by Bob Hamer
Someone noticed an older man, poorly dressed, sitting on a bench near the pool, and questioned whether he was part of our group. He wasn’t, but someone else suggested he might be on surveillance and joked that he was talking into his wristwatch. I said, “It could be; it’s always the one you least suspect.”
After some abortive discussion and very little initiative demonstrated by anyone, Coconut Grove won by default as our dinner destination.
We divided up into the several cars available. At this point, I was glad my slick, boy-magnet Dodge Caravan was part of the transportation inventory. I would not have been able to fit David Mayer, Todd Calvin, David R. Busby, and Sam from Miami in the Mustang I reserved and failed to get.
Sam from Miami rode shotgun, as I followed Paul Zipszer and his friend Brian, who were in a Corvette. We headed south on Route 1 toward the Miami suburb of Coconut Grove, described as the “oldest and most important settlement in Florida.”
27
SIX-PACK ABS AND A KEY OF COKE
Riding along in the Caravan behind Paul and Brian in their Corvette, I kept thinking about that morning’s conversation, and David’s wish to play with Paul’s muscular chest. Again, I was relieved I’d removed the camera before David’s impromptu fondling.
Paul reminded me of another fine physical specimen from my earlier FBI days. His name was Eric, and he occasioned one of the more humorous moments I was able to provide for my surveillance team.
Eric was truly chiseled; he had rippling abs, bulging biceps and pecs—and a preference for other men. He was a model and actor, appearing in everything from body-building magazines to Vanity Fair. The women in our office, not knowing of his sexual orientation, used to swoon when his picture was passed around during the course of our investigation.
He became of interest to the FBI for reasons that ultimately had little to do with the outcome of the investigation: he purchased a restaurant from a guy I’d been watching for a while, a suspected member of the Sicilian Mafia. When Eric purchased the property, we assumed he had mob ties as well, though any such relationship would soon prove to be tenuous, at best. Through an informant, however, I learned Eric was selling coke, so I decided to keep him on my radar screen.
Not that selling coke made Eric unique: in the L.A. of the early ’90s, providing cocaine for recreational users was a growth industry. Still, I convinced my supervisor to let me take a run at Eric. This would be my first undercover assignment since the parking lot shooting incident less than a year earlier, and it was important for me to prove to myself I could still operate in a UC setting.
Like the women in the office, I didn’t know about Eric’s sexual preference until I had already sold the investigation to my supervisor and couldn’t back out. Not that I’m homophobic, but I admit to being a bit anxious when the informant, after telling me Eric was gay, further explained that the former restaurant was now a gay nightclub featuring male exotic dancers. One night each week was designated as “underwear night,” when the usual ten-dollar cover charge was halved for anyone who showed up in his skivvies. Knowing the Bureau’s penchant for economy, I was having uncomfortable visions of evenings spent at Eric’s club wearing nothing but my BVDs. I needed a good cover story.
Fortunately, I had the use of a limo, and the informant agreed to introduce me as his straight friend who had no place to hang out after dropping off his Hollywood clients for their outings. I really didn’t mind being at Eric’s under this assumption, and the scenario worked well, especially since “my clients liked to party,” and I was able to tell Eric I often supplied their cocaine needs.
Eric and I hit it off. I introduced another undercover police officer who occasionally accompanied me to the nightclub. Often, I just went by myself for a few hours until it was time to pick up “my client.” The nightclub was doing well, by all appearances. The male exotic dancers drew large crowds and seemed to enjoy entertaining. Eric was open about his tastes and experiences . . . and his drug dealings. It wasn’t long before we were negotiating for a one-kilo purchase: a thousand grams of nose candy, so popular with the Hollywood types in those days.
Eric set up the first deal for late in the evening on Super Bowl Sunday, not a date that pleased my surveillance team, but they agreed to cover me. The negotiated price was seventeen thousand dollars. We had permission from HQ to let the money walk. Our purpose was to use this kilo buy to set up a much larger purchase, where we would seize a sizeable quantity of drugs plus Eric’s assets. Since the buy money came from the federal drug Superfund, there was always a sense of satisfaction, knowing that other drug dealers were paying for us to investigate their colleagues.
That evening I prepared for the deal. I recorded the serial numbers of each bill that would be used to purchase the cocaine, strapped on a recorder and a transmitter, and stuffed the $17,000 down the front of my pants.
The sun had already set as I marched into the nightclub prepared to do business. Eric greeted me immediately and escorted me over to a table near the dancers. He seated me with my back to the front door. Playing the ever-cautious crook, I stood up and grabbed a seat that put my back to the wall and allowed me to see the front door. Eric looked at me quizzically. Before he could ask the question, I said, “I’ve got $17,000 strapped to my privates and I wanna see that front door. If someone doesn’t come struttin’ in here like Zorro, the Gay Blade, then I know they’re a cop. I wanna protect my back.”
Without even hesitating, Eric smiled and said, “We noticed that bulge in your pants when you walked in and the only thing you have to protect is your ass.”
I learned later that evening that when the surveillance team heard that, they practically fell out of their cars laughing. Most of the evening’s subsequent radio traffic involved speculation on how far they should let me go before bailing me out. From then on, I always seemed to get Cheshire cat grins from members of the surveillance team.
In typical drug-dealer fashion, Eric’s supplier couldn’t deliver that evening, but the deal wasn’t dead yet. We agreed to postpone the transaction to later in the week.
Within a few days we were back in business. I picked up Eric in the limo and he directed me to his supplier, who lived in Hollywood, just off Sunset Boulevard. On the way, Eric lifted his shirt and showed me not only his ripped six-pack abs but a 9 millimeter. My cover boy/muscleman was taking this business seriously. Use of a firearm in a drug transaction upped the ante on sentencing, but it also ratcheted up the tension. At least he showed me the weapon; if something started to hit the fan, I knew where to direct my attention.
Eric surprised me when he took me directly to his supplier. Most middlemen aren’t that accommodating because it means they could get cut out of the next deal. Apparently, Eric had full confidence in me and his supplier. We hiked up the steps to supplier’s condo and entered.
Eric introduced me to Craig, who was short and thin—too thin. The living room was well decorated, but my eyes were immediately drawn to a man covered with blankets, asleep on the couch. Next to the sleeping man was a coffee table crowded with bottles of medication. Craig whispered throughout our conversation. His friend, he explained, was dying of AIDS. Craig was also infected and was using the profits from his cocaine sales to pay for all kinds of experimental medications. Craig had buried more than fifty friends over the last several years, he said, and his friend would be dead within a few weeks. As we sat at the dining room table counting out the $17,000 and finalizing our negotiations, his friend lay dying. I had trouble concentrating on the business at hand.
After Craig counted the money, he made a phone call. It turned out Craig wasn’t the source, but a conduit for a Mexican supplier. Shortly after the call, Caesar arrived with the kilo of white powder. Through some quick maneuvers, I was able to meet Caesar as well. The conspiracy was growing.
We consummated the transaction without a hitch and everyone was satisfied with the completed sale. The product wasn’t the highest quality I had ever purchased, but the la
w is more concerned with quantity than quality. It weighed out at a thousand grams, roughly 2.2 pounds, and that’s all that concerned the prosecutors. Had I been a real coke dealer, I might have complained, but I could plausibly argue that I could “step on the key a couple of times” and make a sizeable profit.
As Eric and I resumed our negotiations for a larger transaction, the figure of fifty kilos continued to arise. Eric claimed he was capable of delivering that amount and we were hoping he could produce. But as we talked, Eric kept delaying and reducing the amount. It was obvious Craig and Caesar were either uncomfortable or unable to produce such quantity. We eventually settled on five kilos, small by Miami Vice standards.
I picked the day this time. I don’t think Eric, Craig, or Caesar ever realized that Wednesday, the day my “money man” would be ready, was actually April Fools’ Day. There was usually a method to my madness.
Thanks to my stupidity, though, it almost never happened. Cell phones were coming into vogue and not everyone had one. Today, school children and grandmothers carry one, but it wasn’t the must-have item in the early ’90s, even for a drug dealer. The day of the buy, however, I was given a recently seized cell phone to use. Since rain was in the forecast, we figured the cell phone was better than standing in a downpour while using a pay phone, should I need to make a call. None of our other targets carried one, so it was somewhat of a novelty. I was given a thirty-second primer on how to use the brick-sized phone. I’m not a tech wizard, but figured I could handle a phone. How difficult could it be?
Once again, the time for the deal came and went—no drugs. I was dealing directly with Eric and kept pressing him to put it together. Eric laid the blame on Craig, who, according to Eric, was having trouble connecting with Caesar. It was frustrating. I had a number of agents tied up, and as the sun was setting, they were getting a little annoyed. Besides, the rain made for less-than-ideal conditions to sit in a car while waiting for the go sign. For those in the surveillance van outside Eric’s Wilshire-area residence, it was especially uncomfortable.
Finally, I had waited long enough. I called Eric and ranted at his ineffectiveness. I was irritated and let him know it. In frustration, he told me to call Craig directly and gave me Craig’s number. Thinking Eric had hung up, I immediately dialed Craig. I was recording the call and put a quick preamble on it, giving the date and time and announcing I was calling Craig at the number Eric provided.
What I didn’t realize was that I had forgotten to push the end button on the phone. Eric was still on the line and heard my abbreviated preamble. He immediately called my informant.
I spoke with Craig, who explained the delay and promised the coke would arrive within the hour. As soon as I hung up the phone, the informant called. “You blew it,” he said. “It’s over. Eric thinks you’re a cop. He heard what you said before you called Craig.”
The informant was right: I did blow it. My patience had worn thin, and I stepped out of character without thinking. To recover, I went on the offensive. I turned on the recorder and immediately called Eric. Practically screaming at him, I asked what the problem was. He repeated verbatim exactly what he heard me say. I then said, “What time is it?” He told me the time. I said, “Yeah, and a few minutes ago I did exactly what you said. I looked at my watch and was griping about the time and repeated the number as I dialed Craig. Just like you told me!” Then I told him I spoke with Craig, and the coke would be delivered within the hour. If he wanted out, then he should step out now, I told him, because once I did the deal with Craig, I wasn’t cutting him in for a piece. The offensive strategy worked and greed overcame common sense, as it does so often. Eric invited me over to his place to wait for the cocaine. I breathed a long sigh of relief.
When Eric answered the door, paranoia suddenly consumed him. He pointed to a van parked in front of his residence most of the day. He still contemplated calling off the deal. His instincts were correct but he had the wrong van; ours was parked just up the street, capturing in a photo him referencing the suspicious, but innocent, vehicle.
Shortly after I got over to Eric’s, Craig arrived. Caesar came a short time later with the five keys I ordered. I did a quick examination of the product and was satisfied. I told the three the money was in my car and left Eric’s, heading toward the sidewalk. Once outside the residence, I gave the sign and the arrest team moved in.
They quickly took Craig and Caesar into custody and seized the five kilos. Eric decided to play desperado and rushed into his bedroom, concealing himself behind his bed with his 9 millimeter locked and loaded. But within a few minutes, he came to his senses and surrendered.
We worked through the night and into the next day, arresting two others who supplied Caesar. All five eventually pleaded guilty in federal court to various narcotics conspiracy counts.
Following the Corvette out to Coconut Grove, I wondered if Paul Zipszer ever owned a nightclub.
28
PREDATORS OUT ON THE TOWN
Sam from Miami, who had been a NAMBLA member since the early eighties, had debilitating arthritis and walked with a cane. A Navy veteran from World War II, he was a retired schoolteacher. He taught in North Carolina and Florida and proudly stated that one of his students was the first female Supreme Court justice in North Carolina.
In an effort to make conversation, Sam asked, “Are you into the performing arts?” I lied and said yes. He then went on to explain that the local boys’ choir was far better than even the Vienna Boys’ Choir. He enjoyed watching them perform: “all those young prepubescent boys.” And I thought he went for the music.
As we rode along in my rented Dodge partymobile, I wished I had brought one of the CDs I used to provide my own personal soundtrack for investigations. Even if nobody but me got to enjoy the irony, I loved nothing better than to have Elvis’s “Jailhouse Rock” blasting when a suspect was riding with me. I remember on at least one occasion when two subjects were literally dancing in their seats as I cranked up the King to full volume. His “Suspicious Minds” lyrics also played well: “We’re caught in a trap. . . .” Of course, the late, great Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” was another song I enjoyed humming as a target sat in my passenger seat.
Since I’m a big country and western fan, Charlie Daniels provided some great lines for my personal musical score. While targeting a Vietnamese gang member who rode in my car several times, Daniels’s “Still in Saigon” was frequently on my stereo. For one target I often cued Daniels’s song “Uneasy Rider” to a particular line. Every time the subject entered my car and I turned on the engine, the first line he heard was, “He’s an undercover agent for the FBI.” My favorite accompaniment, though, was during the purchase of two kilograms of high-quality crystal methamphetamine, when Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes softly serenaded us with “If you don’t know me by now. . . .”
Probably my best hint was actually a Christmas card picture, which went to my NAMBLA correspondents. The photograph showed me, “Robert from California,” seated in a chair with a blanket across my lap. I was smiling at the camera, sending out holiday greetings to all my pedophile buddies. When I showed the picture to my FBI colleagues, they roared with laughter.
The blanket had an emblem in the center, folded in half across my lap: the FBI seal. But because it was folded in half, or maybe because I was so handsome, none of my NAMBLA pals ever realized I was flashing my government credentials at them in my Christmas card photo.
I once joked with a prosecutor that I gave clues to my true identity in nearly every meeting with a target. I’m confident that had the higher-ups in Washington or the shrinks who evaluated me every six months learned of my flirtations with discovery, they would have pulled me from the assignment or at the very least strongly counseled me toward a wiser path. I don’t know, I guess it was a combination of ego and my constant search for the next adrenaline rush. I wanted to make the job a little harder, maybe—increase the “degree of difficulty,” just to see if I could still pu
ll it off. No doubt, I’d be an analyst’s dream—grist for several articles in some headshrinker journal.
We arrived at Coconut Grove, parked in a lot several blocks from the center of town, and made our way to the preplanned meeting spot, the Coco Walk Mall. It was a clear night and the warm breeze blowing off the Atlantic made for a perfect evening.
The streets were crowded with the beautiful people of South Florida. As we gathered near the mall, I was faced with one of the tougher aspects of this assignment from an undercover perspective. I am an unabashedly heterosexual male—happily and faithfully married for many years, but nonetheless a healthy heterosexual. The women parading up and down Grand Avenue were gorgeous! Or, at least, I think they were. Many appeared to be celebrating the unusually warm evening by wearing provocative clothing designed more for a beach volleyball tournament. It was a major chore to keep from staring. It took every bit of discipline I learned in the Marine Corps to keep my eyes front and center, maintaining eye contact with whatever boy lover friend was attempting to engage me in conversation.
As we waited for the others, David Mayer and David R. Busby engaged in their own version of The Dating Game. Two preteen boys crossed our paths and the men immediately chose their imaginary dates for the evening. “Do you like solids or stripes?” The choice was based upon the shirts the boys were wearing. The game went on throughout the night. As one of the BLs spotted a youngster, the call would go out: “Oh, look at the kid in the number thirty-two jersey!” “Look, look, the striped shirt at three o’clock.” They were like high school sophomores sneaking a peak at cheerleader tryouts.
In between the voyeurism, other topics included David R. Busby’s discourse on an area resident who was caught in an online sting operation. He also spoke about Sam Lindblad being caught in some type of undercover snare.
With “Jailhouse Rock” racketing inside my head, I suggested that if I hosted next year’s conference I would like to invite an FBI agent to speak to the group about how the Bureau captures online predators. I said we should all dress up like Boy Scout leaders and convince the agent we have the boys’ best interests at heart. I also suggested we each bring a prosecutable image of child pornography with us and as soon as the FBI agent turned his head we would swap it right under his nose. My suggestion drew a big laugh, but Todd agreed we could learn a lot with such a presentation by the Bureau.
