by Tim Wood
Claudia stood up. “My name is my business,” she said. “You have no authority over me.” Oh, boy. Here we go; this is going to be a real circus. She continued, “I was served these papers,” she said as she held up the summons, “by a foreign agent who did not have authority to enter my private property. We are here solely for a visitation and nothing more.”
That snake oil salesman must be dishing out legal advice at his seminars, too.
Eventually, the magistrate proceeded with the initial appearance, with or without their participation. He released them on a five-thousand-dollar unsecured bond. All they had to do was sign the judge’s order of their release conditions and come back to court for the next court hearing. But no; they refused to sign anything, Claudia muttering something about a “straw man” that I didn’t catch. I’d quit listening to her ramblings ten minutes into the hearing.
The magistrate Judge had had enough. He banged the gavel and I started paying attention. “Mrs. Daley, if you or Isaac refuse to sign that document, I will order the US Marshal to take you into custody and both of you will sit in a jail cell until trial.”
I looked at Claudia, I could see that same look on her face as when I served her the summons, and I could read her mind. She was thinking, maybe he does have the authority, maybe we should sign this document.
She huddled with Isaac and then said, “We will sign under objection and without accepting the jurisdiction of the court.”
The initial appearances for the other four defendants all followed the same script before the magistrate. Jerry and Cathy eventually signed the conditions of release, but with the exact same speech to the judge. Lester, the retired deputy sheriff, flatly refused to sign his release documents. Cindy following his led and also refused. The US Marshals handcuffed them and led them out of the courtroom to the lockup. I walked back to the lockup with a deputy US Marshal. Lester was standing in the holding cell, I guess I felt sorry for the dumb ass, I guess the fact he was a retired cop played on my emotions. Whatever the reason, I walked over to his cell and said, “Lester, if you sign the release conditions form for the judge, you can go home. Don’t be a fool.”
He changed his mind and we called the magistrate. I was starting to think he had some sense and then he launched into the judge with the same—the exact same—words as Claudia had used. That snake oil salesman must have been a pretty convincing teacher, and I was sorry I’d wasted my time trying to talk some sense into him.
Needless to say all six defendants took their case to trial and a jury convicted all six. Each trial was a complete circus, with the defendants refusing to address the court and constantly challenging the authority of the proceedings. It wasn’t as bad as the Jeff Hunt counterfeiting trial in Las Vegas, but it was close.
All six went to prison. Claudia and Isaac only got six months, and four years’ probation; Jerry Crockett was sentenced to eighteen months in prison and three years’ probation; Cathy Crockett got twelve months and three years’ probation. Cindy Jolly got ten months and three years’ probation. The US district court judge thought Lester, the retired deputy sheriff, should have known better; Lester was sentenced to twenty-four months in prison and four years’ probation.
* * *
I didn’t stay in Boise long. In February 2001 I was promoted to a GS-14 on PPD…back to the East Coast we went. The Redhead is a trouper when it came to my career. Even though she hated the East Coast as much as Las Vegas, she agreed we could make that move. I just had to promise her we wouldn’t stay there for too long; she had to get back to the west coast before this adventure with me was over. “No problem,” I told her. “When have I been afraid of moving?”
And we didn’t stay long. Eighteen months later we were moving once again. A relocation list had been published in the late spring of 2002 and the assistant special agent in charge position was open at the Seattle Field Office. I’d only been at PPD for a little over one year, in my mind there was no way I would be selected for that promotion—but, I’d promised the Redhead we’d go back to the west coast as soon as possible.
I was shocked when the list came out and I was promoted to the ASAIC in Seattle. I guess nobody else put in for it, because to get transferred out of DC in less than two years was very, very rare. By the time we sold the house and packed up for Seattle only eighteen months had gone by. Twenty-four months in Boise and eighteen months back in DC, three moves in three and one-half years.
On the morning of our second day on the road trip from Virginia to Seattle, the Redhead picked up a newspaper in the lobby of our hotel for something to read while I drove. “There’s an article in here about Putin and they printed that old photo of President Bush driving Putin around his Texas ranch in your truck!” She held the newspaper up for me to take a look.
“I’ll be darned,” I said, “My truck is famous!”
During my short assignment as a GS-14 on PPD, George W. Bush was President, and with my experience in the Transportation Section during my first tour of duty with President Clinton, the SAIC assigned me as the supervisor of TS.
It wasn’t long after 9-11 and President Bush was scheduled to visit his ranch in Waco, Texas. He’d been in the market for a new Ford F-150 pickup truck and he just hadn’t had the time to go car shopping; so the Secret Service decided to buy one for his use.
Early one Saturday morning I got a telephone call at my residence from the SAIC. He told me to go buy the President a pickup. And to do it today. Okay, I can do that. And then he told me to get it to Detroit by Sunday night, so the small manufacturing plant where our new Beasts were being assembled could complete some security upgrades on the vehicle before we transported it to Waco the next weekend. Ohhh-kay. Aye, aye, sir.
The bureaucracy of the government is notoriously s-l-o-w. But let me tell you something…when the President of the United States needs something, that bureaucracy can move pretty fast. The boss gave me a telephone number of a big shot at the General Service Administration (GSA) and instructed me on the details of the F-150 (color, interior, options, etc.).
I told Mr. Big from GSA what I needed. He called me back in about an hour. The only F-150 that met “my” specifications was at a dealership in Jefferson City, Missouri. “Buy it,” I said. “Right now. And get it delivered to Detroit by Sunday afternoon.” GSA wired the dealer the money and GSA contracted a local flatbed tow truck driver to go get it and deliver it to “my” address outside Detroit, Michigan. His instructions were to have it in Detroit by six o’clock Sunday evening.
I kissed the Redhead good-bye, told her I’d see her when I see her, and drove to Dulles Airport to catch the next commercial flight to Detroit. One of the PPD ASAICs and one of the best mechanical technicians employed by the Secret Service’s Special Services Division (SSD) were going with me to Detroit. As a matter of fact this tech was the brains behind the design of the Beast. He was good.
I was late for my flight, and there is nothing that gets my goat like being late for a flight. Air traffic had recently been opened up again after 9-11 and Dulles Airport was chaos. All the long-term parking lots were full. Every one of them and believe me, I drove up and down each aisle of each lot. Not a single open parking space. I had to get going, so I parked my G-ride in the daily parking (expensive) lot. I figured I’d deal with that later, and boy did I…Uncle Sugar will only reimburse a federal worker so much for airport parking and my cheap-ass uncle made me eat the bill, emergency or no emergency.
TSA hadn’t yet been born at this early stage after 9-11 and the contract airport security companies were still trying to come to grips with new security requirements, as were passengers. The terminal at Dulles was packed with people. When I came into the ticketing terminal I could not believe how many folks were crammed into line at the ticket counter. I searched for the end of a long line of travelers from the west entrance door all the way down to the United Airlines ticket counter at the east end of the ter
minal. Jesus! That is the line for United Airlines ticketing? So I walked back to the end and shuffled along with the rest of the anxious travelers.
Fortunately, all of the flights that day were extremely late and I boarded my flight with my two cohorts. The next day, Sunday morning, bright and early we drove our rental car from our hotel to the very non-descript building in an industrial park in Detroit to wait for the pickup to arrive that evening. We discussed our security requirements for the F-150 with the very small crew that was building our Beasts. They planned to get to work on the F-150 at six o’clock that evening and have it finished on Monday. Beast number four was in production (as in being hand assembled by these expert craftsman) and Beast number five was just a chassis sitting there and waiting to be next. To meet their delivery time line on number four, they had to get the pickup done before noon Monday; eighteen hours from the time they received the vehicle.
They gave us a tour of their small plant. I learned a tremendous amount about the Beast that day, all the ins and outs of the security features, that I already knew about and how to operate; but during this briefing I learned how they were designed and constructed. That alone made the trip worthwhile.
As the day wore on and we were basically twiddling our thumbs, the manager/owner/head engineer asked if I’d like to sign the roof of number four. “What do you mean sign the roof?” I asked him. He told me they would be honored if I autographed the roof before they assembled the outer layer.
I guess they thought I was a big shot…geez; I’m just a GS-14 who supervises the PPD Transportation Section, but, what the heck! They think I’m important enough to autograph the roof of Beast number four, then shit, give me a pen! And so I did. I put a big signature on the roof and added “ATSAIC PPD Transportation” with the date. Awesome!
We still had some time to kill, waiting for the tow truck driver to show up, so the plant boss said they needed to do a test drive on number four with a laptop plugged into the intricate electronic onboard systems. One of the engineers hooked up his laptop, we all piled in and off we went down the freeways of Detroit with yours truly behind the wheel. So I can safely say, I was the first agent to drive number four. Coupled with my autograph on the roof, I’d say that Beast is my baby!
Six o’clock rolled around and no flatbed tow truck with “my” pickup. We called the driver’s cell phone. No answer. Seven o’clock, no truck. At about 8 o’clock we started making telephone calls to the tow truck business. On a Sunday night. Do you know how hard it is to track down the telephone numbers of people on a Sunday night? It is not easy. We had a cell phone number for the driver, but he was not answering. We called the transport company…no answer. Of course, it’s Sunday night and they are closed. At about midnight Monday morning we finally got someone on the phone from the transport company. And they didn’t know shit. The driver was instructed to be in Detroit by six Sunday evening. They don’t know where he is and they have also tried calling his cellphone.
“Okay,” I asked, “So what’s his address?”
“Well, I don’t know if I can give that kind of personal information out.” Really?
The Secret Service tech got on the line and made a few references to National Security and high importance of that F-150 being in Detroit immediately, and lo and behold, they gave us his address.
It was getting close to one o’clock Monday morning and we had to find that driver. The Secret Service technician made a telephone call to a local sheriff’s office in the county where he lived. “Would you mind sending a deputy to drive by his house and report back to us if there is a flatbed tow truck with a white F-150 Ford pickup on the back?”
“Sure. We can do that,” replied the watch commander. Thirty minutes later we got a call from a deputy.
“Yes sir,” he said, “I’m sitting out here on Pole Cat Road and I can see a flatbed tow truck parked next to a mobile home. There’s a F-150, looks brand-new, sittin’ on the back.”
“Would you mind knocking on the door and handing your cell phone to Mr. Transport Driver?”
“I’d love to,” said the deputy.
Mr. Transport Driver was in total shock…“Well yeah, I know I was supposed to be in Dee-Troit at six this evenin’, but my back’s hurtin’ so I was going to get to the chiropractor first thing Monday morning and then head to Dee-Troit.”
Unacceptable. In no uncertain terms the tech told him, “No. You will get in your tow truck and be in Detroit by ten o’clock this morning.” He showed up at nine forty-five Monday morning with “my” truck. And he looked scared shitless. He kept muttering something about the CIA as he unloaded the F-150 from the back of his flatbed truck. His hands shook. He stuttered a little. The tech signed for the delivery and we sent him on his way. You know, I can picture Mr. Transport Driver sitting in a local hangout, nursing a beer, and muttering stories about “the day the CIA got me out of bed at one in the morning to deliver a Ford F-150 pickup truck to a nondescript building in an industrial area outside Dee-Troit, Michigan,” and his buddies rolling their eyes, saying, “There he goes again, with those crazy CIA stories.”
The Beast team got started on the F-150 and I was amazed at how fast they dismantled that pickup. They did the requested security upgrades and finished putting the damn thing back together again just past midnight Tuesday morning…less than fourteen hours after the truck was off-loaded. And no one ever, would be able to tell it wasn’t factory. These guys were awesome.
It was time to head back to Washington, DC, and I really wanted to drive that truck back, but it’s hell being a supervisor sometimes. I had to get back to DC Tuesday morning and left the transport to the SSD tech. When I got to my office, I contacted our administrative assistant in Operations and told her to make sure she registered the truck in Texas; Washington, DC, license plates probably wouldn’t cut the mustard with the President.
We had the pickup scheduled for transported by the air force to Waco on Friday afternoon and President Bush had yet to lay eyes on it. The SAIC called me Thursday morning and said to bring the F-150 over to the White House ASAP; the President wanted to take a look at it. That sounded like a job for a supervisor! So I went down to the super secret garage, jumped in the pickup and drove it over to West Executive Boulevard
The Deputy Chief of Staff came out to look her over and said he was positive President Bush would love it. Unfortunately, the President was too busy to come take a look at it that day. It was just a few weeks after 9-11 and he had other pressing matters to attend to.
Years later President Bush auctioned off his F-150 for charity. This was not the same F-150 I bought back in September 2001. President Bush had purchased another F-150 in 2009 after he left office. The F-150 I bought was a Secret Service vehicle, and if the Secret Service in Waco is not driving it, I’m sure it was sold at a GSA auction, like all used government vehicles. The big question is—if it was sold at auction, do you think the current owner has any idea it was once driven by the President of the United States?
Chapter 16
The Supreme Court of the United States
I reported for duty as the ASAIC in Seattle in August 2002 and settled into a desk job, supervising agents. Seattle was considered a “medium” sized office with roughly nine to eleven agents. It was good to be back in Seattle. The Redhead and I knew the area well from my first tour there after I left PPD in 1997. We even bought a house close to our old neighborhood and my old fly fishing buddy was still living down the road.
Most, if not all the agents I’d worked with during my first tour in Seattle were retired or had transferred to other assignments, so it was like being in a new office. Even the SAIC was a different person. The only constant was the office manager. Most of the agents assigned to the office were fresh from training, after having been brought onboard during a big hiring push back in 2000 and 2001. I’d look into their young faces and see myself, back in my Vegas days working with Donnie and
Beaver.
The SAIC placed me in charge of supervision of all protection in the Seattle district. I made the assignments for conducting advances for visits of Secret Service protected persons who visited Seattle, made rotating rosters of Seattle agents available for protective operations travel in support of the Secret Service’s world-wide protective mission and I acted as the Field Office Supervisor for all protection in the district.
Every time the President or Vice President made a trip outside of Washington, DC, those details would send agents to the local field office to conduct the security advances. The agents in the field office would be assigned to assist those agents in their security preparations. As the field office supervisor, my main responsibility was to supervise the security preparations for final approval by one of the detail’s supervisors, who would typically arrive in the city in question a day or two before the visits by the President or Vice President.
My goal was always to make sure the advance agents had done a superb job on their venues and motorcades so that when the detail supervisor showed up, he would agree to their plans. I conducted a lot of security advances for the President in my PPD days and believe me, the Secret Service lead advance and the Secret Service site agents don’t need their plan to change one day before the President shows up. That’ll just put them behind the eight ball, scrambling at the last minute to make security changes the detail supervisor wants changed. But these individual agents are very good and I’d venture to say 97 percent of the time, I didn’t need to change anything.
One of my favorite flight instructors back in my flight school days in Pensacola, Florida was a marine captain. He once told me he loved the Marine Corps, because “10 percent of the general population is fucked up, but only 3 percent of marines are fucked up.” The same holds true for the Secret Service. The only problem with that theory is that if you get too many of the 3 percent in the same place at the same time…things can get fucked up real quick (i.e., Cartagena, Colombia). But, that’s just my opinion.
