The Last Undercover

by Bob Hamer

  It was a conversation that would almost guarantee conviction, if played before a jury.

  The rest of the afternoon’s topics ranged from deep to light. At one point, I tried to lead the discussion toward whether boy lovers could be cured. David never responded directly, but did say, “Life certainly would be a lot easier if I was heterosexual. . . . Life would be a piece of cake . . . but that’s not the case.”

  Todd asked about favorite TV stars, asserting that David’s was Haley Joel Osment. I went with my standby—“Ricky Schroder, Silver Spoons” —and Todd responded with a breathy, “Oh, yeah. Mm-mm!” Then Todd talked about a commercial he saw on TV before his flight left: “This morning, I saw a Sylvan Learning Center commercial while I was eating breakfast, and I just about fell out of my chair. This boy on, I guess a national commercial—you have to see it! I replayed the thing, slowed it down, and froze it.”

  In one final admission of guilt, Todd responded to my comment that I didn’t think what we were about to do in Mexico should even be considered criminal. Todd said, “Well, by society’s standards, about as criminal as it gets. But, we still feel good about it. Sadly enough, if you go to prison for doing what we’re about to do, you’re viewed as being just about as despicable as it can get. You know, in prison, [among] the prison population, you’re lucky to come out alive.”

  The rain continued, making even a drive to a restaurant for dinner a fool’s mission. We decided to dine downstairs and remain close in case Paul needed us. We had a leisurely dinner with little, if any, criminal conversation and headed back to our respective rooms preparing for tomorrow’s “life-changing experience.”

  That evening I contacted my Los Angeles case agent and learned that Sam Lindblad, Dick Stutsman, Steve Irvin, and Greg Nusca, aka David R. Busby, had arrived in L.A. and had met with other undercover agents posing as fellow travelers and travel agency personnel. In fewer than twelve hours, we would learn the success of the undercover operation.

  It was another restless night. I never got more than one or two hours of sleep at a stretch. I kept replaying the investigation over and over in my mind—how it all began, where it led, and what insights I gained. I also rehearsed what would happen in the morning. The Los Angeles arrests were scheduled for 6:00 AM, when the travelers there boarded the boat. I had to wait until 10:00 AM, the four-hour difference supposedly being the time it would take the boat to travel from L.A. to San Diego. I was worried that those four hours just allowed that much longer for David, Todd, or Paul to withdraw from the conspiracy.

  It rained throughout the night, at times pounding on the sliding glass door that connected my room to the balcony. No person in his right mind would board a boat for a casual cruise to Ensenada in this weather! There was nothing I could do but perhaps have a suitable alternative available, should they balk at taking the boat.

  I decided to make a preemptive strike and offer to drive everyone across the border in a rental car. My reasoning would be that it would be more difficult for the authorities to trace us in a rental car, and as long as we remained calm while being questioned—if in fact we were questioned—we would merely be tourists. It seemed like a plausible solution and possibly the only one I had. I also believed it would still circumstantially demonstrate the firm desire these men had to travel to Mexico in order to engage in sex with minors. Of course, getting on a boat in inclement weather might also make the same point to a jury.

  I spoke with my Los Angeles case agent early Saturday morning and learned that all four L.A. travelers had been taken into custody without incident as they were about to board the boat. Jeff Devore would be arrested later in the day, on the charge of distributing child pornography.

  Before parting ways with Todd and David Mayer the night before, the three of us set a time to meet for breakfast. As I made my way into the dining room, which also held numerous FBI surveillance agents, I was pleased to see David, Todd, and Paul, who was back among the living and ready to join us on the journey. I was wearing a bright, multicolored shirt given to me by a friend from Africa. It seemed festive and made me easily identifiable should the arrest scene turn into chaos. David, however, had outdone me in the selection of his ensemble for the day: his pink short-sleeve shirt and lime green pants were over the top. Together, we made quite the fashion statement.

  We engaged in light conversation throughout breakfast, joking about being part of next year’s NAMBLA Christmas card project and naming our favorite prison songs. Todd was absolutely giddy, like a schoolgirl preparing for her first prom. I told the group that I had spoken to Sean, and he was on the boat heading south for San Diego with the other travelers; in other words, all was right with the world, even as the rains continued. When I offered to drive the group across the border, everyone balked, suggesting it was too dangerous. They were clearly ready to board the boat, regardless of the weather.

  We agreed to meet in the lobby, check out, and head over to the boat ramp for the 10:00 AM pick up. As we were waiting for everyone to complete the checkout process, I took a prearranged call from my “friend,” a final piece of stage business. I relayed his “message” to the others: the boat was nearing the dock. David remarked that it was right on time, and I headed to my car.

  The plan called for me to drive the travelers just a short distance, from the hotel to the boarding-area parking lot, where I had allegedly arranged to leave my car during our trip. I pulled my undercover Lexus in front of the hotel to pick up the group and assisted them as we loaded luggage in the trunk. Jokingly, David, feigning concern for my health, said to Todd and me, “Now, if the two of you want to stay here at the hotel and get through the recovery, Paul and I will get through this by ourselves.” With a straight face, I replied, “But wouldn’t that take us out of the conspiracy?” David responded, “No, don’t worry about that, it’s too late!”

  He was right—it was.

  My passengers were unaware that in the background, on my car stereo, Linda Eder was singing “The Children of Eve,” a song she helped write “to comment on children caught in the crossfire of physical abuse, starvation, and war.” It seemed more appropriate than “Jailhouse Rock.”

  It took less than three minutes to drive to the boarding ramp. Paul was unusually quiet; Todd and David seemed oblivious.

  FBI agents don’t believe in fair fights; we want to overwhelmingly out-man and out-gun the opposition. I knew that more than a dozen agents had concealed themselves, waiting to spring a trap set in motion years earlier.

  We exited the car and retrieved our bags from the trunk. As we headed through the rain toward the boat dock, the arrest plan was executed to perfection. Agents jumped out from behind trees, bushes, and buildings. All four of us were taken into custody. If it were Hollywood, I would report that all three subjects ran, a foot pursuit erupted, and shots were fired, but like most arrests, this was uneventful—the best kind.

  Two SWAT agents, friends from my squad, arrested me. I dropped my crutch, feigned collapse, and was caught before I hit the wet pavement. In what I can only describe—with utmost modesty—as an Oscar-worthy performance, I sobbed fake tears as the two agents cuffed me and dragged me to their car. My SWAT team buddies fought back laughter, unprepared for my antics. I was so caught up in my theatrics that I didn’t learn until later that the other three were arrested “without incident.”

  I honestly worried that at the arrest I really would get emotional. I had poured myself into this investigation, fighting near-constant urges to inflict my own brand of justice on the men we targeted, while simultaneously balancing two other undercover operations fraught with their own administrative headaches—finally incurring physical illness requiring hospitalization.

  But a sense of relief was the main thing I felt, as well as a profound sense of satisfaction. Of the twenty-plus undercover operations in which I participated as the undercover agent, this was the most rewarding. Even though there were no real boys involved in this particular sting, I truly believe we saved
lives. We saved boys I may never know or ever see from going through the hell of abuse and exploitation. It was well worth the effort.

  Next, though, we had to successfully negotiate the case through the courts.

  45

  AFTER THE ARRESTS

  Once the targets were in custody, my first worry was about David Mayer and the ease with which he had implicated himself in our conversations. I held my breath while awaiting the results of his interview, dreading he would proclaim his innocence with some proof of a study or dissertation he was conducting. My fears were unfounded; he “lawyered up.”

  Unlike on TV, we don’t “close by arrest” and move on to a new episode next week. Although the undercover operation was successful, the judicial process awaited. My work was not complete.

  The investigation netted eight members of NAMBLA:

  Sam Lindblad, former schoolteacher and steering committee member

  Gregory Nusca, aka David R. Busby, steering committee member

  Steven K. Irvin, special education teacher

  Richard Stutsman, businessman/substitute schoolteacher/mentor

  Jeffrey Devore, ordained minister/chiropractor

  David Cory Mayer, psychologist/international flight attendant

  Phillip Todd Calvin, dentist

  Paul Ernest Zipszer, personal trainer/warehouse worker

  We were surprised that following the arrest there was no known immediate communication between the members and NAMBLA leadership, notifying them of the sting operation and arrests. In fact, it was not until the next issue of the Bulletin , published five months later, that there was even a public acknowledgement of the arrests.

  An article, less than a full page, distanced the organization from the criminal acts. Appearing on page thirteen of the nineteen-page publication and lacking even a headline or byline, the article seemed more of an afterthought. It stated that during the Miami conference, “a police operative (perhaps an FBI agent) initiated contact with some of the attendees during the ‘off hours.’” The “police operative later inveigled the men” to join him on a trip to Mexico. Describing the members arrested as “extremely naïve,” the article called the undercover operation a “classic entrapment” for which the men would “bear a heavy burden.” The unnamed writer cautioned members of potential sting operations and explained the federal law. Minimizing the offenders’ criminal actions and intent, the article warned that “no victims are needed to prove the case, only a demonstration that one intended to travel overseas and thought about doing something naughty while there.” As with Peter Melzer’s characterization of murderer Charles Jaynes—who suffocated Jeffrey Curley, sexually assaulted the body, and threw the deceased child off a bridge—as a “real decent guy,” anal and oral sex with prepubescent boys apparently falls into NAMBLA’s category of “naughty.”

  The seven-paragraph article, “A Report & Proposal from the Steering Committee,” appeared within a section of the Bulletin titled “Spotlight.” Of significance was a three-paragraph notation carrying the subhead “Conferences & Membership.” According to the report, the general membership conferences were “labor intensive” and afforded “the seasoned leadership . . . little opportunity to address a wider public.” The steering committee was “considering having fewer General Membership Conferences, and then only when there is a compelling reason to meet.” The article went on to say, “We have always been a convenient target for right-wing ideologues and fanatics. The virulence of the opposition is evidence of the power of our message. We trust their venom will have the contrary effect of empowering, inspiring and strengthening the force of our movement. We are confident our members and supporters will rise to the task.”

  It sounded to me as if Peter Melzer and his cronies were making a virtue of necessity. But whatever their motivation, in this case I was proud to identify myself with the “right-wing ideologues and fanatics.”

  I hoped all the defendants would plead guilty. The evidence against each of them seemed overwhelming, and I thought it doubtful any would choose to air in front of a jury the recorded conversations in which they discussed their prior sexual history and their sexual desires for the boys they believed to be awaiting them in Ensenada.

  Guilty pleas came rather quickly from Greg Nusca, Steve Irvin, Jeff Devore, and, to my surprise, Dick Stutsman. If anyone chose to fight, I assumed it would be Stutsman, who had laid out his defense plans to me in our February 1 phone call.

  My initial assessment of Nusca at Johnny Rockets during the Miami conference was correct. He had previously offended. He had a prior conviction and was sentenced to fourteen years. Devore received the minimum mandatory sentence for distributing child pornography, five years. Irvin had no criminal record and was sentenced to thirty-seven months.

  The San Diego defendants circled the wagons and rode the coattails of David Mayer’s retained attorney, who, along with Todd’s lawyer, filed several motions challenging my initial infiltration of the organization. They claimed that the government—specifically, Bob Hamer—had violated the defendants’ First Amendment right of freedom of association and their Fifth Amendment right to avoid self-incrimination by engaging in “gross governmental misconduct.” In one motion, David’s attorney admitted “Mr. Mayer and his co-defendants belong to an organization that is hated for espousing beliefs that are distasteful to virtually all in American society. Yet, despite the repugnance of their beliefs, they are entitled to the same First Amendment and other constitutional protections as anyone else.”

  In characterizing my behavior as “gross governmental misconduct,” the attorney wrote, “It is shocking that the undercover agent, realizing that Mr. Mayer would not take part in illegal conduct with underage boys in this country, would go to such lengths to instigate the criminal activity by suggesting conduct that would be tolerated by local police in a foreign land.”

  My personal favorite line in the motions filed by the defense was the allegation that I “inappropriately played on Mr. Mayer’s psychological condition.” The attorney never quite defined his client’s “psychological condition,” but the client to whom he referred was in fact a Ph.D. and a practicing psychologist. I never even took psychology in college. I admit to having a bit more than my share of self-confidence, but I must be better than even I thought.

  Just prior to the evidentiary hearing on the motion, both Todd and Paul entered into a plea agreement and changed their pleas to guilty. Each was sentenced to twenty-four months. David Mayer remained the sole San Diego defendant at the table. Anne Perry presented the case for the government and we were most fortunate to have drawn Federal District Court Judge Jeffrey T. Miller. He saw through the smoke and mirrors of the defense motions and ruled against them. After that, David Mayer had very few weapons remaining in his legal arsenal, and was subsequently sentenced to thirty-seven months.

  Los Angeles defendant Sam Lindblad, a three-time convicted sex offender, also chose to fight the charges. Even a guilty plea meant a possible lifetime period of incarceration, so he had little to lose by going to trial.

  It is difficult to put into words the roller coaster ride I was on throughout the week of December 12. Although I have had longer trials, spent more time on the stand, and was subjected to more rigorous cross-examination, I fought to keep my emotions in check.

  Within three weeks I would be retired from a twenty-six-year career with the FBI. I would no longer carry the badge and gun that had become like parts of me. Although I joked about it with family and friends, every time the phone rang throughout my career I thought it could be that one great undercover assignment that would make Mel Gibson or Bruce Willis jealous—full of danger, excitement, and intrigue.

  Now I knew that call would never come. I also knew the upcoming trial was one of the most important of my career. Sam Lindblad was a predator who needed to spend the rest of his life in jail. I had a major role in seeing to it he never saw the daylight of freedom again, and I wanted more than anything to go out with th
is win under my belt.

  On Sunday I drove up to Los Angeles from my San Diego home and spent the evening in a hotel, listening again to my recording of the January 6 dinner conversation with Lindblad in Albuquerque. The next day I was to meet with the prosecutors to prepare for the trial. Even though I had dealt with hundreds of federal prosecutors during my career, I had never met the two Assistant United States Attorneys handling the Lindblad matter. I would soon learn that their excellent reputations were well earned.

  On Monday, I met with Tom O’Brien and Jennifer Corbett. Tom was the chief of the Criminal Division and had the final say on all prosecutions coming out of the Central District of California. Never had the “chief” ever gone to trial in any of my cases, and I had been involved in some major investigations.

  My confidence level rose immensely as soon as I met Tom. A Naval Academy graduate and former naval flight officer—Tom had been a backseater in an F-14—he left the Navy, became a prosecutor in the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office, and prosecuted hundreds of gang-related cases before jumping to the federal system. My first question to him when we met was why. Why was he assisting in this case? His answer was brief and said it all: he had a son.

  I spent the morning explaining my role in the investigation and giving him my insights into NAMBLA. We were joined in the afternoon by Jennifer Corbett. She had an outstanding grasp of the investigation. A Yale Law School graduate from New York, she spent most of her time in the U.S. Attorney’s office prosecuting federal sex offense cases. Her self-confidence was evident and refreshing. She, too, was more than ready for this trial. The burden was now on me to prepare myself for tomorrow’s testimony.

  Prior to leaving for the day, I accompanied Jennifer to the courtroom of Federal District Court Judge Nora N. Manella. Judge Manella, a former United States Attorney before being appointed by President Clinton to the federal bench, would be presiding over the Lindblad trial starting the next day. This afternoon, however, she was sentencing Richard Stutsman, who had pleaded guilty several months earlier. Because of federal sentencing guidelines, the sentence was no surprise. Stutsman, who had no prior convictions, was sentenced to thirty-seven months in prison, a $7,500 fine, and to seven years’ federal probation upon completion of the prison term. The sentence was far less than I thought he deserved, but I was even more disappointed when the judge seemed to characterize the contemplated sex acts as consensual and the price of the trip as minimal, almost enticing, almost a “sex light” type of crime. The implication was that tomorrow’s trial might not be as easy as we would hope.