by Tim Wood
“I printed the counterfeit,” he told me.
“Where?” I asked.
“In our garage,” he said.
“Can I see?”
We walked back outside and he opened the garage. I stood at the opening of the garage and peered in at a complete counterfeiting operation; an AB Dick 1200 offset printing press, cameras, and a huge plate maker. Junior said the printing equipment belonged to his father, Douglas Sr. He told me his dad was printing flyers for local businesses trying to make a little extra money for the family. Dad was hoping to turn the garage print shop into a full—time small business. Junior said he counterfeited one twenty-dollar bill just for fun, to see if he could do it. I had trouble believing this nineteen-year-old kid had counterfeited one note for fun or that he’d done this project by himself with no help from Pops.
I just seized a counterfeit plant! I got on the Motorola radio and called the office. Donnie answered up. “Hey, can you and the Beaver come over here and help me out? I got a counterfeit plant in this guy’s garage.”
“You did what?” Donnie laughed. He was in total disbelief.
“Just hustle over here,” I said. “I need some help.”
Junior was very cooperative and he seemed relieved to be getting all of this off his chest. We did a consent search of the house and didn’t find any counterfeit. No plates, no negatives. Nothing. Not even paper scraps in the trash. Maybe he was telling the truth; maybe he did only print one note for fun. But my gut told me probably not. Donnie called the boss at the office and asked him to come to the house to help out. When the boss arrived he looked at me and asked, “What case is this? Mullane? I didn’t know you guys were working on another counterfeit plant case.”
“It’s kind of a new one,” I said, “I’ll explain later.” The Beaver and I loaded Junior in his G-ride and I left the keys to my IROC-Z with Donnie. “I want those back, big guy,” I said to Donnie.
He laughed and said, “Don’t worry, I don’t want your fucking G-ride and don’t worry about all this heavy evidence in the garage. I’ll take care of it for you.”
This was going to be a long day. And we still had to finish up with Joe.
Chapter 7
100 Percent Cotton Paper
When we got to the office, Junior held fast to his story of “I only printed one counterfeit twenty” and I just wasn’t buying it. His explanation of things didn’t make sense. A good lie requires plausibility; it has got to be possible and more importantly, it has to make common sense. We could not believe that this nineteen-year-old kid had printed the counterfeit twenty with no help from the old man and that he had only printed one.
“So, where is Senior?” I asked him, “What’s he do for a living? Where does he work?”
“He works at a lithograph shop in Henderson,” said Junior. A lithograph shop! So the old man is a printer by trade and not just “trying” to start a small business in his garage to make a few extra bucks for the family. It was time to interview Senior.
I stopped by the boss’s office to advise him Junior was in the lockup and he said, “Close the door.” I figured I was in for an ass chewing for conducting a suspect interview without backup. “I thought you knew better than that,” he said.
“I’m sorry boss,” I said, “I wasn’t sure who the kid was and before I knew it he was confessing to counterfeiting.”
“Yeah, well don’t you ever do that again,” he scolded, then he smiled, “But…good job, a counterfeiting plant out of thin air!”
Beaver and I left Junior secured in our lockup and drove to the address for Senior’s employer. We walked into the lithograph shop and identified ourselves to the owner as US Secret Service agents and he led us into his small office and closed the door. I told him I would like to speak with Douglas Henry. “Is he in trouble? He’s one of my longest tenured employees.”
“No,” I said, “I just need to asked him a couple of questions.”
The owner picked up his phone, dialed four numbers, and said, “Doug, can you come to my office?”
A few minutes later, the door opened, “Are you Douglas Henry, Senior?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
I looked at the owner and then said to Senior, “Let’s step outside, this won’t take long.”
The Beaver and I escorted Senior out of the front door to the sidewalk. The first thing out of his mouth was, “Can we talk later this evening?” He didn’t ask who we were or why we were interrupting his workday.
I showed him my credentials and said, “Listen, Pop, Junior is sitting in my interview room right now and he’s looking at federal time. Perhaps you should take the day off and come with us.”
The ride in the Beavers G-ride back to our office was a quiet one. I was a little surprised he didn’t ask me any questions. He and I sat in the backseat and he stared out the passenger side window the whole way downtown. We brought Senior into my office and told him he was not under arrest and he was free to terminate the interview and walk out at any time. “I need to get to the bottom of this,” I told him. “I need the truth about this counterfeiting operation and I need your help to do that.” Senior was evasive and claimed he didn’t know anything. Right away the Beaver and I knew he was hiding something. Of course, he helped the kid print the counterfeit twenty; he was a printer, for Christ’s sake!
“If you cooperate with this investigation,” I told him, “I will advise the US Attorney. You have no criminal history…only good things can happen if you cooperate and only bad things can happen if you don’t. The kid is looking at twenty years for counterfeiting; do you really want that for your son?”
At that point, Senior started to break…but he continued to minimize his participation. He said he knew the kid was trying to counterfeit money. He figured he was just playing around, getting used to the process, after all the process is the same no matter what you are trying to reproduce with your printer. He didn’t think the kid was serious about counterfeiting money and he never thought the kid would be stupid enough to try and pass a counterfeit note.
“Look,” I said, “I know you helped him. I know you did.” I leaned forward in my chair and got very close to his face. In a low, serious voice I said, “Listen very carefully to me.” I paused for a second and then continued, “We found a small stack of twenties in the garage and if your fingerprints are on any of those, I will charge you and you can go to prison with him. Maybe the judge will order the Bureau of Prisons to place you guys in the same cell, so you can be together…father and son.”
He hung his head. Now, we were starting to get somewhere, at any minute, he would crack.
“I thought we buried it all!” he said. He looked up at me and continued, “I knew the kid was counterfeiting money in the garage. I swear, I just thought he was playing around. When I found out I was shocked, and when the kid got arrested in Ontario for passing one, I knew it was time to get rid of all money he’d printed and all the evidence.” Senior continued, “We took all the counterfeit money, all the negatives and all the plates out in the desert south of Henderson, dug a hole, and burned it all. Then we filled the hole in with dirt.”
We went back in to the interview room to see Junior. “I know you burned and buried the evidence and I know you printed more than one twenty. It’s time to tell the truth,” I told Junior, “It’s over. Now help me wrap this case up. Take me out to the desert and show me the hole.”
By now it was lunchtime and the Beaver wanted a cheeseburger, but lunch would have to wait. I called T.J. at the US Attorney’s office. “Take them to find the evidence,” he said, “And then book them in the Clark County Jail. They’ll see the magistrate tomorrow afternoon.”
Once a federal arrest is made, an agent has to get the defendant before the “nearest” US magistrate as soon as possible; you can’t just drive them around or have them sit in a holding cell for a few days. I’d pl
aced Junior in custody at about nine thirty that morning, so normally he’d make his appearance before the magistrate that afternoon. But due to the fact the defendants were cooperating with the investigation, T.J. would be able to articulate the delay to the US magistrate judge.
We drove out into the desert on a dirt road south of Henderson. Junior and Senior were having trouble remembering the exact spot. “Come on, guys!” I said, “Think! Because we are staying out here until we find this shit.” Besides, the Beaver is hungry. Finally we rounded a bend and came to an area at the base of a large hillside. Lots of trash littered the ground and you could tell people used the hillside for a target range.
“Stop here,” Senior said.
We walked out toward the hill and kicked around a little. The kid found some charcoal markings and said, “Here, right here is where we burned it. This is the hole.”
I opened the trunk and handed Dad a shovel. “Start digging.”
I looked at the Beaver and smiled, “What do you think the New York FO Counterfeit Squad is doing today?”
I don’t know,” said the Beaver, “but you can bet they aren’t digging up counterfeit plates out in the middle of the desert.”
We ended up recovering several partially burned counterfeit twenties, one good unburned negative, and one metal plate that was still readable. There were enough whole notes to charge Junior with manufacturing and possessing $22,000 in counterfeit.
My problem was Senior. I just couldn’t prove he was in on the manufacturing of the notes, but I could prove, through his confession, that he aided and abetted with the destruction of evidence; Title 18 United States Code Section 3, Accessory after the Fact: “Whoever, knowing that an offense against the United States has been committed, receives, relieves, comforts or assists the offender in order to hinder or prevent his apprehension, trial or punishment, is an accessory after the fact.” That was the first and only time I used that statute…
They both ended up pleading guilty and the old man stuck to his story all the way through sentencing. And nobody believed him, including the US district court judge who sentenced him to prison for four years, plus three years’ probation and 250 hours’ community service. Junior lucked out and got three years’ probation.
Community service—I always wondered what that entailed—picking up litter on Highway 95? Washing the windows at the Senior Center? One day a few years later I was at the Las Vegas airport catching a flight and guess who was running the big vacuum cleaner on the carpets at McCarran International? Douglas Henry, Senior. He must have got out early for good behavior.
* * *
Joe finally called “Mike” and told him he had the paper and he was going to start printing the counterfeit that night after the print shop closed. I just started putting an operations plan together for the surveillance of Joe, and the undercover telephone rang again.
It was Joe calling “Mike” again. Joe said he needed to meet with “Mike” right away and it was extremely urgent. Joe said a problem had come up with the printing and Joe wanted “Mike” to come by his apartment of Sierra Vista. Now we knew this was a setup. Joe was likely not even going to print counterfeit, so the Beaver put on the UHF transmitter and we sent the surveillance team to Sierra Vista. Our intent was to arrest Joe for conspiracy to manufacture counterfeit currency and possession of counterfeit (the counterfeit five-dollar bill he had given “Mike” at their first meet). T.J. told us to arrest the girl too, as part of the conspiracy.
The Beaver pulled into the apartment complex, got out of my Camaro, and leaned against the driver’s side door. After a few minutes Joe came out of the building. He walked over to the Beaver and said there were some problems at the print shop and he needed two thousand dollars to buy more supplies. The Beaver gave the arrest signal and four federal agents materialized out of what I’m sure Joe thought was thin air. He was in custody and just as we were putting him in the back of Donnie’s sedan, the girl, Michelle, drove into the parking lot, bad timing on her part, and good timing for us. We placed her under arrest.
Back at the office Donnie and I interviewed Joe and he came around real quick once we introduced the Beaver to him. He admitted he was planning to rob “Mike” of the two thousand dollars. He said originally he planned to print the counterfeit, but he changed his mind after he’d been fired from the print shop within minutes of calling “Mike” to the say he was ready to start printing that night. Michelle had a slightly different story; she told us his operation was a setup from the get-go. After he met “Mike” he figured the guy had money—he was the owner of a bar—so Joe told her he was only going to print the backs of counterfeit twenties, show them to “Mike,” and steal his ten thousand dollars.
Crooks…you can’t trust them.
We obtained and executed a search warrant for their small apartment on Sierra Vista. We didn’t find any counterfeit or evidence of counterfeiting; but there was plenty of marijuana and cocaine.
Joe and Michelle pleaded guilty in US district court. Joe got six months in prison and five years’ probation. Michelle got five years’ probation.
Over the next five years both would have their probation revoked for using drugs, and the US district court judge would sentence them to a treatment facility, followed by more probation. This pattern repeated itself three or four times—they just couldn’t stay off the cocaine.
Eventually, the judge had enough. He had been more than lenient with them and had given them numerous opportunities to clean up and live right. Michelle ended up doing nine months in a federal prison. Joe did another six months.
* * *
The 1988 presidential campaign was coming up, and headquarters was beginning to assign field agents to the candidates. Vice President George H. W. Bush was running for the Republican nomination, and he already had a permanent detail, but the field for the Democrats was wide-open and it seemed like dozens of them were running. Senator Joe Biden from Delaware, Senator Paul Simon from Illinois, Governor Michael Dukakis from Massachusetts, former governor Bruce Babbitt from Arizona, Senator Al Gore from Tennessee, former senator Gary Hart from Colorado, Representative Dick Gephardt from Missouri, and the Reverend Jesse Jackson were the main candidates, and each had a detail assigned to him at some point during the state primaries.
I was assigned to the protection detail for Senator Paul Simon and I left Las Vegas on a sunny January day headed for cold, gray Iowa. We bounced all over the state of Iowa; I mean from one end to the other. Senator Simon’s campaign was on a shoestring budget, and most of this bouncing required us to drive from one campaign stump to the next. Occasionally, he would board his campaign plane; for example, a trip to New Hampshire in a small four-seat prop aircraft. We would load the senator and his staff on board that prop plane, watch him take off, then jump in our leased business jet, pass him mid-flight, and be there to pick up him up when he landed.
In those days, the candidate’s protection details were comprised of agents from field offices around the nation. We spent twenty-one days on the detail and then twenty-one days back at our duty station. Each shift worked one week on day shift, followed by a week on midnights and finally a week on afternoon shift. With all the traveling from one city to another it was impossible to work an eight-hour day. We ended up working sixteen-hour days with the senator; day shift would work eight in the morning until midnight, while the afternoon shift would spend the day traveling to the next city where the senator was planning to spend the night, so that they would be ready to report for duty at eight the next morning. The midnight shift worked from midnight to 8 a.m. at the hotel where the senator was sleeping. Midnights were brutal: work all night, pile into rental cars, and drive to the next city and the next hotel, try to sleep a few hours, and be ready to go to work at midnight.
In 1988, the campaign really put a strain on the manpower of the Secret Service. Even a big field office like L.A. was short of agents to work o
ur criminal investigations. I was back in Vegas for my twenty-one days in the field, when the boss told me L.A. needed some help on a counterfeit case. A twenty-four-hour surveillance of a printing operation. I was finally going to work a counterfeit case in L.A.!
The LAFO Counterfeit Squad got a call from a major paper supply house. In order to print descent and passable counterfeit notes, a bad guy needs good paper. Genuine notes are printed on 100 percent cotton paper. That’s why that ten-dollar bill you left in your pants pocket that went through the washer and dryer was still pliable and wasn’t completely destroyed; because the paper that genuine note was printed on is just like the blue jeans of whose pocket it was in during the wash cycle…100 percent cotton.
100 percent cotton paper is expensive and it is a bit unusual for a print shop to order up a large quantity because it was typically only used for the finest, most expensive printing jobs. Agents would conduct “supply house canvasses” of the larger paper distributors, educating them on what to look for if an individual wanted to buy 100 percent cotton fiber printing paper. We asked them to call the Secret Service if they received a suspicious order for this expensive paper.
The LAFO got a “paper squeal” from a distributor. Audie Stanton pulled up to a paper distributor in an old green Ford station wagon, placed an order and paid a cash deposit for reams of 100 percent cotton fiber paper. The manager thought this was an odd request for a guy driving an old station wagon; legitimate print shops usually arrived in a van or small truck, so he called the LAFO. Mr. Stanton was picking up his order tomorrow morning and the LAFO told him to complete the sale. Then they set up an operations plan to put a twenty-four-hour surveillance on Stanton to see what he was up to.
