A Sense of Justice

by Jack Davis

  “What did I tell you about making promises of payouts without getting approval first?”

  “I know, but we figured if this was as high a priority as you’re telling us, we can get HQ to front the money. That amount of cash is nothing to the people I sent it to; it’s more the challenge. The money is just a small thank you and it helps pay for their supply of 5-hour Energy for a month.”

  “Keep going,” said Morley.

  “Now I’m just waiting for responses. I’m sure someone will be able to crack it, and I hope they’ll be able to identify the author. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two.” With that Swann paused and looked at his colleagues before continuing.

  “Boss, with this new twist in the case, to our collective minds, we think that you might want to consider either reassigning it or maybe breaking it up into different cases.”

  Emphasizing the point, Greere said, “With everything this case has morphed into, no one would consider it a knock against Brian or Lionel to separate this out. The case against Anthony would remain theirs and this one could be assigned to someone else.”

  “We were thinking it’s best for the case and probably in the long run for Brian and Lionel,” added Posada “To take some of the load off them.”

  There was a pause before Morley spoke, “I’m sorry, I’m still trying to get past ‘to our collective minds.’ I hope you guys play racquetball or pool, because you play angles better than anyone I know. Kay, how did they rope you into their little script?”

  Pencala spoke for the first time. “They have a point; if this guy’s half as good as we think he is, the brain-trussed won’t stand a chance. What’s more important, their feelings or catchin’ this guy?”

  Morley’s response was quick this time, “It has nothing to do with hurting anyone’s feelings. It has everything to do with us working as a team and supporting each other. We as a squad or an agency will never be good enough individually. From the day you came on the job teamwork was stressed. Our ability to work as a team and to partner with other state and local LE is what makes us as good as we are. I’m not gonna flush that down the toilet because you guys find this criminal intriguing. That is like assigning all the tough advances to certain guys and all the easy ones to others. They get doled out equitably, and then the supervisors make sure the people they assign are capable and have the support they need to be successful. We don’t cherry-pick cases.”

  Swann cut in, “Okay, okay, save the rest of the Braveheart speech; we get it.”

  “But to show you that I’m not worried about hurting someone’s feelings over the best interest of the case, you are all going to Nassau, in the Bahamas, to advise and support Brian and Lionel. They are the case agents. They’re in charge. So, for the good of the case, can you put aside your personal feelings? If you can’t I’m pretty sure that there are plenty of others in the squad who would like to spend the next week in the Caribbean.”

  Swann answered for the group. “Advise and support, got it.” He looked up. “We thought the new information was important enough to brief you quickly; that way you can keep Washington happy.”

  Morley nodded. “We’re all set with the locals on the island. The police are on board; we worked it out through the Miami Office. They hooked us up with a detective you can trust.” He got up from his desk, which started the others for the door. “Did it dawn on any of you that I’ve never had all of you assigned to any one case at the same time?”

  There was no time to answer before he followed up, “There’s a reason I’m sending all of you down there, and it has nothing to do with how pasty white Doc looks. This is important. Get it done!”

  As the three walked down the hall, Morley heard Pencala say to Swann, “‘To our collective minds’? What was that?”

  The others laughed.

  Part Eight

  35 | Operation Sunburn

  Nassau, Bahamas, 09/29-30/09

  If Morley had hoped that a resort atmosphere and warm tropical breezes might bring the warring agents together, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

  The tension started on the flight to the island. Greere knew a few pilots from United and after a phone call was able to get upgrades to business class, but only four. That left Murray and Kruzerski, who were uncomfortable enough due to their size, in coach, with the prisoner between them. Greere offered to switch, but they both refused.

  Upon arrival in Nassau, the team went to the embassy/consulate and met the local FBI Legat.” Having been pre-briefed on the case, the meeting should have been a formality, but Kruzerski and Murray, never having gone through the process before, dragged it out for ninety minutes. While all the group leaders disliked what they considered a waste of time, it put Swann and Posada into a slow burn.

  Next, the agents went to the Bahamian National Constabulary and met Chief Constable Reginald Freeman. Again, what might have been concluded in thirty minutes became an extended affair. By the end, even Greere, the most laidback of the four, had lost patience with the proceedings.

  In the van on the way back to the hotel, Kruzerski pulled the mental Jenga block that caused the whole emotional pile to topple to the ground.

  “Check in, drop your bags, and meet in my room in five minutes.”

  Swann had had enough, but initially kept his cool. “We’re gonna get some dinner, then we can meet.”

  Murray, never tolerant of someone trying to take control from his friend, turned on Swann. “Brian and I are the case agents. We’ll have a meeting in his room after we check in.”

  Swann, in a foul mood and now sporting a headache, was not about to back down. “If you can give me one good reason why we have to have the meeting before we eat, I’ll go; if not, I’m gonna eat first.”

  Murray’s response was curt. “You’re not in charge. You don’t have a say in the matter. Check-in, drop your bags, and report to Brian’s room.”

  Pencala was the only person who could diffuse the situation. “Brian, I haven’t had anything to eat in six hours and I have a headache. Could we can get something to eat, maybe a drink, then look at this thing from a more relaxed point of view?”

  The logic of the recommendation and the individual who proposed it did the trick. Cooler heads met later that evening, after eating separately, to discuss the next day’s events. For all intents and purposes, it seemed like everyone was back on the same wavelength.

  Unfortunately, the following day, Monday, the situation deteriorated again. On the drive to police headquarters, Swann provided recommendations to the previous night’s plan. These immediately annoyed Kruzerski and Murray. The balance of the day was only made tolerable because the group was split up, completing different tasks. By the time they were back at the hotel that evening, the sixty-minute briefing ended with neither side acknowledging they would be going out for dinner. This was unheard of for agents on assignment in a foreign country. Forty minutes later, Greere and Swann sat at one table waiting for Pencala and Posada, while Kruzerski and Murray sat not thirty feet away. The polarization was complete and mutual.

  Dylan Bradford’s Bachelor Party (09/29/09 1845 hours)

  Dylan Bradford, the only son of “Bitsy” and Robert, had flown twenty-seven of his closest friends to the Bahamas to celebrate…sort of. Dylan was scheduled to be married to Mary Sue Singleton the following month, and when his best man and Ivy League frat brother suggested that they have a “bachelor party to end all bachelor parties,” the planning began. Bradford, who hadn’t had enough time to squander his late grandfather’s fortune, agreed to pick up the tab. The three decided upon a location close enough for most of their friends, but far enough away from wives and girlfriends to avoid having to worry. The Bahamas was perfect.

  Most of the first day was spent at the poolside bar drinking and on the beach chasing women. “This is your last chance to do it without getting into a lot of trouble,” Bradford was told. He attempted to engage various women in conversation but was singularly unsuccessful.

 
Now it was happy hour and Bradford had just thrown back his second martini. Still thirsty, he weaved his way unsteadily to the bar. He ordered two more of the tasty tropical martinis, and two beers to slack his thirst.

  With every ounce of concentration focused on the tray of drinks in his hands, Bradford pinballed his way between the tables and chairs in the general direction of his friends. A roar of laughter caused him to look up. He staggered, then tripped, spilling the tray and drinks onto a middle-aged man with sandy brown hair, a goatee, and now-angry brown eyes. Bradford initially continued to stare at his friends’ table some twenty yards away to try and see what was so funny, until he realized he’d have to get more drinks. “Shit!”

  It was only when the man who he had completely doused got in his face that Bradford acknowledged something had happened.

  Compounding his alcoholic assault, Bradford tried to set the tray down, and missed. In the process he knocked over the two drinks on the table, spilling them on a larger black man, who jumped up and stood behind the first victim.

  “Whoa, sorry dudes, I totally drenched you.” said Bradford, a silly grin crossing his face. He awkwardly tried to use his hands to brush off the shirt of the angry man closest to him. “Man, you’re really soaked.”

  Then Dylan Bradford made the mistake of doing what he had done his whole life when he had done something wrong—instead of trying a sincere apology, which would have worked in this case, he tried to make light of it. “Lucky it’s so hot down here, it’ll dry off quick.” Laughing at his own joke, he looked over the soggy man’s shoulder to see if anyone else was laughing. He couldn’t understand why everyone wasn’t having as good a time. He was also feeling the bravery of alcohol, ignorance, and so many friends within whistling distance.

  “Fuckin’ idiot!” shouted the soggy man, pinning him against the bar.

  Bradford was confused. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he slurred.

  “C’mon, Doc, he’s not worth it,” said the larger man.

  Bradford felt his attacker’s grip release and he was shoved backwards. He also felt the eyes of all his peers. He couldn’t back down now that his brothers had seen what was happening.

  As his arms involuntarily went onto the bar to steady himself, his right hand touched a mug. He instinctively grabbed it, lurched forward, and swung at the head of man who had turned away.

  “Keith! Duck!” a female voice from across the bar yelled.

  Bradford’s target shrugged, causing the mug to glance off his right shoulder. That was the last thing Bradford saw before a large fist struck him square in the face.

  As Bradford slumped to the tile floor, four tables of half-drunk Lambda Phis staggered to their friend’s assistance.

  “Ron, we have a problem,” said Swann, as his friend shook his now sore fist.

  Posada and Pencala, who had just been relieved of watching Miguel, were headed toward the bar just in time to see the assault on Swann. The two ran at an intersecting angle to the crowd of angry men rushing toward their colleagues.

  Kruzerski and Murray, finishing their salads, saw the initial drink spills. Like Dylan, they thought it was funny until they saw Swann brace the offender. Their eyes immediately shot to the tables of drunken revelers. They moved in the direction of the crowd. As they caught up in the choke of the tables, Murray grabbed a twenty-something from behind. “You stay outta this.” The drunk made a significant error by not looking to see who had said it before he whirled. With a hearty “Fuck you!” he turned and swung at what would have been the head of someone his size.

  Murray didn’t even try to avoid letting the blow hit his shoulder. The attacker might as well have hit one of the nearby coconut trees. His wrist buckled and he was driven to his knees by a short right cross to the chin. Dental work would be required.

  Kruzerski’s first victim came shortly after Murray’s encounter and didn’t get a chance to decide whether he wanted to actually fight or not. He was lifted off his feet and slammed onto one of the tables. Gasping for air, the battle was over before he became coherent again.

  On the flank of the assault, Posada and Pencala waded into the throng. Posada came upon one the largest of the group and moved to restrain the man when the former football player tackled him. The two rolled backwards over one of the flimsy tables.

  Pencala spun the closest intoxicant around by the shoulder; his surprise at seeing an attractive woman where he expected a man gave her a chance to say, “Get back.”

  The stunned man lunged at the athletic young woman not three feet in front of him, only to end up grabbing air. He caught a shoe to the shin for his efforts. As he bent over in pain, Pencala’s well-muscled leg drove her knee into his ribs, cracking two.

  The fight was over in minutes. By the time the constabulary arrived, the frat brothers who could move were on their knees facing the bar, hands clasped above their heads. Nassau General Hospital had its busiest night since Hurricane Betsy in 1965. Eighteen people were treated for injuries ranging from a compound fracture to cuts requiring stitches. Greere and Swann, who had been overwhelmed in the initial onrush, were the only agents requiring medical attention.

  Morley, notified of the incident while his agents were still in the hospital, was ordered by an enraged Brown “to get the fuck down there and take control of those…that rabble.” He was scheduled to take the next available flight; it arrived the following morning.

  “The Thrilla in the Villa,” so named by Greere after the Island Villa Resort Hotel, did more than cut short Dylan Bradford’s bachelor party and put Morley on a 0700 hours flight. It brought the two warring sets of agents together as nothing else could have. For the first time, the group had worked together as a team for a common purpose. It laid the groundwork for the future cooperation in the case, and ultimately friendships that would outlast their careers.

  36 | Alvaro’s Arrest and Interrogation

  Nassau, Bahamas, 10/01/09

  The next day, the cooperation continued. Kruzerski and Murray accepted the technical recommendations from the other four, who all came to appreciate how much better the former Marines were at setting up the physical portion of the operation. The Bahamians also took their cue from the two husky agents.

  The meet was set for 0900 hours at a local fresh produce market, two blocks from the main tourist area. Both the location and time, an hour before the market opened, were chosen by the constabulary to minimize the number of people present when the arrest took place. It had good fields of view from a number of vantage points, allowing for easy surveillance. And there were limited numbers of access/egress points.

  During the local police briefing—after the introductions had been made—Kruzerski and Murray pulled out a hand-sketched map, and to the surprise of the local officers, started making assignments. Having only done domestic police briefing, where they were always in charge, it had never occurred to either of the Marines that they should defer to the chief constable.

  They thoroughly went over every aspect of the plan, other than the fact that Miguel was a cooperating defendant. This they left out at the recommendation of the chief constable, who reluctantly admitted in private that the fewer people on his force who knew, the smaller the chance the cover would be blown. Miguel had been kept at the hotel and only three other officers knew the secret.

  After reaching the part where the running password was assigned—Montana—Kruzerski stated, “We’ll let our target return to his hotel room before executing the arrest, that way we can also conduct a search of the room incident to the arrest.”

  At that, one of two plainclothes detectives idling against the back wall let out a hearty laugh. As the room turned to look, the tall officer with a pencil-thin mustache explained, “You’re in the Bahamas, mon. You don’t need a fucking warrant; we’re your search warrant.”

  Detective Second Grade Kingston “King” Prince had never liked his boss, Chief Constable Freeman. The two had come on the force together but Freeman had moved up more
quickly. It didn’t matter to King that it was due to Freeman’s hard work and intelligence; it still bothered him. Anything his rival did, the detective critiqued with a jealous eye. For King, the loss of control of the briefing wasn’t just another in the long line of missteps by Freeman, it was the culmination.

  King felt embarrassed for his department and himself, but more than that, he was angry. How could Freeman let these agents come in from the US and order them around, in their country? This is bullshit. He would not be bossed around by the arrogant Americans with their nice clothes and short haircuts. How did they ever do undercover looking like that? He had done hundreds of undercover buys; he didn’t need anyone to tell him where to stand or what to do, especially in his own fucking country.

  Walking from the briefing King decided he would show the rude guests how things worked in the islands, his islands. He planned to have some fun at the Americans’ expense to see how they reacted.

  After the briefing, back at the hotel, Miguel was wired up. He was given a Yankees ball cap and told to take it off and wipe his forehead when he had completed the transaction with his brother-in-law. At that sign, the agents would converge on the two.

  To mask the fact Miguel was cooperating, the plan was for him to run as soon as the agents announced themselves. Swann and Greere would give chase. They would meet him at a fish taco shop four blocks away. The hope was to get Alvaro talking without having to implicate Miguel. None of the agents believed Alvaro wouldn’t know who had handed him up. The fake arrest of Miguel was a gesture on their part to give their informant some deniability. They hoped it would allow him to be more relaxed during the encounter with his brother-in-law.

  All the precautions that could have been taken to make the meeting a success had been put in place. Technically everything was ready and had been double-checked. To the agents, the human factor was what they had to worry about now. Would Miguel be able to pull it off? Would Alvaro make the sting ahead of time and avoid the trap? Everyone knew that it was seldom the technology that failed at this juncture; it was the humans. They couldn’t have been more right.