by Joe Field
After dinner, I got back into Wellstone and followed Pete out to his cabin. There was still plenty of sunlight left in the day, and Pete promised me some fishing before the sun dropped beyond the western horizon. He had a cozy log cabin on three acres nestled up to Shagawa Lake, directly across from the Grand Lodge, a resort on the edge of Ely.
I parked Wellstone, and Brittany walked up to us with little Jack in her arms. She still looked like the stellar athlete I’d always known her to be. She grew up just down the street from me, and we shot hoops together as kids. She was the only black girl in our high school, which couldn’t have been easy for her. She threw herself into basketball her freshmen year, and she never looked back. By the end of our senior year, she had led the Duluth East Greyhounds basketball team to a state title.
She went on to play for the UMD Bulldogs on a full ride. It gave me four more years to cheer for her as she dominated the hardwood. After college, she moved up to Ely to coach the women’s basketball team at Vermillion Community College. When Pete told me he wanted to move to Ely after the Navy, I made sure to connect them. That high school reunion had quickly turned into marriage and a family. I couldn’t be happier for them.
“Coach Olson! It’s great to see you again. Jack is a handsome little devil.”
“Thanks, Coop.” Brittany handed Jack to me. “When are you and Soojin going to make one of these?”
He was heavier than I expected. “One step at a time. First comes the marriage, then the honeymoon, then we will talk about kids. How is your team looking for the upcoming season?”
“We have three returning starters who are all excellent players. We hope to do well this year, and build off of last year’s successful season.”
“That’s great. Do you ever miss playing?”
“Sure, everyone does. I still am young enough to run around with these women. But, my passion is coaching. And, now I have other priorities.” Brittany took Jack back from me when he started to fuss. “I can’t blow out a knee and expect to carry this guy around.”
“Tell me about it, he’s heavy.”
“Come on,” said Pete. “Let’s try to catch some fish before the sun sets on us.”
We headed straight out to Pete’s dock with a couple of fishing poles. We planned to take the boat out but decided we would cast off the dock instead. I hadn’t fished in a while, so it took me a few casts to get my rhythm back.
“Coop,” Pete said as he sent his line sailing out to the water, “did you bring any weapons with you for the trip?”
I paused and laughed a bit before saying, “You’ll make fun of me.”
“What, did you bring a pocket knife or a paintball gun or something?”
“I know you’re a Republican, and I also know you are a well-trained killing machine. You are an expert marksman and I have no problem with you owning any type of firearm or weapon out on the market. I, on the other hand, am a card-carrying Democrat for the MN-DFL. I don’t own a single firearm. Plus, I just don’t see the point in having one down in the Twin Cities.”
Pete shook his head. “You’re crazy. If I lived down there I would have way more fire-power than what I have out here in the sticks. But I get it, gun control and all that for you card-carrying hippie.”
We both laughed.
“Seriously, though, what equipment did you bring?”
“Well, I really only have my axe; it’s like a tomahawk-type thing,” I said.
Pete busted out in laughter that echoed across the lake. “Where did you ever buy a tomahawk from?”
“Soojin picked it up for me from the Sanborn Canoe Company down in Winona. It’s called the Hudson Bay Camp Axe, and it’s got a sweet Indian feather design on it,” I said, chuckling.
“Coop, have you stopped to think about this for a second? You are meeting with an Indian drug dealer, close to two reservations, and you are bringing a tomahawk for protection. The very weapon the Chippewa tribe mastered centuries before you were born…”
“Okay, I get your point, but it’s all I have. It’s not like I was planning on using it.” My line jerked. “Got one. Looks like a nice little walleye.”
“Saved by the fish, let me get the net.” Pete leaned over to get a better look at my catch. “Looks like it’s just a little guy like you.” Pete laughed. “Toss it back.”
After I got the hook out, I tossed the fish back in the water and looked over at Pete.
“What about you? What kind of weapons do you plan to bring?”
“I want to be ready for anything, but I think my hunting rifle and sidearm should do the trick – with a ton of ammo on hand, of course. I’ll also have some other tactical gear on standby.”
“Great, thanks for having my back on this. I don’t expect anything to happen, but I’m glad you’ll be around.”
Pete started to chuckle again.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
His laughter grew louder.
“Come on, Pete, what’s so funny?”
“This is supposed to be your bachelor party, right? I’m just picturing you pulling your little tomahawk out of your bag and swinging it away at some Indian like you know how to use it!” Pete made a mock swinging motion with his fishing rod.
“All right, all right, laugh it up. Any man can kill with a gun, but a real man kills with an axe,” I said, smiling.
“Okay, Crazy Horse, you get that tomahawk blade nice and sharp as a last-resort weapon. But, let’s hope no one gets killed so you can get your interview and become the next Garrison Keillor!”
It was my turn to swing my fishing rod like a battle-axe, and we both laughed long and loud all the way into the night. I fell into a deep sleep the moment my head hit the pillow. Little did I know it would be my last good night’s rest for quite some time.
Chapter 13
Bagley, MN
It was my second four-hour car ride of the weekend. We drove from Pete’s house in Ely to the Farm by the Lake in Bagley. This time I left Wellstone in Ely and rode along with Pete in his blue Chevy pickup truck. We stopped once in Bemidji at the Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox statue, partly to stretch our legs, but mainly to rub Bunyan’s big black boots for good luck.
We rolled into Bagley in the afternoon. The green population sign read 1,392. The meeting with Roy Cloud was scheduled for 9 pm that night, so we had a few hours to kill.
The Farm by the Lake was a non-profit retreat on Lake Lomond. A Bagley native who wanted to provide a space to help people get away from the daily grind gifted it to the community in 1983. The farm was set on a large plot of land, mostly wooded, with a few well-mowed areas to play sports and lawn games.
As we drove down the Farm’s gravel driveway, Pete started nodding his head and saying things like, “Good terrain,” “great cover,” and “nice choke point.” His military training was clearly kicking in, and I was glad he could see all the angles, because I certainly could not.
We pulled up to an old bunkhouse. This was where we would be staying and conducting the interview. The caretakers were gone for the weekend, but they had left the key on a hook with a welcome note on the front door.
The bunkhouse had a warm feel to it. It had an open area living room with two lofts overhead. There were a couple of bedrooms off to the left side. In the middle was a fireplace next to a stand-up piano, with old furniture spaced out awkwardly in the room. Above the piano was a photo of an outdoorsy man in a tan hat and bright red shirt and coat, a kind smile on his face. He stood in front of a lake with two geese swimming behind him. A peaceful picture from a different time. A metal ladder led up to the loft on the left, whereas the loft on the right had regular stairs situated next to a small kitchen and dining table. It was perfect for an interview.
Pete told me he was going to go secure the perimeter, whatever that entailed. I decided to walk down to the lake. The Farm had an old wooden dock that stretched from a patch of grass to Lake Lomond. I watched the waves roll in as the wind whipped against my face. I co
uld see a few people out fishing, and one boat pulling inner tubes with screaming kids in them. They had no clue that my guest at the Farm would be a drug dealer, and I wanted to keep it that way.
After a few minutes, Pete called out to me. He needed help setting up some traps as a safety measure. We tied a rope to a large, fallen tree and propped it up against a huge branch next to the driveway. With one pull, the tree could cover the road and impede a vehicle’s progress.
Pete found a couple of portable five-gallon tanks full of gasoline in the shed. I started to keep track in my notebook of all the extra expenses we would have to pay the caretakers for. He made several improvised Molotov cocktails with empty beer glass bottles and old rags. He positioned them around the yard and woods in what I could only assume were strategic locations. I was amazed as I watched Pete think and work. He was a machine. I would hate to be on the receiving end of an operation conducted by the Navy SEALs.
After a long afternoon of work, I watched the sun sinking toward the horizon. Cloud was expected to arrive at any moment. Pete checked his rifle and handgun one more time and told me to keep the tomahawk by the rear door, just in case. He also told me not to be a hero. Don’t worry about that, Pete, you’re the hero, I thought. He set out for the woods, and I waited in the bunkhouse with the voice recorder ready.
***
Cloud showed up right on time, driving what looked like an orange El Camino. He parked next to Pete’s truck and came up to the bunkhouse. He was alone and didn’t appear to be armed. I opened the door.
“Hello, Mr. Cloud, thanks for coming.”
“Hey, man, are you the reporter?”
“Yes, my name is Cooper Smith, and I’m with Minnesota Public Radio.”
“Okay, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Why don’t you come over here and sit down? This should only take an hour or so if you answer all of my questions openly.”
“No one is going to find out it was me, right? You’re going to do the sound masking thing they do on 60 Minutes with the weird distorted voice?”
“Yes, I’ll record it normally here, and our audio engineers will mask your voice so it’s completely unrecognizable. We won’t even ask for your name.”
“Let’s start already.”
Roy Cloud was scrappy-looking, and I guessed him to be about thirty. He had long black hair and wore a UFC fighter’s shirt. I studied one of the many tattoos on his skin – this one a bird on his neck – wondering whether it was a hawk or an eagle. Don’t stare, Coop, I told myself.
“Please begin by telling me about Brown Sugar.”
“It really caught our tribe off guard. Until Brown Sugar came along, we had a long-established drug trade that was passed down to each new generation. We would buy the heroin from a distributor out east, dilute the product down, and sell it to our addicts. There was a clear pecking order. William Kingbird ran the show, and his son was next in line to the throne. The rest of us fell into place, and we all had our roles. Jason Red Eagle was Kingbird’s right-hand man, Matthew Red Bear was in charge of security, and I was one of the dealers. Once Brown Sugar hit the market, everyone wanted the product. We were forced to connect with Smokey. It was the biggest mistake we ever made.”
“How so?”
“Can I smoke?”
“Sure, go ahead. Let me get you an ashtray.”
Roy pulled out a pack of Winston cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one up and took a long pull. Then he set the cigarette on the corner of the ashtray and leaned back in his chair.
“When the day came for us to buy Brown Sugar, Smokey murdered Kingbird, his son, and Matthew.”
“When did that happen?”
“Back in April. Smokey brought his guys up and shot our guys in cold blood. Only Jason got away. He said he was almost shot and narrowly escaped with his life. After that, we were all pretty shook up.”
“So, who took over after Kingbird?”
“Jason. He was the next best person for the job.”
“How was he able to buy Brown Sugar?”
“Jason knew we would all be in trouble if he didn’t sell the product, because it was the best on the market. He told me he personally contacted Smokey a few weeks after the murders, and they cut a deal. Smokey would leave Jason alone to deal on Red Lake, as long as he exclusively sold Brown Sugar. He agreed.”
“Do you think it was smart for Jason to cut a deal with the people who killed his former boss?”
Roy took another pull from his burning cigarette. “They also killed Jason’s cousin, Matthew. What could he do, though? It was either sell the Brown Sugar product, or get forced out. In Jason’s case, he probably would have been killed by Smokey if he didn’t go along with it. I don’t blame him for making the deal.”
“Can you tell me a little bit about your network? Walk me through the whole process, from the beginning, where the product is grown, all the way to your end user.”
“I can only tell you a little bit about the front-end side of the business; I mainly deal with the addicts.”
“All right.”
“Jason told me the product is grown in Mexico by a cartel. It is shipped up to a distribution center in Chicago. From there, it is sold to regional dealers. Smokey is Minnesota’s dealer, so he buys the product and sells it to the reservations. Once we get the product, it is given out to us street-level dealers. I am one of five dealers for Red Lake. I had an established network of addicts before Brown Sugar, but since we have been selling it, new customers have been coming to me. Kids as young as fifteen are getting addicted to opium from prescription drugs like OxyContin. It’s an easy transition to go up to heroin. With Brown Sugar being so pure, the high is like nothing these kids have ever experienced before. It keeps them coming back for more.”
“How many customers do you have?”
Roy closed one eye and looked up toward the ceiling with his other as he counted in his head. “Around sixty, give-or-take.”
“How much product do they buy?”
“Most buy five to ten bags per day. At twenty dollars a pop, it’s between one to two hundred dollars per customer each day.”
I quickly scribbled the math out for 60 x $150 on my notebook. “That’s around $9,000 per day?”
“Yeah, on a good day I’ll do up to $10,000.”
“How can they afford to buy so much?”
Roy crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “It depends. Some use casino money, but most of the population is poor. They scrape by and sacrifice other parts of their lives so they can do the drug. I give them the product, they give me the cash, and we go our separate ways until I see them again the next day. I don’t ask too many questions.”
That will make a good sound bite, I thought.
“When do you expect to receive the next shipment from Smokey, and how much will you get?”
“It is supposed to happen real soon, and it will likely be our biggest one yet. At least two, if not three kilos of product.”
“Who receives the product from Smokey?”
“Well, Smokey won’t bring it up himself. It will probably be one of his guys.”
I looked back at my notes. “Earlier in our conversation, you said, ‘Smokey is Minnesota’s dealer, and he sells the product to the reservations.’ What other reservations does he sell to?”
“The only one I know of is White Earth. We have a long history of clashes with them. Jason was mad when he found out Smokey was selling to them too.”
“Who runs their operation?”
“Jonathan Mason. He is–”
I heard what sounded like several vehicles rushing down the driveway outside.
“What the hell is that?” Roy asked, shoving his chair back. He pulled a handgun out from behind his back, and sprinted for the door. A few seconds later, I heard the crunch of a vehicle colliding with something, followed by the deafening roar of a high-powered rifle.
I followed Roy out of the bunkhous
e. He rushed for his El Camino. I turned left and headed toward the log cabin house. I would have a clear path to look down the driveway, and a supply of at least two Molotov cocktails. As I sprinted toward the corner of the cabin, I heard a loud succession of gunfire. I didn’t have the ear to pick up how many there were.
When I safely made the edge of the cabin, I peered around the corner and looked down the driveway. Floodlights had turned on at various points in the driveway, as well as around each of the buildings. By their light, I could see one pickup truck smashed against the fallen tree in the driveway that we had set earlier. The pickup was on fire, and I thought I could make out two bodies burning on the hood of the vehicle. On either side of the driveway were two sedans with people piling out of them. I counted six men.
A moment later, the El Camino came into view. Roy rounded the corner of the driveway by the bunkhouse and accelerated toward the chaos. When he realized the driveway was blocked, he turned right into an open field. He was met with a volley of gunfire from the men who had just arrived and were approaching him. The El Camino stalled. Roy got out and fired his pistol blindly toward the attackers, ducking behind his vehicle for safety.
One of the attackers started dashing toward Roy just as a flash of light came from the woods to the northwest. A loud crack spilt the air as the man was knocked sideways, like he was doing a cartwheel. The remaining five men scampered back around their vehicles to the nearby trees for cover and started shooting northwest into the woods.
I pulled my lighter out of my pocket and fumbled it as I tried lighting one of the Molotov cocktails. Light, you stupid thing, light. I jogged northeast of the log cabin toward the community picnic building. I finally lit my cocktail and chucked it as hard and far as I could. It landed behind the woods where the attackers were positioned. The men turned to look in my direction – then opened fire. I ducked behind the picnic building for cover as bullets whizzed by. So, this was what war was like.
I caught a quick glimpse of Pete. The diversion had allowed him to get down to the bunkhouse from the woods. I saw his muzzle flash and heard another man go down. The other four were running away. I had my second and last cocktail in my hand. I lit it as I snuck to the far corner of the picnic building. I chucked the cocktail, and it exploded near the men in the woods. I dipped back around for safety.
