by Tom Fugate
Chapter 18
I felt extremely slimy as I walked to my car. Robertson and his crew had put enough cocaine up their noses to get a small country stoned or maybe comatose. This was on top of the amount that they had used at the Bonefish. Combine that with all of the alcohol and I was amazed they were even breathing. I had thought I would have to kill someone to keep from having to use drugs myself. From the amount of drugs and alcohol I could not decide what use they would be to the women. The fumes in the air from pot and other items being smoked could cause a very bad contact buzz. I do not like that feeling. Still, Robertson wanted me to move ‘things’ for him. His organization had already heard the carefully crafted background that was part of my fake identity. Lee Williams had a reputation for reliably moving various types of things into and out of the country. It is always nice to find out how well a false identity is working. People who create solid legends are worth their weight in any precious metal you care to name.
One of the big problems faced with drug dealers who dealt with any significant volume was how to launder the cash. People forget that it was the IRS who took down Capone. People with large amounts of disposable income and no visible means of earning that income draw attention. Many times when a law enforcement officer could not make a solid enough case for a conviction for the actual criminal acts he could make a solid enough case to call in the dogs of the IRS. Smuggling cash is not easy. Money gets bulky. Cocaine is compact compared to either money or pot. I had heard tales of plastic wrapped pallets of cash being shipped in semis. In this case it sounded like he did not need the money moved for laundering but for payments. He must have had some problems in the past if he wanted someone to deliver payments. Well people in the drug trade are not the most trustworthy. I could not help but wonder who the deliveries would go to. Word was that he had connections with a lot of different people.
Robertson had taken the bait. He wanted me to make a delivery for him. The hook was set and now it was a matter of getting evidence to take him down. I was going to need the “Wild Turkey” for a trip very soon. My normal paranoia made me keep checking behind me. Since I had a large and very scary black man with a really big rifle and a female spotter covering me from a nearby rooftop I almost relaxed, but didn’t.
Stay nervous and stay alive was a mantra that had been almost beaten into my head. The key to that was to not look nervous. I scanned the street out of long and hard won habit. Across the street was a police car about halfway down the block to my left. A police car outside a known drug smuggler’s house was not that unusual, but a marked car was. There was only one officer in the car and I knew that this was a violation of night time policy in the local departments; it pays to know local procedures. Unless this car was being driven by a supervisor the officer might well be bought and paid for. I had a feeling that something unpleasant was about to happen. Getting into my car I made a show of adjusting the mirrors and seat.
“John, there is a suspicious cop car up the street from my location. You know anything about this?” I said after I pressed the button that activated the two-way radio microphone hidden in the dash of my car. John was on the radio net. I knew this because his job was to make sure my ass was covered. I knew he was on the radio net since I had been going into the lion’s den. I released the button.
“There has been no radio call about a car being in the area. Do you think you are blown?” Blown as in my cover being found out.
“No, things seemed to go okay. Maybe someone is trying to pull my chain again. Could you roll some backup for our friend? If this is a dirty cop I don’t want him around later to tell anyone what happened. Send trusted people. I’ll leave the details of that up to you. If official type backup is available I want my cohorts to head back to the safe house.” Jacob and Sylvia might only be in the way unless things went south before my backup arrived.
If the cop was dirty then he was either trying to impress Robertson or he was acting under orders. There was a third possibility that he was just plain stupid and was going to try and shake me down. My money was on a combination of all of the above. I fired up the engine, turned on my lights, signaled for a left into the street and slowly pulled out into the traffic lanes. The posted speed limit was thirty miles-per-hour. I kept it just under twenty-five. I signaled and made a right turn at the first street that I came to. Knowing John, the backup he was sending was probably part of nearby surveillance. Robertson and his people were used to Feds being somewhere in the neighborhood.
“John, ETA on the backup?” I asked after I had pressed the hidden button.
“They should be thirty seconds out. Are you still on the same street?”
“No, I turned right onto Coral.” I released the mike button.
“Good one of them is coming up that street in your direction. It is an unmarked unit with DEA inside. They are going to wait to see what the police car does.” He sounded just a bit concerned.
I pressed the talk switch again, “He did pull out and is staying about half a block behind.” Out in front of me a car on the other side of the road pulled over. After they stopped I saw the glow of brake lights behind their car. They tapped the pedal three quick times and then no more glow. That was most probably my DEA friends. The brake light blink was one of our standard signals to acknowledge that contact was made. A little act such as that was definitive and yet unnoticed by anyone not aware of what it meant. If you were not very aware of your surroundings you would probably not even notice those brief brake light flashes. Flashing lights appeared in my rearview mirror and I heard a single burp of a siren. I signaled a lane change and pulled to the side of the road. I got the vehicle license and registration from over the visor and rolled down the window. My parking place was almost directly across from the DEA guys. They ducked down to stay unseen.
“He is up to something alright. I am going to leave the mike open. Can you record?”
“I already have the gear setup for recording surveillance tapes. Tape is rolling.” John was extremely competent at his job. I would not have put my life in his hands otherwise.
“License and Registration please,” the voice was stereotypical southern law enforcement. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” His tone said that he one of the minority that liked being a cop for the ability it gave him to mess with people. He was not going to have a good night.
“I have no idea officer. I know I was not speeding.” I kept my voice even and calm. My gut told me that I was right about this guy being dirty even before he gave me some stupid reason for the stop.
“You were driving erratically. I am going to have to do a field sobriety test and search your car.” He was probably going to plant something in the car.
“I will submit to the sobriety test, but you will not search my car without a warrant.” I smiled a very hard smile. He was too dumb to realize the danger behind the smile. I knew something he did not; I was very much more of a bad ass on my worst day than he was capable of being on his best day.
“Get your sorry ass out of that car. I am going to search it.” His hand actually fell toward his gun, but a strong arm interrupted its motion and turned it into a movement of the arm going behind his back. I had seen the Drug Enforcement guys coming up behind him. The cop did not realize that the DEA man had saved him at least a broken arm. His arm was used to turn him till he faced the front of my car. A hand attached to a second body slickly slid the cop’s service weapon out of his possession. His other arm went behind his back with some outside help and he suddenly found himself in handcuffs. From the sound the cuffs made as they closed the handcuffs were rather tight.
“What is this,” he was trying to sound indignant and failing badly. His face betrayed the fact that he was not really surprised. Someone as obviously dumb as he was probably was always waiting for the knock on the door or the phone call or the hand on his back that told him that he was busted.
“You are being taken into custody for suspicion of police corruption and general stu
pidity. Stupidity is not an actual crime, but in your case it should be. If you turn up clean, which I seriously doubt, no one will ever know about this incident. If you are not clean then you need to think about making a deal.” I kept my voice very hard as I explained the new facts of his life to him. After our little talk he was not smiling or even trying to look us in the eyes. His goose was plucked, cleaned, trussed, stuffed and in the oven.
They found packets of heroin, cocaine and pot in his pockets. His intentions had probably been to plant at least some of them on me or in my car. The idiot had probably planned to throw them to me to get my prints on the packages when I caught them. Well, that is what I would have done. The drugs meant that the only possible chance he had to stay out to jail was to turn on his part-time employers. If he went into prison he was very dead very fast. Cops don’t last long in prison and cops who were dirty and ratted out the people bribing them lasted even less time. People on the inside would assume he squealed even if he had not. The results of a drug test on him would also be interesting. In the 80’s a lot of people would use coke on occasion to celebrate something or other. Then they would occasionally use it as a pick me up. Then they might move to another drug to counter the effects of the first drug. Before long they had serious problems and people in law enforcement with that kind of Jones soon found that they were beholding to the wrong people.
One of the DEA guys put the cop in the back of his own vehicle and drove off down the street. The other put handcuffs on me and put me into the back of his vehicle. I was cuffed, but not tightly and we had a pleasant conversation during the drive. We both liked college football, but he liked the University of Miami. Still he seemed nice enough. At least he wasn’t a University of Virginia fan.
They processed me into the holding facility of the nearest police station. Nothing flashed or binged or dinged when they entered me into the system. The identity was holding. They took the usual pictures, one face on and one turned to the left and one turned to the right, with the numbers in the foreground. Now someone would have to get into the physical records in this area after the operation to destroy those photos. The arrest record would stay since it would only add legitimacy to the legend. The photos had to go so that no one would ever know that the faces did not match if the identity was used again. Any electronic records were easy to delete, at least when you had access to the sneakiest computer people in the business.
My personal effects were in a sealed bag, I had made my phone call and then I was escorted back to a holding cell that had Friday night written all over it even though this was Monday. The club scene in South Florida in the 80’s was like that. Drunks, drunk drivers and underage drinkers were the majority of the temporary residents of that facility. The rest were the type of people who always get into trouble on weekends. These are the people who drink too much, get too loud, swing at the wrong person and write checks their bodies can’t cash. I put on my best don’t mess with me look and found a seat. John would get me out in very short order.
Chapter 19
Holding cell
"You are in my seat." A large excessively tattooed and slightly tubby biker type stood in front of me in the holding cell. It was a room that was painted in a particularly unattractive shade of government beige. His large right index finger was pointed at my chest. His nails were dirty and his wife beater tee-shirt was sweat stained. The room was just a bit crowded, but then it was a night in the Miami area. Most of the residents were in for reasons involving alcohol or some other intoxicants.
There was the odd smell of sweat and stale beer permeating the room, a very typical drunk tank aroma, that aroma actually had a hint of vomit as an undertone odor. Officially my offense was non-violent so naturally here I was in the holding cell with the bar fighters, drunks and other assorted non-violent or slightly violent types. I had been here about an hour when the biker got up the nerve to bully the clean cut guy, me, across the room. He had been talking to other useless types across the cell. I think they were taking bets on the fight they expected.
I smiled pleasantly at him, well maybe pleasant for a crocodile, "Never saw your name here when I sat down. Go back to the other side of the room." My voice had an intentional hard edge on the final words I spoke to him. It was obvious from the way he shuddered that he took offense at my tone
He got a bit red in the face, "Do you know who I am?”
"It doesn't matter. You need to know your enemy before you start something. First never attempt to threaten a man who doesn’t care if you live or die. You, my friend, are an overweight and out-of-shape biker. You are probably in here on a drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace or domestic violence charge. You depend on being intimidating and having people back down. You tend to start things with a sneak attack or pure intimidation. I don’t intimidate. I am a combat veteran Green Beret. I know three ways to kill you right now that will not leave a mark or even require me to get up from this seat." My voice was even and my face stony. My eyes carried the "thousand yard stare" of a person who has killed before and expects to kill again and then I smiled. I didn't think it was an evil smile but he decided to go back to the other side of the large holding cell. My side of the room was very quiet for a long couple of moments.
"Is what you told him true,” a young man who was probably in for something minor asked me. I kind of liked something about this kid. He had either the naivety or balls to ask an intelligent question in a really odd and potentially dangerous situation. He looked nervous at the entire goings on, but he still had control of his faculties.
"It was all true except for the three ways to kill him. That number is probably closer to ten if I don’t use weapons, but I don't like to brag." The emotionless tone of my voice kept him from asking any more questions. We sat there in silence. An excursion into Libya a few years before had made the combat veteran part true. I had earned the Green Beret title the way everyone entitled to it had and several interesting and very lethal people had made sure that the ten ways to kill him were also true.
Across the room “biker” was telling those around him what I had said. Several of them tried to look at me without seeming to look at me. They were failing miserably. They were not eager to start anything. Whether he was just telling the story or trying to get help to give me a beat down I never did find out. Probably a good thing, I did not need the hassle of getting in a brawl in a jail holding cell. I might not win, but if jumped by multiple people then nonlethal options were off the table. My philosophy is one I had been taught by combat veterans. If you are fighting fair you are losing. My mentor for close combat knew several ways to kill a man with only a newspaper; I only knew two newspaper methods.
“Williams, you are getting out, you made bail.” I did not even hesitate when I heard my cover name. Make mistakes like that and you can get very dead, very fast. The voice belonged to one of the jail officers. “Your attorney is waiting for you.” Well, the man waiting for me was an attorney but had not practiced law after he passed the bar. His other talents had gotten General Fleming interested in him. My colleague John Smith was waiting for me.
Thanks to the intervention of my friends and associates from Drug Enforcement my weapons had not been reported. I had locked them in the secure locker in my Porsche before taking a ride to the nearest station house in the back of the DEA vehicle. The officer who pulled me over had not been the officer who processed me into custody. The officer of record was DEA. The official story was that I had been run in for being “non-cooperative and behaving suspiciously” in an ongoing Federal investigation. Anyone looking at the paperwork would assume that I was being held until they could get a warrant to search my vehicle. I was on record, my cover identity that is, as having been held until confirmation of identity. The release paperwork would show no charges filed other than maybe a minor traffic offense.
We had decided that the arrest was something that we should just go with and try to use to our advantage. I already had a thought or two about that.
The way it had all gone down would allow me to spin a yarn about it. Actually, I was already planning on doing more than telling a tale. They had pissed me off. Payback is a stone cold bitch and she is also an old and dear friend of mine. I signed for my personal items and we walked out of the main entrance of the precinct station. I put my watch on, my wallet in my back pocket and keys into my right front pocket as we walked. Nothing was said between us except normal sounding things that might pass between lawyer and client in public. We saved the important conversation for the open air outside the building. Basic tradecraft means that you always assume that someone is watching or listening. Some tradecraft habits are good ones and can keep you alive. Even with no real reason you maintain the tradecraft. Tradecraft is like tying your shoes. You have to do it almost on automatic pilot so that you never forget to do it.
“John,” I said just after we had exited the building, “find out about a young man who was in the cell with me. He was medium height, thin but solidly built, wearing jeans and a red Hawaiian shirt. There is something about him I like. He heard me promise violence to and stare down a biker. Then he asked me a very good question and was not a total basket case about the entire situation... Anyone who can ask an intelligent question of a man in a holding cell who just threatened bodily harm to a biker has potential.” Funny, after just a few years I was taking the long view of the agency. You have to keep finding good people to fill new slots and vacancies. Most everyone in the agency had been a personal referral by an agency employee or former employee.
“Not a problem. Our friend the stupid cop is in Federal custody and headed for the other side of the state. They will probably move him some where far away. Do you have a plan in mind to take advantage of this event?”