Brown Sugar in Minnesota (Cooper Smith Book 1)

by Joe Field

I turned right onto Wabasha Street, then took a left at West Exchange Street. I passed in front of the historic Fitzgerald Theater, MPR’s largest broadcast studio, named after Minnesota native F. Scott Fitzgerald. One more block, and I turned right onto Cedar Street. And there it was – the MPR headquarters in all its glory. Our flagship office had two main parts – an old brick structure on the south side connected to the modern, shiny glass-windowed north side. The north side was home to what we called the UBS Forum, a large broadcast auditorium used to host community discussion, public debates, and live program recordings.

  Bringing it all together was the LED-lit scrolling headline ticker that ran across the length of the old building until it attached to the entrance door on the new building. The ticker was similar to the ones seen in Times Square in New York. It was part of my morning tradition to look at the first headline on the ticker. It turned something on in my brain, and after reading it I was ready to go for the day.

  Monday, July 7, 2014 – Washington State Prepares to Allow Sales of Recreational Marijuana Beginning Today...

  Slow news day, I thought, making my way through the lobby and up the stairs to the third floor, home to the MPR newsroom. It was one giant cubicle farm spread out across an open room. With the downsizing the newspaper industry had faced in the past few years, MPR now had one of the largest newsrooms in the Midwest. The desks had low wall partitions so you could see and yell across the room to your fellow reporter or producer. We called it the gopher pit, because people would occasionally pop their heads up and call out a breaking news story. Of course, the veterans had offices lined along the walls, which gave us worker bees something to strive for. But all the bosses were yes-men now. The real magic happened in the bullpen.

  I worked in the general assignment reporting section, but longed to work with the secretive and selective investigative reporting team. They sat in a different section on the other side of the third floor. The team was comprised of one senior editor and four investigative reporters. They were known to book one of our conference rooms for months at a time, covering the windows with paper so no one could see what they were working on.

  The investigative team’s most recent project focused on the Catholic Church in Minnesota and was produced after months of groundwork. The series highlighted the scandals facing the Church, including corruption and the molestation of minors. As a former altar boy, I had never talked with anyone about how uncomfortable I felt when the priest rubbed my back when talking to me or touched my knee if I sat down next to him, because I thought anyone I told would say I was overreacting. He was like God to us.

  I shared a cubicle with Lisa Larson, my self-proclaimed archrival. She also worked on general assignments, but she had been called upon to help the investigative team on the Catholic Church project. She must have made an impression, because I had heard rumors she was being considered for a permanent spot on the team. Since openings on the investigative team were hard to come by, I needed to make my mark soon if I wanted to pursue that position myself. I knew I would be competing with Lisa not only for the investigative team, but also for longevity with the organization.

  She was from Green Bay, which was the first major strike against her. My lifelong support of the Vikings prevented me from being too fond of anyone from Packers’ territory. We had started just weeks apart in 2013, and fought tooth-and-nail to win stories from each other. We were collegial to a certain extent, but when it came to a good story, we pulled no punches.

  The newsroom was quiet at this early hour, and I was surprised to see Lisa was already at her desk checking email. She was in her mid-twenties, tall and thin with wavy brown hair. She dressed fashionably, wearing the latest boutique store collections with her signature blazing red glasses. The frames were so bright they could burn a hole through your eyes if you looked at them for too long.

  I sat down at my desk next to her and said, “How was your Fourth of July weekend, Lisa?”

  “Just like any other long holiday weekend,” she replied, not looking my way.

  She was starting to prove my theory that the only two good things that come out of Wisconsin were Leinenkugel beer and cheddar cheese.

  “Do anything fun?” I asked.

  “I went home and saw my family.”

  I waited a second to see if she would expound, but she was still focused on her email.

  “Working on any new stories?”

  “I have some things in the works,” Lisa said, still not looking up. “You?”

  I thought about how to answer. As much as I longed to share some details from my story, I decided to hold my tongue until I met with Bill.

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  ***

  Bill arrived later than normal at 9:37 am. I had already been at work for two hours and my patience was running thin. I decided to gamble and approach him on his way into his office. I knew once he was logged in he would be catching up on emails and reading through headlines. I casually caught up with him while he was a few feet from his office.

  Bill was in his mid-forties, tall with a pudgy frame caused by years of sedentary lifestyle choices. He was bald with an eternal five o’clock shadow. He had intense eyes and his nose bent to one side. He wore his usual tight sweater vest, which highlighted his beer belly. He didn’t care.

  “Good morning, Bill. I hope you had a nice weekend.”

  “Is that right, Cooper? Why is this morning a particularly good morning?”

  “Well, that’s what I was hoping to talk to you about. I think I’m on the cusp of breaking a major story for us.”

  “What makes you think that?” Bill set his bag down and turned on his computer.

  “Because two federal agents from the DEA came to my house last night and told me I couldn’t report on it yet.”

  That got Bill’s attention. He looked up at me with curiosity in his eyes. I proceeded to tell him everything I knew about Brown Sugar, Ricky, and Smokey and his guys. I talked about the drug problem on the reservations in northern Minnesota. When I finished, Bill stopped to take a few notes.

  He’s interested, but tell him everything first. It’s the only way.

  “This is a good morning indeed, Cooper. Although I’m sorry to hear that your friend died.” Bill paused. “Anyway, I don’t care what those agents told you last night; we have the constitution supporting our right to run our story as soon as we deem it ready. So what’s your plan – how are you going to stay ahead of this?”

  “Well, there’s a slight problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “When I was passing my business card to the agents last night, a packet of Brown Sugar I acquired from Ricky slipped out of my pocket. They spotted it and in not so many words said they wouldn’t cause any legal problems for me if I played ball with them. Meaning I had to wait until they took the drug ring down before we could run the story.”

  Here it comes, get ready. I looked down and held my breath.

  Bill balled his right fist and pounded it into the table. I could feel everyone’s eyes in the newsroom on the back of my head as they turned to see one of Wild Bill’s infamous freak-outs.

  “You have got to be kidding me! In what world did you think it was okay to take drugs, heroin no less, and be stupid enough to drop it in front of two DEA agents? Were you even thinking? Perhaps you thought you were still up north working for your local college radio. I bet you did drugs in the studio all the time up there!”

  Local college radio comment, that was a low blow Wild Bill.

  There wasn’t much I could say or even respond to. Once Bill was on a roll, it was best to look down like a defeated puppy being scolded. Bill’s face was red. Then he said something right out of my worst of nightmares.

  “Maybe I should put Larson on it. I know she at least has the sensibility to refrain from buying drugs, and she’s from Wisconsin for crying out loud. Do you know the types of things those people are into over there?”

  “Bill, if I may�
�”

  “They tip cows over at night like it’s some sort of game.”

  Bill started to pace. “Listen, Cooper. I’ll give you one chance to stay on this story, but you better think of something good, and you better think of it soon.”

  I had spent all night tossing in my bed thinking about how to respond to this very scenario. I knew Bill liked to put pressure on, and I was ready for it.

  “I think I can get a source inside the reservation through a connection I have in Bemidji. I can try to work the network from the bottom up while the DEA works it from the top down. If I share what I find with the DEA, I think they’ll play ball on their end.”

  “Who is your connection?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that – for his protection.”

  I planned to call Jesse, given his work in Bemidji near the reservation. I hoped Jesse could help me find a source – someone he had leverage on who could report on the drug network on the reservation.

  “Coop, what’s your goal here?”

  “My goal with this story would be to highlight the drug epidemic in the state, and help authorities bring down Smokey and his network.”

  Bill steepled his fingers. “I’m not talking just about this story – what is your goal here at MPR?”

  “I’d love to join the investigative team one day, and work on longer-term, high impact projects.”

  “It’s good to have ambitions, and the investigative team is a nice goal to strive for.” He glanced over my shoulder at the door, then lowered his voice. “I probably don’t need to remind you of our ‘Last-In-First-Out’ policy. I’m not saying we will have job cuts for sure, but if we do, they’ll be looking at the few of you who were most recently hired. You would be included in the ‘Last-in’ part of the equation, so I’m sure you can understand what the rest would mean for you. Now, you need to approach this story with everything you have. Use the death of your friend as a motivation to get back at these thugs. Remember that shining a light on this issue will help prevent others from making the same mistakes your friend did. I need your full effort here.”

  “I’ll chase this story with everything I have.” I stood. “Speaking of Ricky, can I take Wednesday off to go up to his funeral? I’ll start on the story full bore when I return.”

  Bill eyed me up and down. “Okay, Cooper. Run with your story after your friend’s funeral – I’ll get you a budget and resources. But keep me posted, and don’t let it get away from you. I don’t want to follow any other news outlets on this one. And, remember, the story will need breadth and depth. Anyone can identify a bunch of drug dealers and addicts, but I need you to go out and tell their stories. There are a dozen or more rehab centers in the Twin Cities area. Go interview some of the addicts affected by heroin. Also, try to get me an interview if you can secure a source up on the reservation. We can mask his voice for protection, but it would add significantly to the story. It would also show me you are ready for the big leagues.”

  “Thanks, Bill. I’m going to be so far ahead on this story we will have everyone chasing us, including the Star Tribune, Pioneer Press, Kare11, Fox9, and maybe even some national media outlets.”

  I knew that would satisfy Bill – he still held a grudge against the Star Tribune for firing him when the newspaper industry went belly up.

  “Let’s hope that is the case, young man. I love it when all those competitors are mouth breathing outside on Cedar Street watching our headline ticker float by.” Bill gazed out his window to the street below. “You can’t beat that. It’s what gets me up in the morning.”

  I thought his ulcer-inducing tantrums got him up in the morning – but I would have to make a mental note of this Wild Bill tidbit.

  “Just don’t screw it up.” He turned back around to face me. “Or I’ll send you back up north to whatever Podunk town you called home. You’ll be covering local high school sports for the rest of your career.”

  I began to back out of his office. As I left, Bill got in one last jab.

  “And you won’t even be covering varsity football – you’ll be on the JV volleyball circuit. Think about that, Cooper. Think about that.”

  I thought about it, all right. I thought about it a lot. Time to get my story.

  Chapter 7

  Wisconsin Dells, WI

  Smokey and Captain agreed to have their men meet in the Wisconsin Dells, roughly halfway between Minneapolis and Chicago, for the exchange. All the tourist attractions provided plenty of cover for the men to hide in the noise.

  Smokey sent Jimmy, his most trusted man. This was Smokey’s biggest purchase yet, and he did not want it getting screwed up. Jimmy chewed on a toothpick as he headed southeast down I-90. After three hours of driving he found his exit, number 87. He gnawed his toothpick so hard that it snapped – the third one in the past thirty minutes. He knew there was a lot riding on this, and he was a little nervous. He turned off the interstate and headed east on Highway 13, following the road until he saw a gigantic sign featuring Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.

  Paul Bunyan’s Cook Shanty offered all-you-could-eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner starting at 7 am and running until 8 pm closing time. Jimmy watched the final ray of sun fall past the horizon and looked at his Cadillac’s clock – 8:39 pm. The meeting was scheduled for 9, and Jimmy wanted to be a few minutes early so he could scope out the area.

  As he pulled into the parking lot, Jimmy noticed the restaurant was pitch black, with no cars parked in front. He headed around back to the far corner of the overflow parking lot, which was invisible from the main road and also empty. It was the perfect cover for a clandestine exchange. Jimmy parked his vehicle, killed the engine and lights. He grabbed a fresh toothpick, and waited.

  ***

  The parking lot was surrounded on three sides with thick trees, which provided Agents Sosa and Lindberg with excellent cover. They waited in their unmarked Ford Crown Victoria in the woods directly north of the overflow parking lot. They had a decent view of the parking lot on the side of the tree line so they could shoot pictures of the exchange. Sosa also had agents positioned in the trees on the other two sides of the parking lot. They were on standby waiting for Sosa’s signal.

  Sosa had been monitoring Smokey’s email address following approval from the surveillance courts. Captain was known to email meeting details to his dealers at the last moment in case one of them was working with the authorities. The short window of time would make it difficult for law enforcement to stage an ambush. Today was no exception. Sosa had intercepted an email message between Smokey and Captain that afternoon with the specifics. He and Lindberg high-tailed it from the Minneapolis field office down to the Dells to set up before the exchange. They arrived at 7:58 pm as the restaurant was closing down for the night. It was now 8:41, they saw a vehicle’s lights come into the parking lot from the main road. When the vehicle turned into the back overflow parking, Sosa could see it was a black Cadillac CTS with Minnesota plates.

  At 9:01 pm, a brand new silver Mercedes S-Class Sedan with Illinois license plates arrived and crept toward the Cadillac. Lindberg was busy clicking away with his Canon DSLR camera with a night vision adapter connected to a long-range telephoto lens. It was top-of-the-line equipment that would capture nighttime exchanges with enough clarity to be used as evidence in court.

  “Are you getting this, Lindberg?” asked Sosa.

  “Yes, I’ve got both vehicles and plates. There’s Mr. Toothpick, and now Mr. Mute,” said Lindberg, using the code names for Jimmy and the Latino.

  “Keep clicking and get ready for the exchange.”

  ***

  The Mercedes parked next to Jimmy’s Cadillac, and both men got out of their vehicles. Jimmy chewed his shredded toothpick, while the Latino threw out a recently finished cigarette. Smokey had told Jimmy the Latino never spoke a word, so it was better to just get down to business.

  Jimmy grabbed his small duffel bag and handed $150,000 cash in $10,000 stacks over to the Latino. The L
atino looked it over and did a quick count. Once he was satisfied, he went around to his trunk and popped it open. On the side of the trunk was a secret compartment. The Latino grabbed three bags, each containing one kilo of heroin. He handed them over to Jimmy, who quickly put them in his duffel. Jimmy nodded to the Latino, and they both headed back to their cars. The Latino jumped in his Mercedes and pulled out of the parking lot.

  Jimmy was told to wait a few minutes to make sure the Latino was clear before he departed. He took the time to start on a new toothpick and inspect the product in his bag, just to be sure.

  ***

  Sosa knew the window between the exchange and the time Jimmy would depart was small. The message he intercepted said that Jimmy was to wait a few minutes before departing to ensure Captain’s man was gone.

  “All agents on standby,” said Sosa over the radio as soon as Mute left the area. “Once Mute is out on the main road past the tree line, we make our move.”

  “We’re clear,” said an agent on surveillance at the Burger King just west of their position.

  “Move, now!” called Sosa on the radio.

  All four agents on either side of the woods descended on Toothpick on foot while Sosa drove his sedan up behind Toothpick’s Cadillac. As the agents reached Toothpick’s vehicle, they could see he was looking down into his lap.

  ***

  Jimmy finished looking over the last bag of product. Everything was there. The boss was going to be happy for sure.

  All of a sudden, he saw movement in the shadows out of the corner of his eye. Before he could reach for his gun, four men dressed in black surrounded him, assault rifles at the ready. What the hell? Jimmy nearly choked on his toothpick as he slapped his hands up on the dash. He wasn’t prepared to die tonight.

  A police cruiser directly behind his car blocked his escape. A brawny Hispanic man walked briskly up to Jimmy, instructing him to get out of the car slowly. This cannot be happening. Jimmy obliged and was immediately taken down to the pavement. His face was shoved into the gravel as a knee drove into his upper back. They handcuffed him.