabinets. The second room had several banks of charging stations for radios and flashlights. More weapons were in evidence, including two SAGE multiple cartridge projectile weapons, several boxes of gas grenades, tactical vests stacked high, a ballistic shield, and a clothes rack decorated with various workers’ uniforms. These were probably used for stakeouts; Taylor noticed the uniforms were from a gas company, telephone company, and Stanley Steamer.
Sgt. Cooke led Taylor outside and pointed to several vehicles. Three were new Dodge Chargers, painted black sporting dark tinted windows. Another was a panel van with no markings. Taylor noticed a Porsche Panamera 4S sedan parked by the rear door.
“This a seizure? Nice!” Taylor exclaimed, noting the rear license plate holder boasting “European Imports Sierra Vista.”
“No, I wish,” Sgt. Cooke replied. “The Porsche is Pepy’s newest ride. He likes to live large.”
Back inside, Taylor sat down and started asking Sgt. Cooke his list of questions. “You guys use a lot of informants?”
“A couple of the guys do. Pepy probably has the most. That right, Pepy?” he yelled to the suit who simply nodded before signaling he was leaving through the back door.
“What’s your policy concerning informant development, control, and oversight?”
Taylor could see the blank stare indicating, ‘Say what?’ spread over Cooke’s face.
“You know, how do you keep track of the CIs? What research do you do on them before they’re used to make cases?”
&nb
sp; “No, you got it wrong, Mr. Sterling. Each informant belongs to the officer. No one else works with that particular snitch. Where did you say you were a cop? You do something different out there in California?” At least this guy didn’t enunciate his words.
Informants in law enforcement are a necessary evil. But, if they’ll turn on friends, associates, or even family, you can be sure they’ll turn on the officer using them. Every officer learns or is trained to treat informants with caution.
There are specific ways police agencies and investigators are required to deal with informants. The International Association of Chiefs of Police and other similar national organizations have model policies. Federal agencies such as the FBI, DEA, and ATF offer training to local police in the control and use of informants.
First an investigator must determine what motivates the informant to come forth with information. If an officer is using an informant who is on parole or probation, he must get approval from the agent in charge of the person. If the informant is working off criminal charges, like drug possession or prostitution, approval from the prosecutor is required. If the informant is a minor, parental permission is necessary. If the informant is of the opposite sex, two investigators must be present during any contact.
It’s required to check records and complete a thorough background search. Additionally, informants can’t be working for another agency or department at the same time, as that could end up with officers shooting other officers. Usually an informant signs an agreement or contract defining what they can and cannot do. Complete records of money paid are documented and it’s noted whether the supplied information worked out or didn’t. Everything must be corroborated. Informants don’t belong to the investigator; they belong to the police agency. When officers depart from these protections, they usually get burned.
“Where do you keep your case files?” Taylor asked.
“Each investigator keeps his own files. Most of the time they’re somewhere in their desks.”
“How about the cases that need no additional investigation?”
“I think they’re filed in the cabinet in that there file room,” Sgt. Cooke replied as he pointed to one of the small rooms.
“Do you think you could find the investigative case file on the Emma Mae Jones case?”
“I think we gave that to the City Attorney. It’s not here.”
“I recall reading portions of the file at the League office, Sgt. Cooke. I remember Pepy saying he got some of his information from Informant #16. How would you know who that was?”
“You’d have to ask Pepy. That’s the only way I know. I’ve never asked him for any info on his informants,” Sgt. Cooke admitted.
Taylor realized this SNU was simply fucked up. The only requirement seemed to be chalking up seizures and arrests. Taylor wasn’t sure if the chief’s lieutenant got any drift of this information. He was in the corner reading a gun magazine.
*****
Earlier Taylor had booked himself into a hotel outside the city next to the Interstate. On his way back to his hotel, Taylor noticed the European Imports dealership and sharply turned into the lot. A young woman approached him.
“You interested in a Porsche?” This was one strikingly beautiful 30-something woman. Probably more than one prospective buyer pictured himself in a speedster with her snuggled in the passenger seat.
“Actually, I was looking for a Panamera 4S.”
“Sweet ride. We don’t get many of those here. We had one a couple months ago. A real beauty. With the add-ons, it came in a little over a hundred grand.”
“Oh yeah, I saw it at the police department. One of the cops owns it—Pepy, I think.”
“The Latin hot shot! So full of himself, but I was able to get him into the ride at a stiff discount.”
“I imagine he had to put a shit pot down! I can’t imagine his monthly lease fee!” Taylor said, a low whistle accenting his comment.
“He paid cash! Surprised us all here at the dealership. Cash from a cop! I could check the computer to locate another Panamera. Might find you one at another dealer. You interested?”
“Yes, but out of my reach. Some of us are just dreaming.”
“I’m here if you want me… or the car.” She smiled as she sashayed through the dealership’s doors.
Back at the hotel, Taylor searched his computer for the contact the League had given him. Sergio Gonzalez was a Texas Ranger. The Rangers were a unique law enforcement group steeped in history, tradition, and a lot of myth. They began in the early 1800s and were always a small tight group of lawmen. Even today there are only 144 Rangers in the entire state of Texas. Their inauspicious badge is still fashioned from a Mexican cinco peso.
While there is no official Ranger uniform, most wear Western trousers, brown Western boots, starched white shirts, and an off-white Stetson. Early on, the Rangers were a flamboyant group with many wearing chrome handguns with pearl or stag handles. Today they are scattered throughout Texas and have many duties. They are used to intercede when local law enforcement and politicians are determined to be corrupt. Smaller police agencies rely on them to assist in high profile investigations.
“Sergio, this is Taylor Sterling,” he said when he finally reached the Texas Ranger. “The League said I could count on you to help with my inquiry into the SNU in Sierra Vista.”
“Yes. Things smell at that unit. The chief of police is a pompous ass. Not sure I trust the DA either. How can I help you?”
“Well I’m down here in Sierra Vista. I’ve been talking with Sgt. Cooke who’s the OIC of the SNU. I was surprised to hear that three of the officers involved in the fatal shooting of Emma Mae Jones suddenly left the unit. Only Pedro Fuentes in still there. I’m going to talk with the two shooters, but I need help with the other one—Spencer Wilfred Roosevelt the Third. He’s a black guy. He apparently left Sierra Vista suddenly after the grand jury came back. Went back up to his family’s ranch in east Texas. Don’t have much more.”
“Won’t be a problem. I’ll get the info from TCLOSE. Shouldn’t be hard to find a black up in the panhandle. What are you looking for?”
“What caused him to up and leave. I got a bad feeling about this Pedro, or Pepy, as he likes to be called. Spencer Roosevelt might give up something now that he’s away and out of sight.”
Sergio said it would take two or three days to track him down, but he’d be back in touch.
*****
Taylor had the names of the plaintiff attorneys for civil cases involving the SNU. The City County League told Taylor that Sierra Vista was frequently sued. Usually the suit was brought for false arrest or use of force. Most instances were minor and the League settled them for amounts it considered to be “nuisance money.” The recent four, however, had concerned the League. They were filed by two well-respected local law firms. The complaints weren’t the usual boilerplate versions that some civil rights attorneys copied from the Police Misconduct Handbook. Even more disconcerting was all four lawsuits involved the same unit and the same officer: Pedro Fuentes.
The offices of the first attorney interviewed were in the tallest building in Sierra Vista, taking up two floors. Taylor was ushered into the private office of one of the managing partners, Felix Mendoza. Not big, nor elaborate, as offices go. Western art filled the wall and a few Remington reproductions were placed on mahogany tables. Felix Mendoza wore casual Western pants, shirt, and boots. He appeared to be in his early 50s and looked like he worked out religiously, sticking to the cardio machines.
“Mr. Sterling? The League told me to expect you. What can I do for you?”
Taylor told him simply that he was acting as an agent for the League and was evaluating several recent civil lawsuits, his being one of them. Taylor asked for a brief summary from Mendoza’s point of view.
“Well, it’s pretty straight forward and not much for dispute. My clients are a Vietnamese family living in Mississippi. They’re a family of fishermen.
“Mr. Vu and two of
his sons were coming down to the Gulf intending to buy another fishing boat. They were pretty much ready to close the deal, but wanted to see the boat one more time and have a local mechanic take a look. They had the down payment with them, $150,000 in cash. That’s the way they do business, I guess.”
Felix cocked his eyebrow. “Anyway, the three were stopped on the Interstate by a Sierra Vista traffic unit. They call it highway interdiction, but I call it highway robbery. This has been going on for a long time. This is the first time I’ve gotten involved in one of these bogus stops. Usually bonafide drug dealers are targeted. But, the Vus are just honest business people.”
“Are you sure they had that much cash with them, Mr. Mendoza?”
“Got bank records that say they did!”
“So what happened?”
“Well, they got pulled over. The cop asked them what was in the bag on the floor. You can imagine now how nervous all of them got real fast. Well, that nervous edge got the traffic cop nervous and he called for back-up. Shit, must have been eight or ten cop cars show up and one had the canine ready for action. Dog came around and supposedly ‘alerted.’
“So now all three are ordered out of the car at gunpoint and segregated into three cars. The cops first grab the bag and see the bundles of bills. Bet they almost come, huh? Then they start religiously tearing through the car looking for drugs, or what the hell else.
“Someone calls the SNU ‘cause they figure it’s a drug deal and now they figure they can seize the money and the BMW. It was a 7-series; one of the bigger ones. Pepy, officially known as Officer Fuentes, shows up. Hot shot! He gets them all transported back to the SNU dungeon. That little shitty storefront office. Finally figures they aren’t drug dealers, but now Pepy puts the squeeze on them.