TYRANNY OF A LOVER....
Diary of the Wife of an Undercover Informant
by Janet J. White
This book is a work of non-fiction, however names, other than those of public figures, places, dates and locations have been changed for the sake of personal protection.
Published in the United States by Janet J. White
Copyright 2016 Janet J. White
ISBN 13: 978-0692764077
ISBN 10: 0692764070
All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
A SPECIAL MESSAGE
FROM JENNIFER KELLY
To my brother, Den-Den. Thanks, sibling. Through thick and thin, you were always there for me.
And to my valiant son and daughter, who shared, in part, this harrowing experience.
All my appreciation and love always.
Lastly, special thanks go out to Janet White and K. K. for their hard work
in helping me put this true story into words.
FOREWORD
The following is a true story based on my former husband’s and my involvement with the FBI and the undercover operation known as:
“OPERATION FUZZBALL”
As the wife of Dick Lee, an FBI covert agent and an emotionally unbalanced abuser, I found myself running from my husband, the Mafia, and our own government. For the sake of personal protection, some of the names, dates and locations have been changed.
However, the events are all true.
…Jennifer Kelly
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE The Pursuit
CHAPTER TWO An Average American Woman
CHAPTER THREE Viet Nam and Bill
CHAPTER FOUR Collector of Debts
CHAPTER FIVE Gregg and the 'Straight' Program
CHAPTER SIX Clark and Jackson
CHAPTER SEVEN The Real Business and a Supplement
CHAPTER EIGHT A Trunk Full of Marijuana
CHAPTER NINE A Live-in Thief
CHAPTER TEN Farewell, My Son
CHAPTER ELEVEN The FBI and 'Operation Fuzzball'
CHAPTER TWELVE A Garden Party
CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Vegas Connection
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Farewell, My Daughter
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Dick Makes a Move
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Impaled on the Third Money Wash
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN A Stint in Killeen, Texas
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Bust Goes Down
CHAPTER NINETEEN Set Adrift by the FBI
CHAPTER TWENTY Dick’s Gone, Gone
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Unexpected Help
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Freedom At Last
EPILOGUE
AFTERWARDS
CHAPTER ONE
The Pursuit
"The devil is easy to identify. He appears when you're terribly tired and makes a very reasonable request which you know you shouldn't grant."
-- Fiorello La Guardia
The anxiety was overwhelming as I looked out the kitchen window. Then I peeked out from behind the drapes on the sliding glass doors in the living room, the action bringing both a faint smile of amusement and mental pain. Someone lurked out there. Still, they could not see me moving around in the empty dark shadows of the apartment, a home no longer a safe haven, but a prison.
Hunching deeper into myself, as though attempting to totally disappear, I caught my reflection in the mirror-like glass. I, Jennifer Kelly, stared at this stranger. Not the me I knew but someone else's idea of who I should be. How had my orderly life dissolved into this quagmire of uncertainty and fear? I shook my head in sad acceptance. I knew precisely why I dressed in clothes that fit like skin on a sausage, why my auburn hair had now been bleached the color of straw. Why I now had to face this terrible uncertainty alone. I stared at rooms that were orderly and neat, rooms that belonged to a normal person--just an average American woman.
Oh, God, what had I gotten myself into? Again, I looked at my image. This person staring back at me was not me at all. Not the me who had been an airline stewardess-turned-businesswoman, a housewife, and a mother of two; not someone who wished upon falling stars, read health manuals, fed stray dogs and made Yorkshire pudding.
This person could never, in her darkest nightmares, imagine that she would deliberately set into motion a plan that would lead the Mafia to her doorstep. How did all this happen? I asked myself. The answer came easily. I made the ghastly mistake of marrying Dick Lee.
#
The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up as I sensed the presence of the car following me before spotting the pale blue, late model Cadillac in the rear view mirror. It had been traveling two cars behind me as I headed south on Interstate 75 for the forty-five minute drive from Fort Myers, Florida, to my temporary home in Bonita Beach.
Well, here it is Jen! I reflected. This is the big one. Every nerve-shattering incident that had happened since Dick Lee casually strolled into my life had been child's play in a sandbox compared to this. Perhaps I was mistaken. I had to be sure. The Bonita Beach exit lay just ahead. I waited until the last possible moment to signal and swing down the ramp. The car directly behind me continued on the interstate, but the brakes on the Cadillac screeched in protest and careened down the curved exit ramp directly behind me. The blue Caddy then slowed to a crawl, flipped on the hazard lights and allowed another car to pass, again placing another vehicle between it and me. No, it's no mistake; they're following me. The two dark-haired men in the Cadillac wore wraparound sunglasses and stared straight ahead in intense concentration of their task. They had to be Mafia. The man sitting in the passenger seat had his arm casually draped over the back seat. Within easy reach of a shotgun, perhaps?
I recalled the fateful day when my husband Dick Lee smiled at me and said, "Jen, get ready for a wild ride! Grab hold and hang on for dear life." It felt like I'd heard those words a lifetime ago. In reality, it had been less than two years since this psychotic trek had begun. Today, one of his prophecies had come true. This had to be the wildest ride of all. I prayed that I'd survive the rest of the journey.
Although I had deliberately orchestrated a plan to let the Mafia find me--now that it had happened, I couldn't control the fear. Clutching the wheel, my hands began to shake. Soon, little beads of perspiration formed on my forehead and ran down my face. I tried controlling the escalating panic by telling myself that this is how I expected to feel when this happened. A perfectly normal reaction. Nothing more, nothing less. For weeks, I had tried to prepare myself for this time and place. So today, I reminded myself to emulate the format the FBI use in their
Operations: Plan your work, then work your plan. I must now pretend to be unaware of the presence of my pursuers and attempt to convince them that they found me on their own.
I knew their purpose. Find Dick Lee? What if they intend me no harm if the answers to their questions could be provided? It seemed more likely the Mafia would accept the genuineness of the situation if they discovered, with their own eyes and ears, the truth for themselves. And the truth is that I had no earthly idea of Dick's whereabouts.
I mustn't sign my own death warrant by doing something stupid--like trying to escape their scrutiny. The sour taste of panic, the instinctive need to flee would have to be swallowed and ignored so as not to arouse a primordial predatory desire in my pursuers to "run the prey to ground." I must maintain this scenario of calmly goi
ng about my business and do nothing that would force them to give hot chase. I summed up the plan: I would have to be so very careful not to show the least sign of being aware of their presence. Never attempt to escape their surveillance and, make no unexpected moves that could be considered threatening to their own safety. It matters not, I kept telling myself, the degree of fear that has seeped into the marrow of your bones. I must play this game because I myself set the chessmen on the board.
I slipped into the play-acting part of a female blonde bimbo, a ready-made role to slide into. Dick's suggestion that my auburn hair be bleached almost platinum, an unwelcome proposal at the time, could now bring benefits. Most of the blonde women I'd known were bright and clever, and cunning enough to play the part of a dumb blonde, if need be. On the other hand, many a male clung to the misconception that if a woman's hair were the color of a Hostess Twinkie, she would be automatically labeled a dimwit. I planned to play that part so effectively that my followers would believe I could barely find my way home from the local beauty shop without a road map.
With the Cadillac on my tail, it seemed an appropriate time to take stock of my low threshold of pain. It's been said that women are more insensitive to pain than are men. I didn't believe it. If I ran one of my long, strong fingernails down my arm, a red line soon appeared. I decided weeks ago that if they kidnapped then questioned me, I'd willingly tell them everything I knew. I'd spill my guts if they so much as threatened to pluck out my eyebrows. My heart began to race at a breakneck pace. I forced myself to dismiss those grim images and think positive, hopeful thoughts of how wonderful it would be when this murky business was finished. While my mind absorbed the instructions, my body didn't get the message. A few minutes later, my trembling hands escalated into full body shuddering. I felt like vomiting. I turned up the air conditioning to maximum, allowing the beads of perspiration to roll down my face lest they see me wiping it away. The Caddy kept its pace two cars behind for the nine or ten miles we had traveled since exiting Interstate 75.
Within a few blocks of my apartment in a Bonita Beach condominium, I forced myself to stop for a few needed items like bread and milk. I flipped on the right turn signal two blocks before entering the parking lot of a convenience store. The Caddy slowed then parked on the opposite side of the street. Five minutes later, after wiping my perspiration-drenched face in the store and out of sight, I returned to my Oldsmobile Cutlass and fumbled with the key ring while juggling the grocery bag. Setting the package on the trunk, I riffled through it as though I had forgotten something. Leaving the paper bag sitting on the trunk, I stepped forward to again tackle the problem of locating the elusive car key. Managing to find it, I finally opened the door, got in and started to close the door, before remembering the grocery bag still perched on the trunk. After retrieving it, I got back behind the steering wheel and leaned over, once again riffling through my handbag, probably long enough for my stalkers to go bananas and want to blow me away out of pure exasperation.
As I slowly drove on, they continued their pursuit, again letting another car pass in order to maintain their chosen position. Arriving at the gatehouse of the gulf-front, mid-rise condominium complex, I had to fight every molecule of my being not to stomp on the accelerator as soon as the gate lifted. Forget it, I reminded myself. Smiling at the female guard on duty, we exchanged light-hearted banter for two or three minutes. Peals of laughter rang out as the guard raised the gate. With lowered head and raised eyes, I watched the Caddy park on the other side of the road within sight of the entrance. Parking in my designated slot, I eased out of the car with groceries and handbag in tow, locked the car and, swinging my hips, casually made my way toward the ground floor apartment. I held my breath, half expecting to feel burning pieces of metal rip through my body.
Once inside the apartment, I locked the door and drew the drapes. On rubbery legs I opened the refrigerator door, put the milk in and carried a glass of ice water to the cocktail table in the living room, where I slumped down on the couch. I was shaking so badly that much of the water splashed over the rim of the glass as I brought it to my lips.
Later, after the trembling eased off, I forced down a large bowl of tomato and rice soup, drank two glasses of milk and ate some bread. Whatever happened, I'd need all my strength and every ounce of will power I could muster to move the pawns and bishops and keep the queen standing on the chessboard.
CHAPTER TWO
An Average American Woman
"Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice;
it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be
achieved."
--- William Jennings Bryan
How had a so-called normal, average American woman come to this terrible time? I wondered. My childhood in Dearborn, Michigan had presented me with no major traumas or lingering wounds, just the devilish misadventures threading the kind of memories that later unravel at family gatherings, bringing laughter. My hard-working, welder/pipe fitter father, a non-drinking family man, took good care of all of us and introduced music and art into our close-knit family home. My homemaker mother also had great strength of character. To this day, the wonderful aroma of homemade bread floods me with sweet memories of the three, brown-crusted loaves of bread she made every week in our comfortable brick home, where life revolved around family, school, and the Catholic Church. Connie, my older sister by four years, seemed surrounded by glamour and poise. And Denny, my younger brother by four years, always had a smile on his face and an earned buck in his pocket. I loved my family. It didn't occur to me to mind being the middle child.
At the age of eleven I fell in love with flying. I quietly watched the planes overhead, secretly knowing I would eventually feel their power. In the pause between graduating high school with honors, completing business school and working as a legal secretary for a Detroit law firm, my dream of flying lingered, then became reality. I joined Eastern Airlines as a stewardess, and more excitingly, I based myself in the middle of the glitz and glamour of New York City.
I entered my future prepared for enchantment, love, and the type of semi-safe adventures offered by flying to various cities steeped in charm. My two roommates, also with Eastern Airlines, rounded out the trio of a blonde, a brunette and a redhead who lived, flew and sometimes double-dated together. Our twenty-story apartment building in mid-town Manhattan housed a number of FBI fledglings who, upon our return trips back to the bright lights of Broadway, kept our telephone jingling with dinner and dance invitations. I gloried in keeping a little red book filled with the names of young men I dated in my home base of New York City, as well as many a charming dinner companion in Miami, Montreal, St. Louis, New Orleans and Puerto Rico. Life was wonderful and exciting. Work and friends were all I wanted. Still, as everything fell into place, there were times when I felt that sudden, peculiar emptiness that many women experience, a need for one special person to love, a need to build a family of my own, to create a home.
So after a couple of years of flying, the electric breath of the city began to pale for me. Looking for a life of stability, I found myself ready when love walked into my crowded life--grateful it all happened as it should. In 1959 my marriage to Sam literally ‘clipped’ my wings. In that era, when a stewardess married, she automatically found herself terminated. That was fine with me. I was ready to settle down and raise a family. Nine months into our marriage, our daughter, Suzie, was born. Her brother, Gregg, followed five years later.
Sadly, the marriage didn’t last. I dated once in a while after that, but then about five years later I met a handsome Italian contractor. We fell deeply in love, but after a six-year, on-again-off-again relationship, things never quite fell into place and we moved on.
By 1980 I had been divorced for eleven years. I hummed a wordless melody when I first noticed Dick Lee. He had been brought in to manage the La Casa Beach Inn in Sarasota, a Gulf front hotel in the process of being converted to time-share ownership. I, along
with nine other real estate agents, were hired to sell the weekly units. We couldn’t help0 but take note of the new man on the project. His six-foot, three-inch frame blocked out most light when he stood in a doorway, his massive shoulders creating the illusion of a much larger man, while the extra fifteen pounds around his waist gave him a look of ‘comfortability’. He had a full head of auburn and blond hair, and I became particularly fascinated with his medium cropped, multi-colored beard of red, gray, blond, black, brown, and even some white. His piercing laser-blue eyes demanded attention and seemed to look right through you. His high energy level generated a wide sweep electric field. Being in the same room with him felt like being plugged into a wall socket. Although we made immediate eye contact upon introductions, I paid him no more attention than I did to my other co-workers. In all honesty, my dear Italian had not been totally dislodged from my heart. Which was fine, since Dick Lee could not have been more professional, nor more distant.
One rainy afternoon, while the men and women on the sales staff sat at their desks thumbing through magazines or doodling on large pads while waiting for prospects to tour the property. Dick walked into the sales office. With a purposeful gate, he quickly moved to the center of the room, planted his feet, cleared his throat and asked for our attention: "I've been receiving complaints from the hotel guests about the way they're being treated. It doesn't matter if these Canadian bus tourists only want to tour the property in order to get the freebie gift or not. You can't treat them like second class citizens." Dick paused and our eyes locked. My cheeks grew warm. I smiled slightly. He did not return the smile. His facial muscles locked, but his eyes glowed. They held a certain cold clarity, both intriguing and frightening.
Tyranny of a Lover...Diary of the Wife of an Undercover informant Page 1
