by George Rowe
He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Would you like to cut the umbilical, Mr. Rowe?”
“Huh? What?”
“Cut the cord?” explained the doctor, extending the scissors.
“Hell, no,” I said.
That kid just got here. I didn’t want to fuck him up right out of the chute. So the doctor snipped the umbilical himself.
And that’s how Baby Doe entered the world and witness protection. That was the little booger’s name: Baby Doe. Seemed only fitting for a family about to vanish into anonymity.
That boy was healthy as a horse too. To Jenna’s everlasting credit, except for an occasional joint, she’d stayed clean and sober through all nine months of pregnancy. It just showed me what that girl could do when she really put her mind to it. Of course, a few weeks after pushing the kid out, she was right back at it again.
The feds call it “downtime.” I called it purgatory because you’re stuck in limbo, caught between one world and the next. We spent two months hiding and going stir crazy at the Oxnard hotel, waiting for the U.S. marshals to get their shit together so we could get on with our lives. Jenna breast-fed the baby for a couple of those weeks, then got into alcohol and quit nursing. She started spending the hours down in the hotel lounge with Old Joe, drinking beer and wine on the government tab.
Not long after the baby was born, Jenna started warming up to me again. When I overheard her talking to Sierra one night, I knew she’d finally come around. The little girl was asking why she couldn’t see her friends back in Hemet anymore.
“Some of the people we thought were nice guys had been very bad and they got in trouble for it,” Jenna said, kneeling in front of Sierra.
“Is Daddy in trouble?”
“No, Daddy isn’t in trouble, but he had to help put the bad guys in jail. And some of those bad guys are mad because Daddy told the truth about them. That’s why you can’t see your friends for a while.”
“Because the bad guys are mad at Daddy?”
“That’s right.”
Fuckin’ A right, little girl. The bad guys are pissed as hell at Daddy.
While we twiddled thumbs waiting on the marshals, my fiancée got back to abusing whatever she could lay her hands on. When ATF moved us from Oxnard to Lake Isabella out near Bakersfield, she fell in with an old friend and recovering heroin addict. Jenna got into that girl’s methadone and before you knew it—whoopee! It was zero to sixty in two seconds. Within days she was slamming dope. In a month she was strung out.
From Lake Isabella the ATF relocated us to Oceanside, but that didn’t stop my Jenna. Hell, no. When I prevented the girl from leaving the house to buy heroin one day, she called the cops and told them I’d beaten her. I was arrested and taken away in handcuffs.
John Carr had to bail me out.
Occasionally during our time in hiding I’d catch bits and pieces of news from the old hometown. The Vagos knew where Bill Thompson lived, and they made a point of cruising past his property, hoping Jenna and I might show our faces. Bill bought himself a gun and mounted security cameras outside the house. But he and his new wife never felt safe, and eventually they sold their home and left Hemet for good.
The Vagos were never prosecuted under the RICO Act. The reason, according to John Carr, was the U.S. Attorney’s Office lacked the manpower to handle the number of defendants Operation 22 Green had generated. For that reason most of those greenies were processed by the state of California, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because they all got slapped with the dreaded S.T.E.P. gang enhancement penalties. When all was said and done, and the evidence gathered during the raids was acted upon, forty-two Vagos and their associates were charged for crimes ranging from drug and weapons violations to first-degree murder.
Big Roy Compton pled guilty to felony possession of a firearm while a member of a street gang and was sentenced to twenty-four months in prison. Big Todd got thirty months for felony possession and street gang membership. Apparently I was never going to get a fighting shot at either one of those fuckers in their cells, though. John Carr couldn’t make it happen.
In hindsight I figured that was never in the cards anyway.
Jack Fite, the baddest of the bad, was facing a felony conviction for possession of a controlled substance for sale and looking at an automatic twenty-five years to life under California’s three-strike rule. He died of complications from hepatitis while awaiting trial, ending his days behind bars just like everyone always said he would. I don’t figure many tears were shed for that evil sonofabitch.
The Hemet chapter that I’d gone undercover to drive out of town had been completely gutted, with most of those boys bagged on criminal street-gang-related charges. One year after the takedown, only Loki was holding down the fort, and that Vago was barely hanging on by his fingertips.
In the early spring of 2006 came the news I’d been waiting for.
John was on the line again. It was time to go into WITSEC.
“You ready?”
“Hell, yeah,” I told him. “Let’s do this.”
As instructed by the U.S. marshals, Jenna and I packed one suitcase each. There were no personal photos allowed, no paperwork, nothing of any kind that might link us to the past.
Old Joe and I spent our last day together fishing on Oceanside pier, talking about the time we’d spent together, the people we’d met and the experiences we’d shared along the way. The two of us had been partners for almost twenty years, sticking together through thick and thin. He relied on me as much as I did on him. Without that big gangly bastard I’m not sure I could have made it through those years undercover. We were brother tight, Old Joe and I, and now I was leaving that brother behind. It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do.
“Am I ever gonna see you and the kids again?” he wanted to know.
“Don’t know, buddy,” I said. “I honestly don’t.”
Joe had grown especially fond of my son. He once told me he didn’t want to get attached to any more kids because they grow up too fast and move away. I think my boy was a bittersweet reminder of the two sons he hadn’t seen in years. Now Old Joe was being forced to say good-bye all over again, and that gentle man could hardly bear it.
“I was thinking maybe this day wouldn’t happen,” he said as he fished. “I guess maybe I was hoping it would never happen.”
“Lately I’ve been thinking the same thing, partner.”
Joe turned with a questioning look.
“What are these people really gonna do for me, anyway?” I said to him. “I mean, I don’t know where I’m going. Hell, I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be.”
“Well, whoever you are, I’m gonna miss you.”
I grinned, then fell silent and listened to the waves lap against the pilings.
“Funny the shit you remember. This reminds me of a day I spent with my dad when I was a kid. He wanted to fish from this wooden bridge that ran out to an island in the middle of a lake. So I held the poles with one hand and held on to my father’s neck with the other, and he swam us out there. I was seven years old. Man, things were so much simpler then.”
I glanced over at my friend.
“What the fuck did I do, Joe? I used to think my life was gonna be Ozzie and Harriet, you know? Boy, was that a fuckin’ joke.”
Old Joe looked out toward the Pacific. “Brother, all I know is, I feel like the loneliest person in the world right now. And you’re not even gone yet.”
John Carr arrived in his SUV shortly before dark. Our luggage was thrown in back and Joe attached the car seat. Then he strapped my son inside, kissed him on the head and closed the door.
I cried tears of sorrow twice in my life. Like I said, tears were reserved for anger, and that always meant victims. But I cried from the heart when my father passed away, and I cried that afternoon when I said good-bye to Old Joe at the curb in Oceanside.
My friend was crying too.
“Love you, br
other,” he told me, clasping my hand.
“Guess I’ll see you when I see you,” I said, and turned away.
As we drove off toward the airport, I glanced back. Old Joe was in the street watching us. He was still standing there as we turned the corner.
At Los Angeles International Airport we were met in the terminal by three U.S. marshals, two men and a woman. After John turned us over to their care, I had another good-bye moment with my longtime shepherd.
“Been quite a ride, huh, buddy?” I said to him. “I just hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Why would I be disappointed? Hey, listen. You did good, George. The Vagos are out of Hemet. That’s what you got into this for, right? You should be proud.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, but we didn’t get rid of all of them.”
“Dude, that was never going to happen. These gangs are like cancer. You can cut ’em out but they always come back again. So we’ll just keep going after the bastards. That’s what we do, right?”
He proffered his hand and I shook it. But I felt the moment deserved something more. So I pulled that special agent into a hug and slapped him on the back.
“Hell of a job, Uncle John.”
“You too, George. Take care of yourself.”
“Will do.”
I lifted the bags, Jenna held the baby with one arm and Sierra’s hand with the other, and we followed the marshals through a side door that bypassed gate security. As the female marshal led us down the gangway, she made a half-assed attempt to connect with Jenna.
“I know this must be hard for you,” she said, tucking her badge away.
“You want to act like you care?” snarled Jenna.
Oh, shit. Here we go.
“This is your day job, bitch. You’re going home to your family tonight. This is my fucking life we’re talking about.”
Man, those marshals couldn’t get us on that plane fast enough.
Our commercial flight from Los Angeles took us to an airport in Washington, D.C., where we were met by yet another U.S. marshal dressed like we’d interrupted his weekend of fly-fishing. He wore a tan cotton vest covered with small pockets and a firearm holstered at his side. The man was all business as he directed us into a box van with blacked-out windows, then drove us on a long haul to a military base that I can only assume was Langley.
The first stop in the WITSEC program comes belowground. The marshal maneuvered the van through a sally port and down into a cement bunker with a heavy metal door that closed behind us. From there we were escorted through the bunker’s cement bowels, led down corridors lined with doors numbered like any aboveground hotel. Only this Hilton had no windows, the staff never smiled, and room service offered nothing but frozen dinners and microwavable pizza.
Jenna called it the Bat Cave. For me it was purgatory all over again. We were back in limbo, waiting for new identities and our next destination.
The medical staff gave the whole family physicals, including a vaginal for Jenna and an attempt by the doc to poke his finger up my ass, which I politely declined. After that came fingerprinting and paperwork, including the documents establishing our new WITSEC identities. We each had the chance to submit four names—first, middle and last—filled out like a multiple-choice exam. Jenna wanted Sierra to choose her own, but the kid kept opting for names like Lightning, Thunder and Snow, so Mommy chose one for her. Apparently our youngest was exempt from all this. Baby Doe could keep his given name because he was born into protective custody, a child of witness protection.
A serious-minded young marshal with burn scars on his face gathered the paperwork.
“You understand that from this point on, you won’t be able to contact anyone who might have known you in the past,” he explained.
“Yeah, we get it,” I told him.
“In twenty minutes you’ll be taken back to the airport and flown to your final destination. Upon arrival you’ll be met by your handler. You’ll be given twenty-five hundred dollars to get you started and a new place to live.”
“And where will that be?” I wanted to know.
“You’ll find out when you get there,” replied the marshal as he exited the room.
With George Rowe now consigned to history, I downed a few slices of shitty frozen pizza and told Jenna I was heading out to the patio for a much-needed smoke.
“George?” she said before I could leave.
When I turned she looked like she was about to cry.
“I know I’ve been an angry bitch. But I want you to know I love you. I always will. If it wasn’t for you I doubt I’d be alive right now.” She paused a moment, then added sadly, “I just wish you had set me free.”
EPILOGUE
I’m on a sniper-proof patio surrounded by concrete walls fifteen feet high. I can’t see a damn thing from here except the patch of twilight above, and every now and then a jet fighter goes blasting through it, flying so low I can smell the exhaust. In a few minutes the U.S. marshals will escort my family back to the airport and we’ll fly off with our new names to a new place and a new life courtesy of the United States government. But as I draw on my cigarette, watching those fighters scream overhead, I’m not thinking about the future. I’m thinking of the road that led me here—to this fortress three thousand miles from home. And I’m asking myself . . .
Man, what the fuck happened?
Life was pretty damn good before I shook hands with the ATF. Now it’s all gone to shit. The man with nothing to gain and everything to lose lost everything: a son I’d never see grow up, my home, my business, my friends, the town I risked my neck to defend. Hell, even my own identity—all of it gone like a fart in a fuckin’ hurricane.
Not that I expected anything in return. I knew the deal going in. But what exactly did those three years buy me? A federal agent has his retirement, an informant gains his freedom. But for me there was no reward. No thank-you speeches. No key to the city. Just a slap on the back and a boot in the ass that landed me in witness protection, left with one suitcase, two kids and a crazy old lady.
Don’t get me wrong, I love those children to death, and Jenna’s great when she’s not using, but fuck’s sake, how did things get so complicated? Used to be just me and Old Joe when this whole thing began. Hell, we could have gone into the program as gay lovers. That would have been easy. But this . . .
Damn it, George. What the hell did you do?
Ah, well. They say no good deed goes unpunished. Maybe this is just some kind of karmic payback for all the sins I’ve committed—God’s way of spanking my naughty ass.
Maybe it’s what I deserve.
I drag on the Marlboro and think back to that day John Carr and I first met in Bee Canyon. And I wonder, given a second chance, would I still shake his hand? I mean, knowing the destination, understanding the price, would I take that journey again?
Another jet screams overhead. I toss my spent cigarette and crush it underfoot.
Time to move on.
AFTERWORD
Six years after our police escort out of Hemet on that deserted I-10 freeway, there’s not a day goes by that I don’t think of my old hometown or ask God’s forgiveness for the pain I caused there. And that includes the shit I did but can’t remember.
As for the people I left behind, well, thanks to WITSEC I’ve lost touch with most of them. Occasionally I’ll speak to John Carr. He and Koz are still busting motorcycle outlaws for the ATF. But my old friend Detective Duffy is gone. Few years back Kevin checked into a Motel 6 and shot himself. ATF Special Agent Jeff Ryan was another casualty of the profession, committing suicide in 2011. Charles, aka Quick Draw, got a taste for life undercover and continued working as an informant-for-hire. Bubba, the biker cop with the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department, retired after twenty-eight years on the job and went back to the real world.
Old Joe? Well, John Carr kept his promise, taking my buddy under ATF’s wing and relocating him to a safe place. Jenna relapsed into heroin a few months after enterin
g federal protection, told me she’d fallen out of love and went to work as a stripper. Took a few years, but once she climbed down off the pole, she went back to school, found a job in a professional field and was eventually reunited with Sierra.
And the Vagos? Contrary to claims that the club had been “dismantled” following Operation 22 Green, the “Nation” is thriving—by some accounts nearly doubling in size since the takedown in 2006. Vagos chapters are now found in Hawaii, Canada, Mexico, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and on the far side of the world in New Zealand and Japan.
And, yes, there’s even a chapter back in Hemet.
I’ll let someone else handle that one.
Rhino, the former international sergeant at arms, was charged with murder in the execution of “Shorty” Daoussis and is serving seventy-five years to life in state prison. His accomplice, Kilo, is doing fifty. “Twist” Foreman from the Victorville chapter, who murdered Little Jimmy in that botched robbery in Lucerne Valley, got life behind bars after his partner in crime, Victorville VP Ryan Matteson, testified against him.
So much for brotherly love.
Terry the Tramp, the “God” of Green Nation, was ousted as the Vagos international president in 2010, but not before the man had squandered over a million dollars of the club’s money. When the feds finally busted Tramp and sent him to prison for failure to pay taxes on all that loot, there was a measly sixty-five bucks left in the account. Almost every cent had gone to the mortgage, the utilities and the casinos.
Big Roy did his prison time, then got the hell out of Dodge. With two felony strikes against him, and one more triggering an automatic twenty-five-to-life sentence, he booked for Hawaii, where he and his wife opened the latest incarnation of the Lady Luck.
Roy’s good pal, Todd, wasn’t so fortunate.
The outlaw life finally caught up with Big Todd in August 2010, when three members of the Brotherhood Motorcycle Club ambushed him in Valle Vista and put a bullet in his head.
And what of those other Vagos I helped put behind bars? Except for Jack Fite, who died in county jail, every one of those boys is back on the street.