by Bob Hamer
Robert
Steve responded that evening.
Robert,
Good to hear from you. Did wonder where you were. Glad to hear you’re doing okay and can make the cruise. I talked with [the undercover travel agent] and have arrangements to meet on Friday.
If I don’t talk to you before, I’ll see you on Saturday. Smile!
Steve
It was the last I heard from him.
Chief,” or “Schmohawk,” as David Mayer dubbed John the “gaytheist,” presented an interesting, if frustrating, issue. John was a two-time convicted sex offender and NAMBLA member. At the Miami conference, he even admitted to me he molested a third boy who did not cooperate with the police when questioned.
Shortly after returning from Miami, I sent a card to John, hoping to keep the lines of communication open, thinking I might be able to travel to San Francisco and determine whether he was currently involved in criminal activity. In the card I wrote,
John, It was so great meeting you this past week at the conference. Hope you had a good trip home. . . .
Maybe sometime if you ever get this way or I get up there we can get together and I’ll buy dinner. I’d love to just talk and share. Ever thought of traveling to some safe haven? We’re trying to put something together down south. A friend has been there and says it’s fabulous. Well, be safe. Happy Turkey Day . . . Robert
He did not respond to the note, and, as with those to whom I’d sent unanswered e-mails, I wasn’t even sure he provided me a correct address at the conference. John went on the back burner as the investigation heated up with David, Todd, and the others.
John’s Mohawk haircut and lack of personal hygiene habits kept him off the A-list as Todd and David Mayer discussed possible invitees. My mission, however, was not to please my two traveling companions but to target anyone willing to violate federal law. Given his record and admissions at the conference, we had plenty of predication to ask John. The issue was how to invite him without the others learning of the invitation. At Miami, he appeared more of a loner than the rest, and I doubted he was in communication with any of those who agreed to travel. I decided to take a chance and invite him, believing we could hide the invitation from the others.
In Miami, John provided a mailing address but no phone number or e-mail address. I reviewed the tapes from the conference and retrieved the name of the San Francisco residential hotel where he was staying. Directory assistance had no listing for John, but did have a number for the hotel. My first attempt to contact him via phone was unsuccessful. Although someone answered the phone by identifying the hotel, that person said there were no telephones in the rooms and I could not leave a message. It obviously wasn’t the Ritz.
My next effort was more successful. On January 20, I sent him a second card that mentioned the trip and included my glowing hopes for it. I included my cell phone number and awaited a call that never came. On January 27, though, I did receive a letter from John that seemed promising.
Hello Robert,
Since returning home here I have been very busy. I am very much involved in the Gay and Atheist life styles here in SF. . . .
You stated in your card you are trying to put something together “down South” and it’s “fabulous”? Whatever could that be?
Getting together with you sometime sounds just great. I want to talk and SHARE. I think we all need that release.
I just went down for my mail and found another card from you and as I read it and incorporate my answer to it I am watching the beautiful Steven [sic] King production of “IT” with all of those beautiful BOYS featured.
I love the idea of a “special vacation” for Feb 11 to 14. I am up for it. This letter will reach you prior to 1-31-5. Call me any night at midnight you will always reach me at that time. I do want to join you. That particular weekend is perfect.
All love,
John
It looked like we gained another traveler, but John’s letter failed to provide a phone number. Although there were no deadlines for the trip other than the actual day planned for the arrest, time was running out. Since it had taken him so long to respond to my letters, I wasn’t sure we could make the appropriate arrangements and get the necessary criminal admissions in place if we used snail mail. That day I sent a Federal Express letter to him.
John,
Got your letter but you never sent me a phone number. I need to talk to you about the “vacation.” I’ll certainly include you but I want to make sure you’re okay with all the details. This will be HEAVENLY DIVINE!!
Call me at [my phone number] or send me your number ASAP!!!!
Robert
Because John prided himself on his atheism, I included the “HEAVENLY DIVINE” bit as a subtle jab. By February 1, I still had not heard from him. I made two more attempts to contact the residential hotel and leave messages, saying it was important that I contact him. Whether he received the messages or not, I don’t know.
On February 7, he called and left a number on my voice mail. That evening, I returned the call, assuming we were about to add another defendant to our growing list of NAMBLA members. But it was not meant to be; he either sensed a sting or genuinely did not want to participate. When I provided the details of the trip and the fact that boys would be furnished for sexual favors, he declined. He cited his two prior convictions and reminded me that if caught he would spend the rest of his life in jail. I certainly could not argue with his reasoning and was careful to avoid entrapping him.
We provided the opportunity and he passed; it was as simple as that. Possibly, John’s prior convictions and the fear of going to prison again served as the deterrent it was meant to be. His reaction was certainly different than Dick Stutsman’s.
After I completed the call, I immediately phoned my San Diego case agent with the news. Although we thought we had another traveler, we did not. The effort was worthwhile, if for no other reason than to show a jury, should it become an issue, that some who were invited chose not to attend. In other words, those who came did so voluntarily and in full knowledge they were breaking the law.
42
FINAL PREPARATIONS
After my medical Waterloo on February 3, I sent e-mails to David Mayer and Todd, informing them of why I hadn’t been in contact for a few days. I assured them, though, that wild horses couldn’t drag me away from the pier where we would board the boat to “paradise.” I did want to provide a reasonable excuse for not joining a pretrip conference call, as requested by David. After all, I was exhausted from all the testing and medical procedures. I needed a few days’ rest in order to be ready for Friday, when Todd, David, and Paul arrived in San Diego. The Los Angeles office would be handling the L.A. travelers, which suited me fine; in my weakened state, I was glad we had not set it up so that I would have to be in L.A., as well.
January was a rainy month. February began dry, but soon the rains came. Several days before the scheduled departure of the travelers, a winter storm hit Southern California. The San Diego case agents asked me to attend the briefing on Thursday at the dock where the arrests were scheduled to take place on Saturday. I reluctantly went, though I was still recovering from whatever had just put me in intensive care for two days. We held the briefing outside, and it rained the entire time. Adding pneumonia to my other problems didn’t seem at all unlikely.
We arranged through hotel security for my room at the Hilton to be on a separate floor from the others. The room adjoining mine was also ours. Technical equipment was being installed as we briefed on the dock. Cameras and sound equipment would record my meetings the next day with David, Todd, and Paul. A surveillance team would monitor the meetings and provide security, if needed, but that was doubtful. Everything but the weather seemed to be falling into place.
I returned home after the briefing, hoping to get a good night’s sleep in preparation for the next day, but doubting sleep would ever come.
This case took several years of my life, and was exhausting p
hysically, emotionally, and mentally. It challenged all my resources of self-control and forced me to think about things personally disgusting in the extreme. I sat with pedophiles, smiling and encouraging them as they talked about their desires and wishes.
The NAMBLA case was especially difficult for me because there was no one—and I truly mean no one—I could sit down with and talk about the case in order to decompress; no one with whom I could share my frustrations, fears, and moral outrage. With my Bureau colleagues, I had to remain professional, focused, and factual, or risk being evaluated as some sort of liability to the investigation. And my wife let me know in no uncertain terms she was not emotionally prepared to chat with me about my adventures in the BL world. Not that I can blame her. I could talk with my son, but he was on the East Coast and face-to-face sit downs were impossible. But the point is, this case wore me out in a way I never thought could happen.
And now, within the next forty-eight hours, the final act would be played. By the end of the day on Saturday, we would either have a number of sexual predators in custody, or we would face the sickening realization that the last several years were for nothing. I was personally confident in our preparation, our procedures, and our eventual outcome. But I knew too well that once the case got into the courts—if it got that far—unexpected things could happen. I had only to remember the rude awakening we got in the case of Darrel, the Canadian heroin trafficker, to realize that many aspects of the case’s eventual outcome were beyond my control. That was the thing that kept me awake on Thursday night and into the wee hours of Friday morning as I awaited the moment when I would meet Todd, David, and Paul after their flights to San Diego.
By 5:30 AM, I gave up trying to sleep, so I showered and prepared for the most important day of this investigation. The rains increased, making road conditions hazardous and raising my fear the travelers would back out before the conspiracy was complete. After all, would even a boy lover, desperate for unrestrained sexual adventures south of the border, actually get on a boat during a driving rainstorm?
A legal issue was raised highlighting a conflict between the Los Angeles and San Diego Bureau offices. Los Angeles said the travelers had to board the boat; the San Diego U.S. Attorney’s office did not require it. The mere travel to and arrival in San Diego was all that was required for the San Diego office to demonstrate intent. It was understood that boarding the boat provided an extra piece of evidence, but that also meant each traveler had one more evening to ponder his fate and withdraw.
The law seemed clear to me. United States Code Title 18 Section 2423 (b) states, “Travel with intent to engage in illicit sexual conduct—A person who travels in interstate commerce . . . for the purpose of engaging in any illicit sexual conduct with another person [under the age of 18] shall be . . . imprisoned for not more than 30 years.”
So, to me, actually boarding the boat did not seem a necessary element of the statute. In a conspiracy, the subject can withdraw at any time prior to completion of the act. The policy of the U.S. Attorney’s office would probably prevent prosecution should any of the travelers decide to return home prior to boarding, especially if they expressed remorse. But what if the bad weather made them pull out, fearing for their safety on the boat? What if they thought they might get seasick and decided to postpone getting on the boat until the next excursion? My other concern was the fact the FBI brought to Southern California sexual predators and was allowing them to spend the night, when, in the legal opinion of some government attorneys, the crime had been completed. What if one of our travelers decided to seek sexual satisfaction with a juvenile the night before the arrest? None of these questions was answered to my satisfaction, but I was in no mood to argue. I resigned myself to the fact that on Friday, when my travelers arrived at the airport, the day was only beginning, and I had to insure their “safekeeping” for almost twenty-four hours.
I developed phlebitis at two of the injection sites for the IVs I received at the hospital. The veins had become inflamed, hardened, and quite painful. The doctor recommended wet-heat packs for half-hour periods every two hours. Clearly, I was not 100 percent. I certainly did not have to worry about acting or looking sick; I had lost about ten pounds while in the hospital and was gingerly eating soft foods. I looked weak because I was. However, as I drove to the Hilton San Diego Airport/Harbor Island hotel, I realized the heat packs could be used to my advantage.
I checked into the hotel in my undercover name and made my way to the room on the sixth floor. The surveillance agents were already in the adjacent room, and we examined the technical equipment. The room’s compactness insured I could concentrate all three subjects well within view of the hidden cameras. We rearranged the furniture, setting it up so I would stay out of the way as the camera focused on David, Todd, and Paul. It helped that an outlet was on the wall close to where my chair would be positioned, making it reasonable that I should always be seated in the same place so that I could plug in the heating pad for my moist-heat compresses.
We made our last-minute preparations. The surveillance teams were in place, the technical equipment was in working order, and I was ready to go. I strapped on the recording equipment and headed to the airport, less than half a mile from the hotel.
The American Airlines flight out of Dallas–Fort Worth was scheduled to arrive at 11:10 AM. When I pulled in front of the airport, my three friends from NAMBLA were eagerly awaiting. We greeted each other with hugs and drove back to the hotel.
It was clear I was not well, and all three examined my phlebitis-stricken arm. My hotel room provided the perfect venue for a relaxing afternoon. They were a somewhat captive audience; I needed to keep the compresses on my arm, their rooms weren’t “ready,” and the torrential rains persisted.
Once we settled in my room, a unique discussion took place, offering insights into not only the boy lover mentality but the child sex trade. Three relaxed sex offenders, believing they were safe from the inquiring minds of law enforcement, commenced a textbook look into the world of the sexual predator.
Since Paul had not been with us at Johnny Rockets restaurant in Coconut Grove, I was able to use that as my reason for having Todd and David repeat their travel experiences. There was no hesitation on the part of either man.
Todd was the first to share. Several years ago, he arranged a couple’s retreat for himself and his office staff in Jamaica. By the time the trip came around, he was going through his divorce, but chose to make the trip anyway. He flew alone in his airplane and met his staff and their spouses in Montego Bay.
One evening, Todd was at a local bar on the beach, having a beer and listening to music, when he saw “some people over on the beach, selling stuff.” He decided to investigate. He approached “this one old, black guy, who was probably in his sixties . . . [who] said, ‘What can I getcha—a man, a woman, a boy, a girl?’”
Paul, as shocked as I was, interjected, “He said that?”
“Actually, you know what? He didn’t. He said, ‘What do you want? Man? Woman?’ And I’m like, ‘Well, no, actually . . . that’s not what I want.’ I kind of beat around the bush. I was real uncomfortable, because I’d never done that before. And I finally said, ‘You know what, I want a boy.’”
The old man, whom Todd referred to as “the pimp,” said he could help and instructed Todd to follow him. It was late, “nine thirty, maybe ten o’clock,” and they took a cab to another bar. At this second bar, Todd gave the pimp seventy dollars and was told to wait. Todd did as instructed but questioned whether he would ever see the pimp or the money again. A short time later, to Todd’s surprise, the pimp did return, asking for more money. Todd reluctantly complied. The pimp escorted Todd to another cab, and in the backseat sat Charlie, an eleven-year-old boy. Todd told us he “wanted somebody like fifteen or sixteen, but this eleven-year-old looked pretty good.” Todd, Charlie, and the pimp then drove for a long time to what Todd described as a “really poor part of Jamaica.”
Paul interrupted ag
ain. “Aren’t you worried this guy is gonna rob you or something?”
Todd admitted he was afraid. He had about three hundred dollars in his wallet and knew that was a lot of money in Jamaica. They eventually arrived at “just a dump of a shack” and the pimp asked for more money. Todd had already paid $195 and refused to pay any more. They argued briefly and the pimp stormed off, leaving Todd and Charlie alone. At this point in the story, Todd mentioned that Charlie had a large open sore on the left side of his head, the result of a beating by the pimp. Todd, though a medical professional, didn’t offer to treat the wound or take the child for medical care. Instead, he offered this assessment: “Charlie’s a good-looking kid, except for this open place.”
Charlie took Todd into the house and suggested they could spend the night together in his bedroom. Todd said, “I walk in this room, and the bed, if you want to call it that, is just covered with stuff. . . . And it just looks really filthy, and just really scary. . . . There’s no way I’m gonna spend the night here.”
Charlie added to the suspense by informing Todd that the pimp killed people. Charlie even wanted to show Todd a skull that was buried in the back, just to reinforce how dangerous the pimp was. As this discussion took place, a car returned with, according to Charlie, the pimp’s girlfriend, who Todd believed was looking for him, perhaps to collect more money on orders from the pimp. Todd was terrified, fearful both he and Charlie might be killed. Todd began to panic and looked for a place to hide. When the opportunity arose, he and Charlie ran toward the highway. They found a cab and headed back toward the resort.
