by Tim Wood
Criminals
&
Presidents
The Adventures of a Secret Service Agent
Tim Wood
AuthorHouse™
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© 2016 Tim Wood. All rights reserved.
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This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.
Published by AuthorHouse 03/04/2016
ISBN: 978-1-5049-8369-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-5049-8367-9 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-5049-8368-6 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016903681
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Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1 The Snitch
Chapter 2 Getting to Las Vegas
Chapter 3 “I Have a High-Powered Rifle”
Chapter 4 An Easy Mark
Chapter 5 Lucky Cargill
Chapter 6 Joe the Cubs Fan
Chapter 7 100 Percent Cotton Paper
Chapter 8 A Biker Gang Reject
Chapter 9 “Looked a Lot Like Eddie Murphy”
Chapter 10 Nigerians in My Backyard
Chapter 11 The Boston Patriot
Chapter 12 Leroy’s Race and Sports Book
Chapter 13 Forty-Two
Chapter 14 The Frenchman and The Dude
Chapter 15 Redemption
Chapter 16 The Supreme Court of the United States
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
For Maggie
Author’s Note
If you’ve ever had the pleasure of sitting in a bar with a naval aviator and listening to the tales of flying a high-performance tactical jet aircraft, then you know, when he starts a story with the line “This is a true story. No shit,” that you are about to be entertained.
During my tour of duty fighting crime in Las Vegas, Nevada, I had the pleasure of working with a small group of outstanding Secret Service agents. I was assigned to the Las Vegas Resident Agency from March 1, 1987, until June 16, 1991. During that time other agents assigned to the office transferred out and transferred in. The character “Donnie” is 75 percent Special Agent Ron Weiss and 25 percent Special Agent B. J. Flowers. Ron arrived at the Las Vegas Resident Agency shortly after my transfer in, and he was present during my entire tour of duty in the desert. My old buddy B.J. was in Las Vegas when I arrived and he left within a year, to be replaced by none other than the best friend any man could have—Special Agent Mike Fithen, aka the Beaver.
We went through three resident agents—the boss—during my tenure in Vegas; they kept getting promoted to higher grades, which meant a transfer, and they didn’t seem to hang around too long. That’s what happens when a supervisor has a good team working for him, he gets promoted. I was blessed with good supervisors, Chuck Brewster, Tom Spurlock, and the King of Fraud—Earl Devaney.
We worked with a group of outstanding assistant United States attorneys assigned to the United States Attorney’s Office for the District of Nevada at Las Vegas. The character T.J. is a combination of L. J. O’Neale, Rick Pocker, Anne Perry, Russ Mayer, Camille Chamberlain, Paul Wommer, and Howard Zlotnick.
But without the Redhead, my wife of thirty-two years, none of this would have happened. She’s the one who urged me to reapply with the Secret Service after my first application was rejected due to a hiring freeze.
This is a true story. No shit.
Chapter 1
The Snitch
When the bedside telephone rang in the middle of the night, I was usually pretty quick about waking up from a dead sleep and grabbing it before it rang a second time. After-hours phone calls were a way of life in the US Secret Service at the Las Vegas Resident Agency, and I think my reaction was plain old rote memory. Some nights, depending on what time it was and at which stage of sleep my feeble brain was in, I might miss the handle with my palm and just knock it off the cradle. But for the most part, I’d gotten real good at slapping it before that second ring.
And that’s exactly what happened when the telephone rang at two that morning. My right arm made a big roundhouse swing from the middle of the bed over my chest and my hand slapped the receiver right out of the cradle. And I knocked the frickin’ nightstand lamp on the floor with it.
Old Gus, our Labrador retriever, started barking and jumping up and down like he had just hit a royal flush, his mind no doubt on an early morning run or breakfast. Meanwhile, I was stumbling around next to the bed, in the dark of course—trying to find the telephone receiver, trying to keep one hand on Gus’s collar and quiet him down, trying my best to make as little noise as possible, trying to be a good husband and not wake up the Redhead—when the nightstand lamp on her side of the bed came on.
I found the receiver and the Redhead grabbed Gus. They both disappeared down the hallway.
“Hello.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Donnie with a laugh. “Are you okay?”
My brain wasn’t quite in full gear just yet; I still had that “sleep fog” going for me. I snapped out of it when I heard Donnie’s voice.
“Yeah,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I hate to do this to you,” he told me, “But the Beaver and I are at the Sahara working on an ‘in custody’ for cashing a stolen T-check with a counterfeit license, and Hilton Security just called with a counterfeit one hundred. They’ve got a suspect in custody. Can you run down to the Hilton and handle that for me?”
Donnie was a GS-13; he was the older guy in our meager staff of three agents. He’d already done a permanent protection detail, and this was his second tour in a field office working criminal investigations. That meant he was filling his “brag” sheet with a lot of “I did this” and “I did that” bullshit, looking for a promotion to GS-14. The Beaver and I were just GS-9s with only three years in the Secret Service. For Donnie, every case had the potential to be the big one, that whopping caper that would pull him over the top to a promotion. The Beaver and I just wanted to arrest bad guys.
“I checked the counterfeit when I was on the phone with the Hilton and it’s that Colombian note,” Donnie said, “We’ve been getting hit real hard with those.” No shit, the entire Secret Service was getting hammered with that Colombian counterfeit hundred-dollar bill.
“Yep,” I said, “I’m on my way.”
That was Las Vegas in the 1980s; three Secret Service agents working their butts off in that 24/7 gambling oasis in the desert. I pulled on my Las Vegas uniform—blue jeans, cowboy boots, and an untucked Hawaiian shirt to conceal my Smith and Wesson
Model 19 and handcuffs.
The Redhead was back in bed when I walked out of the bathroom. I kissed her goodbye and told her I’d see her when I see her. Gus followed me to the garage door; I rubbed his head and said, “Go back to bed, buddy; it’s too early for breakfast.” I jumped in my G-ride, a beautiful white IROC-Z Chevy Camaro, and drove to the Las Vegas Hilton.
The Hilton security officers had a fifty-one-year-old female tourist from Denver sitting in their suspect interview room. Her husband was sitting in the security office lobby when I walked in. I took a good look at him as I walked by; he looked like your typical run-of-the-mill retired postal worker. Jean was very cooperative with me and I got the feeling right away that she wasn’t a counterfeiter.
She gave me permission to search her purse and I found close to a thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. I examined each one and they were all genuine Federal Reserve notes (FRNs) printed by the US Treasury. I asked her if she had any idea where she got the counterfeit note. “No,” she told me, “Ernie went to the bank this morning before we left and got five one-hundred-dollar bills in cash for our trip.” The chances of a bank giving out a counterfeit note to a customer were slim; not beyond happening, but it would be a very rare exception if a bank didn’t catch it as counterfeit.
I asked her where she’d been gambling that day. “We were here at the Hilton, we went by the Sands for a while, the Holiday, the Stardust and Sully’s, then back here.” She smiled real big and continued, “I hit an eleven-hundred-dollar jackpot at Sully’s right after dinner!”
Sully’s. Frickin’ Sully’s!
There were two or three casinos in Las Vegas that never sent our office counterfeit notes, or at least their banks never sent us the counterfeit notes. Sully’s was one of those. We had surmised for a long time that Sully’s was just passing any counterfeit notes they took back to the public; we had no proof of that, and there wasn’t much we could do or wanted to do about it. It was just odd that we never got any counterfeit from Sully’s.
I walked out to the lobby of the security office and, after identifying myself to Mr. Ernie; I asked if I could examine the cash in his wallet. Ernie had six one-dollar bills and a five-dollar bill. “That’s all the cash you have?” I asked him.
“Hey,” he said, “you must not be married.” I liked his sense of humor. Then he said to me, “What’s gonna happen to Jean?”
“That all depends,” I said, “but first, I have to make sure she’s not the reincarnated Bonnie Parker.” I didn’t think he got my wisecrack because he gave me a quizzical frown. “Have a seat and relax,” I said. “I just need to check a couple of more things. Do you have any objection to me searching your hotel room?”
“No, no! None at all! Whatever you need,” he replied. “We want to cooperate with you. I know you’re just doing your job.”
Jean and Ernie were staying at the Hilton, and she gave me written consent to search their room. A casino security officer went up with me and I did a thorough search of their belongings and didn’t find any incriminating evidence. Nothing to indicate she or Ernie were in the counterfeiting business. However, from the looks of the contents of Jean’s suitcase, ol’ Ernie was in for a wild time in room 1487! I hoped the old guy was up for it.
Back at the security office I seized the Colombian counterfeit hundred-dollar bill and wrote Jean a Secret Service “receipt for contraband.”
“How do I get my one hundred dollars back?” she asked me. That was probably the number one question most innocent passers asked. “You don’t,” I told her. “That’s why it’s against the law. It’s worthless; Uncle Sam didn’t print it. The last person holding a counterfeit note is out of luck.” Jean cocked her head and began to protest, but stopped short and I could see in her eyes she was beginning to realize she was a victim.
I walked out to my Camaro and glanced at my watch. It was close to five-fifteen in the morning. I fired up the IROC-Z and turned the air conditioner on full blast. I picked up my Motorola handset for the radio and called to see if Donnie or the Beaver were in their cars, “Hey, anybody out there?”
The Beaver answered up, “Did you do any good?”
“Naw, innocent pass. You need some help?”
“I’m with Donnie; whattaya think?” Obviously Donnie was not on the air and the Beaver loved to bust Donnie’s balls. “Meet us at Binion’s for breakfast and we’ll fill you in. Donnie’s buying.”
The Beaver was a big guy, a little over six foot and about two-eighty. He had a massive chest and arms. He was a power lifter and could easily squat six hundred pounds. He got his nickname when he started on the job in the Los Angeles Field Office (LAFO). He had brownish-red hair, a hint of freckles, and those cute dimples when he smiled. He was the spitting image of Theodore Cleaver. In the face, anyway.
I remember one Monday morning, I walked into to his office with a cup of coffee and asked about his weekend. “Good,” he said. “I went to Reno for the powerlifting championships. I won my age class, benched four-fifty.” Benched 450 pounds! Are you kidding me? We worked out at the gym every day, and I didn’t realize he was training for a competition. “I wasn’t,” he said. “I just entered on a whim. I was just looking to get out of Vegas for the weekend with my angel. So we drove up to Reno.”
I met Donnie and the Beaver at the main restaurant in Binion’s Horseshoe Hotel and Casino downtown on Fremont Street. Donnie was wound up (which wasn’t unusual) and he ordered his normal healthy breakfast of granola and yogurt. The Beaver and I had T-bone steak and eggs…with home fries and toast, for a buck and change. That was one of the great things about Vegas in the eighties, really good cheap eats.
Donnie said he and the Beaver “rolled” the suspect, she had agreed to work for us and introduce an undercover agent to the suspects. “No shit,” I said. “We haven’t had a good caper like that it a while. So what happened?”
The girl’s name was Tammy. She was twenty-three years old with bleached blonde hair and Donnie said she could use some braces. Tammy claimed she was just hanging out at the downtown casinos killing time playing video poker machines, although they didn’t believe that for one minute; based on her attire, chances were good she was a prostitute.
She said around eight the previous night a guy named Roland had approached her at the bar at the Horseshoe Casino. Tammy said she’d met Roland about three or four months ago and she had cashed a check for him. Roland paid her fifty dollars for cashing the check and she claimed that was the only time she’d seen Roland. Tonight Roland again offered her fifty dollars to cash a check for him and she said, “What the heck; I could use an extra fifty bucks.”
Donnie said he asked Tammy if the first check she cashed for Roland was a Treasury check and she innocently asked, “What’s a Treasury check?”
The Beaver looked at me and said, “She’s not the sharpest crayon in the box.”
Tammy insisted she didn’t know anything else about Roland. She said she didn’t have a telephone number for him and she didn’t know his last name or where he lived. She thought he was a heroin addict, though, because he wore long-sleeved shirts and he was super fidgety.
Tammy said Roland took her to a photo booth in the Horseshoe and had her take four photos of herself. She said the first time she cashed a check for him, Roland had approached her at the El Cortez Casino bar and he did the same thing. Tonight, she said he took the photos and told her to meet him at the main bar at the Fremont Casino at midnight. Tammy said she went to the Fremont and waited, but by twelve thirty Roland hadn’t shown up. She started to leave and as she navigated her way out through the casino, she ran smack-dab into him when he came out of the men’s room. Roland was with another guy named Paul. She’d never seen Paul before. They took her out to the parking garage and when they got in the garage stairwell, Paul handed her an envelope containing the check and the counterfeit driver’s license. Roland told her to meet him at the m
ain casino bar in the Four Queens at two o’clock in the afternoon and to bring all $365 from the proceeds of the check.
Tammy said Roland was a tall guy, maybe six foot two, about thirty with blondish hair and really bad skin. She said Paul was forty-five or so, short, just a bit taller than her, slicked-back black hair, and he was skinny as a rail.
They didn’t tell her where to cash the check and she didn’t think they’d followed her to the Sahara. This was important, because if Roland and Paul had seen her get pinched by casino security, all bets were off. If they knew she was arrested for cashing the check and didn’t go to jail, Roland and Paul wouldn’t get with in fifty feet of her again, and we wouldn’t be able to use her as an informant.
Donnie said they leaned on her pretty hard to make sure she was telling the truth. They gave it the old good cop, bad cop routine, with Donnie being her friend and the Beaver pretending she was lying. “She’s full of shit,” said Beaver to Donnie, right in front of her. “We’re wasting our time on this. Let’s just book her and go home.” Donnie patiently explained the perjury law to her, Title 18 United States Code Section 1001. It is a felony to lie to a federal agent. The Beaver took a bite of T-bone steak and chuckled, “I told her it was a big-time felony to lie to me.”
Once they decided she was being up front with them about the events leading to her arrest that night, they got in touch with the Sahara Casino security guys and reviewed the video from the casino surveillance cameras. Donnie said they could see Tammy walking around the Sahara Casino and up to the cashier’s cage to cash the check. They didn’t see anyone walking with her or near her, or anyone near the cage that appeared to be watching her.
Donnie told me they cut her loose at about five o’clock that morning and he gave her specific instructions to be at our office at noon and, most important, to talk to no one. Keep your mouth shut. Tight. Do not tell a soul that your little check-cashing scam went haywire and the cops interviewed you.
