Tyranny of a Lover...Diary of the Wife of an Undercover informant

by Janet J. White

  "That's behind us now," I said. "Let's leave it there."

  The next morning, Dick's detective friend Ron called. "Sorry, Dick. I've had no luck finding a lawyer willing to tackle the FBI or any other agency of the Justice Department."

  Dick paced the floor. "Jen, I've been thinking. At this point, I'm no longer sure we can find a lawyer to handle something of this magnitude. I think we'd be better off writing a letter to Senator Lawton Chiles. He already knows about this covert operation."

  "I guess it couldn't hurt and it might actually help."

  "Yeah, especially since I have no idea when the third and final wash will take place."

  On December 8, 1982, Dick mailed a letter to Washington, D.C.

  Less than a week later, Dick stood broodingly at the window, staring outside. "Maybe the senator doesn't have time to help. Or maybe he's on the campaign trail. Or maybe he just got the letter." He turned and looked at me for help. "I mean, United States senators must receive tons of mail. It could take them weeks to sort through it all."

  "Dick, it hasn’t been that long," I said.

  He lowered his head as though the world were closing in on him and sighed. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry, Baby. I should have hired an attorney long ago, or at least written Senator Chiles. Somehow the time slipped away from me."

  "That's true. Still, don't be too hard on yourself for believing Sonny. He can be very persuasive."

  "Damn!" Dick cursed mildly. "I've been a blasted fool to believe their lies for so long. I guess I have to tell you: Sonny and the IRS agent Bob Manginess will be here tomorrow morning to map out the third wash. That'll complete the FBI's three-wash blueprint for an airtight case. Sonny told me to be ready to leave for Vegas the day after tomorrow. Then my job will be finished. After that, we sit and wait. Damn!"

  The urgency of the situation had my stomach in knots. "The FBI has dangled the proverbial carrot in front of the donkey cart for more than a year now. Maybe you forgot, but the Feds know the donkey never gets the carrot. We can't do anything about the past...just the future. We need to figure a way to avoid joining the ranks of the others, who once worked for the FBI and now find themselves destitute and running for their lives. Still, tomorrow could offer one last chance to break the reins and catch the carrot."

  Dick sat up straighter. "Do you have an idea?"

  "Maybe.…" I hesitated. "We may not be able to do much at this eleventh hour. All we can do is try. This is the last chance we'll have to get something in writing before you go to Vegas. Tomorrow must be handled like we're juggling the last two dinosaur eggs on earth with oily hands."

  Dick poured himself a drink. Sinking heavily onto the carved wooden chair facing me, he hung his arms over easy chair, looking defeated. "Handle what?"

  "Handle the preservation of our very lives," I said. "Let's have a reality check. After the second money laundering, the Feds no longer needed your court testimony because Brad and Jake had worn body wires. Right?"

  Dick chewed on his lip. "I hate to say it, but yeah, that's right."

  I knelt in front of him. "Let's keep in mind that one of the things we know about the FBI is that they plan their work and work their plan. And they planned on three successful money washes for an airtight case before making their next move. Since Clark designated you as the `bag man,' you're the only one Jacob Davis and The Royal Casino will deal with. The Feds cannot bring bags of money to the cashier's cage to be laundered without you. You could stop everything cold if you refused to go on the third and final wash. The Feds must think that the case is too iffy for prosecution without this third wash, so we can assume it's important to them. This is the spike that nails down the coffin. It's the only leverage you have left. Use it to get signed contracts."

  Dick let out the breath he had been holding. "I think you're right. We have to get something on paper before I go to Vegas."

  "Absolutely. If you don't, we might just as well kiss our sit-upon good-bye."

  Setting down his drink down, he raised his eyes to the ceiling. Five minutes passed. "Alright, Jen. When Sonny and Bob show up tomorrow morning, I'd like you to handle the negotiations. You're good at that sort of thing. Tell them I'm not going to Vegas until we have everything: Witness protection, where we'll be relocated after the bust comes down, some general ideas of where we'll be before and after the trials, plastic surgery agreements, what kind of monies we’ll receive, and when. Tell them we want the signed reward contracts from the FBI, DEA, IRS, and U.S. Customs. You lay it all out, and I'll back you up one hundred per cent. Okay, Jen?"

  I stood up. "Good grief, Dick, this needs to come from you! You're the covert operator and your say-so carries the weight, not mine."

  He looked at me with pleading eyes. "Jen, I don't think I can do it. I'll tell them that you're speaking for both of us. Will you handle it?"

  Now I paced the living room. I thought about what Mother used to say: "My dear, as you go through life, you'll find the best helping hand can be found at the end of your own sleeve."

  Finally, I sat down with a sigh. "One of us has to do it. So, if you can't...I'll have to."

  "Great! I guess we're ready for them. Let's hit the sack, I'm beat." We tumbled into bed at daybreak.

  Before falling asleep, I wondered if Sonny believed that our conversation concerning my intention to divorce Dick was nothing more than a rouse to glean information from the FBI. Deciding that was just another moot point, I rolled over and went to sleep. The next morning on December 15, 1982, I put on a big pot of coffee. At nine o'clock, Sonny and Bob knocked at our front door. The four of us filed into the office. Dick motioned them to be seated.

  "Gentlemen, can I bring you coffee?" I offered, to which they shook their heads.

  Dick sat at the desk nervously tapping the end of a pencil against his steaming coffee. I settled in the chair next to Dick, feeling anxious and trying not to show it.

  Not wasting time, Sonny began, "Now about the last money wash procedure in Vegas.…"

  Dick glanced at me and nodded slightly.

  I took a deep breath. "Sonny, I'm sorry to interrupt you. There's something Dick and I want to cover before you continue. It looks like I've been appointed the designated spokesperson, as Dick's kind of shy sometimes."

  Sonny's eyes widened on that one. I smiled and looked at Dick. He bobbed his head up and down in agreement. I took the bull by the horns. "We've both come to the decision that has been forced upon us after a year and a half of unkept promises by the Justice Department. We've decided that Dick will not go on the final wash until we're protected. Dick has done his job and delivered everything on the twelve-point list he gave you at our initial meeting in the park."

  Sonny and Bob looked at each other. The IRS agent touched his jacket, a reminder that the conversation was being recorded. Good, I thought. Get it all on tape.

  I met Sonny’s eyes. "We signed the IRS recovery forms more than a year ago. You said they would be executed and returned to us. I repeat, more than a year ago. All this time, we haven't received so much as a blank contract from the FBI or any of the other agencies that are participating in this investigation."

  "Has it been a year?" Sonny asked, all innocence. "I don't understand the delay. I'll look into it. I promise."

  "You understand it, Sonny." I was trying to keep my voice on an even keel. "It's your case and you're the agent who's ram-rod-ding this investigation." The man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The IRS agent blanched and remained silent. "The unsigned IRS contracts," I went on, "are meaningless scraps of paper. Nor have you delivered the forever promised witness protection program and identity changes. On top of that, we haven't even been reimbursed for our out-of-pocket expenses for close to five thousand dollars."

  "I'll look into your expenses," Sonny said.

  "No," I said emphatically. "That's only another promise not to be kept. Sonny, we've heard one excuse after another for fourteen long months!"


  "Has it been that long?" Sonny looked puzzled.

  "Yes--that long, Sonny. Therein lies the problem. We've trusted you as you asked us to do. It's way past time to make good on those promises. We want all the signed contracts. Right now!" With that, I sat back and looked at him.

  The FBI agent looked at Dick. The IRS agent looked at Dick. I held my breath and waited for Dick's affirmation of everything we had agreed upon last night and everything I had just said. Why did he just sit there, staring off into space? The moments lingered, frozen in time.

  Please Dick, I prayed, don't fail us now. Don't let them shove us off the mountaintop. Don't just sit there with a blank look on your face.

  Dick's eyes found mine for a split second, then moved off to stare at the wall, as if his mind had closed down. Despite the warm Florida morning, a chill moved through my body and I shuttered.

  I prayed. Oh God! Please Dick, all you have to do is say "Yes, that's right!" If you can't bring yourself to say one word, just bob your big shaggy head up and down. The two agents waited for his response. And so did I.

  Dick then shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes skittering from face to face. His focus settled on Sonny and he finally opened his mouth to speak. In a high-pitched tiny voice, he said, "Look Sonny, I guess my ego is such that I'd have to finish this operation and handle the third wash. Even if we don't have our signed contracts yet."

  Oh Lord. No, no, no! I couldn't believe my ears. His monumental ego had thrown us off the mountaintop to be impaled on razor sharp Justice Department signposts that read, 'TRUST US'.

  Keeping his gaze on Sonny's face, Dick spoke in a voice I didn't recognize. "I know you'll do the right thing in getting us the promised contracts as soon as you can."

  "Dick?" I couldn't form any more words; there was nothing more to say.

  Sonny glanced at the IRS agent. They both looked relieved. "Which means," Sonny cooed, "that you'll go to Vegas tomorrow?"

  Dick threw up his hands, parted his lips in a grimace, and said, "Yeah."

  Like a pierced balloon, I felt deflated and empty. Ignoring my shock, ignoring me completely, I silently listened to the three men finalize the fourteen-month investigation. I became invisible. Not one of the men glanced in my direction. An hour later, their business concluded, the two agents rose to leave. While reaching for the doorknob, Sonny and Bob fed Dick the diet he wanted and needed: A belly full of ego stroking.

  When the door closed, I aimlessly wandered from room to room, my spirit weakened by the sudden turn of events. I couldn’t look at Dick or speak to him.

  Hours later, I whispered, “Do you realize what you’ve done to us?”

  He avoided my eyes and coughed up a nervous laugh. "It's not that bad, Jen. They still need me. I've still got them where the hair grows short. They still need my testimony for conviction."

  How useless had been my words. I dragged myself to the bedroom, laid down, and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

  The following day, December 16, 1982, Dick, DEA agent Brad, and IRS agent Bob flew to Las Vegas for the third and final money laundering wash of $100,000.

  Dick returned home close to midnight. He dropped his luggage in the foyer and went directly into the kitchen to pour himself a hefty Jack Daniels. I had nothing to say to him as he plopped down on the couch and used his skewed view to convince himself and me that he still stood in the middle of the winner's circle. Smiling weakly, he finally offered, "It went without a hitch. I've completed 'Operation Fuzzball'."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A Stint in Killeen, Texas

  "When our government empowers itself to deceive we the people...

  our society has serious problems."

  --John Bozigar

  Now we would wait for the FBI to effect the arrests of Clark, Jackson and Reed; of Bruce from California, the top banana; Jacob Davis, owner of the Royal Casino in Las Vegas; Pete Shaffer, the cocaine smuggler from Sarasota, plus dozens of others connected with the drug smuggling and money laundering operation.

  "That could take place in days, weeks or months," Dick advised.

  Less than a week after the last money wash, Dick came home after seeing Clark. "Let's have a drink and sit down. I have some news."

  I settled on the couch and braced myself. He mixed a scotch and soda for me and three fingers of Jack Daniels for himself and sat down next to me. Handing me the glass, he said, "Clark Rainier and Jackson Deaton, along with their families, are moving from Sarasota to Biloxi, Mississippi. They're taking charge of The Blue Angel Inn."

  I stared at him, perplexed. "How did this happen?"

  Dick's eyes danced. "Clark gained control through some fancy stock manipulation tricks."

  My mouth flew open. "Surely, you jest. That takes more than slight-of-hand tricks. It's more likely Clark funneled massive amounts of drug monies into the two motel chains."

  "Whatever. In any case," Dick replied, using his higher pitched selling voice, "Clark and Jackson have offered me the job of managing the Blue Angel Inn in Killeen, Texas. And they figured you'd be perfect as the assistant manager."

  "This is coming way too fast," I said.

  Dick twisted the glass in his hand. "I still need to stay in close touch with Clark and Jackson as well as Sonny. Plus, it's a darned good way of making a living until they're all behind bars. And who knows when that'll happen. So it's not over until the bust comes down, after I've testified, and after they're all behind bars."

  "I thought it wasn't over until the fat lady sings." We chuckled at my lame humor.

  "Come on, Jen, be serious." Grinning, he got up and headed for the office.

  Although I had joked to lighten the tense situation, in my heart, I felt keenly the seriousness of our situation. At first, I thought about refusing to go, but that wouldn’t have worked. Same problem, same vulnerability. Once Clark and Jackson were arrested and we disappeared, with or without help from the Feds, the hounds would be unleashed for the hunt. If I remained alone in Sarasota, they would have their hands on me within a matter of hours. With no way out, I was left with little choice but to go to Texas with Dick. I steeled myself mentally for the almost predictable uncorking of Dick's next bitter brew. I understood that the next step I took I would take on my own, totally alone, without a single supportive friend to turn to or talk with. I resigned myself to being dealt another poor hand, one that had to be played.

  In a few minutes, I followed Dick into the office. "When do we leave?"

  "Clark wants us at the corporate office in Biloxi before the New Year. We've got about ten days to pack up and move."

  The day after an abysmal Christmas of 1982, Dick announced that he had made plans to store our furniture through Clark at a place here in Sarasota called Bud Miller’s Storage.

  I sank into a cushioned chair. "Dick! Clark Rainier and Bud Miller have known each other all their lives. They probably played together in the same sandbox. And now you're saying that he’s the one who will be storing our furniture? Think about it. After the bust comes down, how in the world can we move our furniture without Miller knowing our destination? Good grief, an arthritic Aardvark who takes a lot of coffee breaks could follow a moving van. That means Clark would find out where we’re going, even if he's in jail. After that, The Royal Casino people would know. Then comes the Mafia."

  "You worry too much," he said without conviction. "You're letting your emotions control you."

  "Please don't hand me that nonsense. An assessment of a given situation is not an emotional state of mind."

  He sighed. "Look, Jen, by the time the bust comes down, and we have all that reward money, we won't want your old furniture. You'll probably want all new stuff. Besides, how can I tell Clark I don't want to use Miller's storage without arousing suspicion?"

  I threw up my hands than dropped them. "Dick, we don't have one reason to believe we'll ever see a nickel when this is over. We'll be lucky to come out of this with our skins in
tact. And as for Clark, why not tell him that I have a friend in the storage business that we'd like to use because we'll get a discount. Clark would appreciate that; he's a thrifty man. There's nothing suspicious in that, is there?"

  "It's all set," Dick said with finality. "If I make a big deal out of this it'll rock the boat. Sonny said the FBI will pay the monthly storage charges for as long as we're in Texas."

  "Dick, please," I pleaded. "You can't believe Sonny...."

  He got a coke from the refrigerator, plopped into his favorite swivel-rocker, threw his leg over the chair arm and glared at me. "Listen, I'm telling you how it is, not asking for your advice. That's it, Jen. End of discussion!"

  The next day Dick suggested that we have our Wills made out. "I already have one," I said. His idea aroused my suspicions because Dick had little or nothing to leave to anyone.

  "Well, let's update yours and get one for me," he said casually. "I'll be dropping by to say so long to my detective buddy, Ron. And since Ron's attorney, the one who couldn't handle the Fed involvement, is in the same building, I'll poke my head in his door and tell him to draw them up. Okay?"

  "Fine, Dick. At this point, it would probably be a good idea for me to draw up a new one. Tell him I want my assets divided into thirds: one-third each to Gregg, Suzie, and you. And I'd like a codicil tacked on the end for easy add on or delete of personal items like jewelry and furs."

  "Gotcha!" Dick blew kisses at me and bolted for the door.

  The following morning, we sat down at the attorney's office to read the documents. I shook my head in disbelief as I read mine. My children had been totally deleted. Everything I had went to Dick, except for a lump sum of $10,000 earmarked for Dick's private detective friend, Ron. The fury I felt must have shown on my face because the attorney looked embarrassed. "Don't sign it if it's not what you want."

  Dick rolled his eyes. "I didn't want to get you upset about this, that's why I didn't say anything before. We'll have plenty of money later and I promised Ron ten grand, but if it really makes you unhappy, we'll have it changed."