But the FBI saying held true, and sure enough my squad received yet another supervisor a few months later; he would be my last supervisor in the Bureau before I decided to leave. My third supervisor had apparently became fed up with the constant barrage of activity that the violent crime squad endured on a 24/7 basis. While none of us had reason to question his hard work or good intent, none of my squad members were sad to see that supervisor move on to other opportunities more suited to his style. Looking back, I can appreciate his attention to detail, and his efforts to strive for excellence in the FBI.
My final supervisor, Supervisory Special Agent Allen Hobart, offered a reasonable balance of not being too particular with details but still wanting overall involvement or at least knowledge of our investigative activities. He was a former Marine, who immediately impressed me with his dedication, work ethic, and common sense. Aside from a tendency to use what many would deem as inappropriate language every few minutes, he was a dynamic leader and supervisor for the team. He had a true desire to be in his position, and did not treat it as just a stepping stone on his way to climb up the ranks in the FBI.
Allen had previously served as an agent working on drug investigations. He was more than familiar with how drug cartels operated, including the ancillary crimes that my squad was responsible for investigating, including kidnappings and Assault on Federal Officers (AFOs). He was well aware that the drug cartel members were heavily armed and frequently engaged in shootouts in Mexico. He knew that there was a significant risk of this violence spilling over to the United States side of the border, and he wanted to make sure agents on his squad were armed and prepared for any worst-case scenario.
Allen instructed all agents on the squad to acquire an extra weapon that would provide more firepower than our standard issue Glock handguns. I chose to carry an MP5, which I had received training on while attending the FBI Academy. The MP5 is a submachine gun that can shoot about 30 rounds in two seconds. This weapon is frequently shown in movies and television shows, in particular when depicting tactical operations such as SWAT teams. Although in the back of my mind I knew that I was getting this weapon for undesirable, dangerous reasons, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning when I picked up my gun from our tactical agent in charge of weapons. Having an MP5 was just plain cool. I could hardly wait to show Jennifer my new lethal toy. Upon seeing my weapon, she was unenthused because she knew that there was a reason that I was issued the gun; she did not want me have to use the MP5, or worse, have others use similar weapons on me.
This weapon became my new best friend in the FBI. Like a loyal pet, it would frequently ride with me in the passenger seat while I was performing operations. I kept it close since I knew that in an unexpected instant I might have to grab it and return fire from an attacker. The border violence was on the rise, and the operations I was part of were becoming increasingly frequent and hazardous. I carried this weapon for the remainder of my time in the FBI; if I did not have it in my passenger seat, I had it locked up in my trunk so that any time I was called out for an operation I would be armed and prepared. There were a number of occasions that I grabbed my MP5 and hunkered down in a car seat (sometimes front, sometimes back); I always hoped for the best but expected the worst. Thank goodness the worst never happened.
Allen also ensured that we received special tactical training that was similar to what I had undergone at the FBI Academy. Most agents graduating from the Academy are assigned to a squad, and rarely revisit the arrest tactics that they were trained on. The FBI focuses on firearms proficiency through mandatory quarterly tests, but an agent’s tactical abilities are often untested until a real-life scenario unfolds. My squad did not need to have the extreme tactical training that the SWAT team requires, but we did find frequently find ourselves in dynamic arrest situations, and we needed to be able to work together as a tactical team when needed. Unlike my dislike of FBI Academy tactical training, I highly enjoyed taking a dedicated day in San Diego to train with my squad mates. These training sessions were far from relaxing and were packed with continuous observation and evaluation from SWAT tactical experts; however, any criticism offered was constructive rather than demeaning.
I wound up being assigned to use several different vehicles during my career in the FBI. Overall this is a fantastic benefit of being an FBI agent; the free car, gas, and insurance provided to agents helps to offset the relatively low pay that agents receive. My first vehicle, as previously mentioned, broke down during my first prisoner transport from Big Bear to San Diego. This incident proved that some of the older FBI vehicles were not reliable, and I certainly did not want to break down during a late-night trip out to the middle of the desert for an AFO investigation. If that happened, I would likely be out of cell phone and radio range, and my safety could be in serious jeopardy, especially if the drug cartels were operating nearby. There were areas of neighborhoods in San Diego, such as the Somali area we called “Little Mogadishu,” that were scary merely to just drive through; the thought of breaking down and being on foot in that vicinity was unpleasant at best. A well-dressed, armed FBI agent is normally safe from criminals, but alone in the wrong area, he or she could easily be stuck in a bad situation. Part of being a good FBI agent is being finely tuned with what is called situational awareness. Agents who plan on successfully staying alive for their entire careers must be aware of their surroundings at all times and avoid dangerous situations through advanced planning and preparation. Driving an FBI vehicle that was on the verge of breaking down in a bad area went against everything that I had learned about improving my odds of staying safe. After discussion with my supervisor, I upgraded to a more reliable car.
And did I ever get a reliable workhorse. Yes, I was privileged to drive the mainstay of most police forces in the United States at the time, the one and only Ford Crown Victoria. It came fully equipped with the police package and was speedy for a large sedan. In my mind I kept replaying the lines from the movie Blues Brothers which references “cop tires, cop motor.” And my Crown Vic even came with “cop lights” and a “cop siren!” A boyhood fantasy came true the first day that I slid behind the wheel and took it for a spin. I managed to find an empty parking lot, and I convinced myself that I should conduct training to practice flipping on the lights and siren. I even tried issuing commands over the built-in public address system (I am certain that shoppers in that plaza were puzzled to see a lone car with a guy shouting out “don’t move, step out of the vehicle with your hands up,” when there clearly were no other vehicles in the vicinity). I knew that in the future, when I pulled up to a bank robbery scene and stepped out with a suit on, there would be no question about who I was and why I was there. Although the unit was unmarked, the letters “FBI” might as well have been stamped on the side, and I was proud of it.
Because the vast majority of the population associates Crown Victoria cars with law enforcement, my beloved new car proved to be an extremely poor choice for surveillance operations. The windows were not tinted, the vehicle had an unusual police-style radio antenna sticking out, and there were “Police Interceptor” badges from the factory on the back. In the roughest San Diego neighborhoods this car would create interest from a mile away. Since working on arrest and surveillance operations was a significant part of how I spent my days, I quickly tired of having a vehicle that could prove to be a liability in many situations. On some squads this would serve as the perfect car, but for the violent crime squad, which often had overlap with undercover drug investigations, driving a Crown Vic was definitely not a practical method of transportation.
After a few months I was able to switch vehicles again. This time I was fortunate enough to receive an almost new Chrysler Concorde, with nicely tinted windows and a CD player. I had been driving vehicles with excellent sound systems for fifteen years prior to joining the FBI, and despite the seemingly trivial nature of having fun music to listen to, I realized
how much I missed simply being able to pop in a CD with my own tunes. This could really help pass the time for lengthy surveillance operations or merely for my daily commute to the office. Also, the car was not as obviously linked to law enforcement, and the tinted windows would make surveillance, including long-range photography, a much easier proposition. The car had previously been driven briefly by the Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of the office. He had passed the car along to the Assistant Special Agent in Charge (ASAC) over the criminal division in San Diego, and after the ASAC drove the car briefly, I was lucky enough to inherit it. This repeated pattern of “luck of the draw” was inherent in the FBI, ranging from cars to squad assignments to supervisors. While I would not consider myself lucky to be placed on a violent crime squad, I finally felt lucky in getting a nice, almost new car to drive.
One week later my good fortune changed and I wrecked the car. I was helping with surveillance on a bank robbery suspect and getting ready to assist with a dynamic rolling arrest. I was positioned towards the back of a line of unmarked FBI vehicles, all of which were waiting to move in quickly after the marked San Diego PD unit pulled over the subject. The arrest was about to occur on a busy four lane street. I was at a light and as I was turning left onto the four lane street, I floored the gas pedal and moved to the outside lane while passing a Buick that had just turned into the inside lane. Based on the snail’s pace, I assumed that the driver of this Buick was an elderly person. He abruptly decided to take an immediate right turn from the outside lane, aiming directly for a Home Depot entrance, and he slammed into my car on the driver’s side. But I was on a mission to arrive at the arrest scene and assist as needed. I did not know if I would be needed to stop traffic, or worst case, return fire to the subject, if things went awry. Knowing that the arrest was about to occur only a few blocks from that location, I made the immediate decision not to even lift my foot from the accelerator, and I sped away from the crash scene and headed to the arrest scene. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw several cars come to a stop. Nobody appeared to be hurt from the impact, so I refocused on the arrest.
After arriving at the arrest scene, I saw that the subject had just been arrested without incident, and there were enough agents to direct traffic and search the subject’s vehicle. I radioed my fellow agents and explained the situation regarding my accident, and I did a U-turn to head back to the accident scene. Although my adrenaline was flowing from both the accident and arrest, I tried to calm down so that I would not be unnecessarily rude to the person who had hit me. But in reality, I was furious. As an FBI agent, I was held to a higher standard than ordinary citizens or even other law enforcement officials; for the sake of all agents, I had to always maintain control and poise in any situation.
I rolled into the Home Depot parking lot and located the vehicle that hit me. An old man was the driver, and he had apparently reached an age where his mental and audible comprehension was lacking. He could barely understand that I was an FBI agent who had been about to assist with a bank robbery arrest. After explaining this several times, and after repeating myself multiple times concerning how he had tried to cross over a lane of traffic without signaling, he finally began to understand the damage he had done. Although he wound up paying for the damage to the car, there was no fix for my damaged pride. With an overwhelming feeling of dread, I keyed my microphone and had to report back to the San Diego office that I had just had an accident in my new car. To make matters worse, I remembered that I had my performance review coming up later in the week with my supervisor and, sure enough, the ASAC who had just handed down this vehicle to me. My good luck surely seemed short-lived.
Nevertheless, my review went well. I had established an excellent reputation and had already completed and documented all of the requirements that the FBI wants new agents to be exposed to. In a span a few months I had already accumulated all of the variety of experiences that new agents are required to experience normally over a two year period. My squad saw approximately ten times more action than typical squads in the FBI. When I later met with the ASAC, he made complementary comments about my reputation and progress, and then changed to a serious tone and said, “Now, we do have the matter you wrecking my car.” He shook his head for a few moments with a grave look on his face, and then burst into laughter. He knew that the accident was not my fault, and he reminded me that it was only a government vehicle that got some scars while fighting crime in the streets. He said I should be honored to have wrecked a car while arresting a bank robber. With a raised eyebrow, he concluded, “But don’t do it again,” as he wrapped up my otherwise glowing review.
CHAPTER 43
Traffic
The film Traffic is a favorite of mine. Long before I was in the FBI, I thoroughly enjoyed the performances of Benecio Del Toro, Michael Douglas, and Katherine Zeta-Jones in this film. The movie is an excellent depiction of the impact of drugs in the United States and the close linkage of the US drug trade to Mexico. I am used to Hollywood turning any realistic story into an exaggerated work of fiction that does not remotely resemble everyday life. However, after re-watching Traffic after working in the San Diego FBI office, I spotted filming locations such as the San Ysidro border crossing, where I know there are huge drug trafficking problems, and the gritty storyline closely paralleled real events that I had direct knowledge of. The high reward but high risk nature of the drug trade, along with the total destruction of families that have members that engage in using or trafficking drugs, is accurately reflected in the movie.
An incident that I was involved with that closely mirrored many of the events depicted in Traffic started as a kidnapping that was reported to the FBI. A high-ranking member of the largest drug cartel in the San Diego and Tijuana vicinity had been kidnapped, and there were huge monetary demands being made by the kidnappers. The subject had been missing several days, and his family had not wanted to report the kidnapping to the FBI for fear of the kidnappers finding out and killing their loved one. Moreover, they did not want to draw the attention of law enforcement on themselves. But in a moment of desperation and in recognition of the severity of their dilemma, the family knew they had little choice but to contact the FBI if they wanted to see their family member alive again.
The family initially contacted our office on a Friday afternoon, and we all realized that this could be a rare opportunity to nab kidnappers on US soil; while unlikely, there was at least the possibility that we could locate and rescue a victim. This immediately became the top priority case for the San Diego FBI.
We learned that the victim’s family had agreed to pay out $200,000 to the kidnappers, and had agreed to provide those funds on a Saturday, which was the after the kidnapping was reported to the FBI. By the following morning, the family had already accumulated the ransom money in cash at a business that they owned, and several agents, including me, went to assist with picking up the money. We were on high alert and were ready to return fire if violence erupted. Any time hundreds of thousands of dollars of cash are involved, there is potential for violence. After picking up the money and returning to the FBI building, we counted the cash. The bills were all $20 denomination, which took about an hour to count using three agents. The cash drop deadline was looming, and we did not have time to record the serial number from each bill, so in a pinch I decided to take some photos of the cash. Although I did not know if this would be important or useful later on, I figured the photos would at least reveal the serial numbers of bills that were placed at the top of each bundle.
The cash was placed in a special bag that had a transmitter sewn into the lining. The bag looked like an ordinary gym bag, but the signal would be tracked by the FBI with the hope of finding the kidnappers and possibly the victim. My entire squad, along with the FBI SWAT team and other available agents, was activated to help with the operation.
While surveillance agents departed to watch the r
ansom drop-off, which would be done by a male relative of the victim, another agent and I stayed behind with the wife of the victim near the FBI office. Her demeanor was quite calm considering the situation. Her clothing and accessories provided clues indicating that this woman was wealthy. Her approach was business-like and it did not convince me that she was dedicated to her husband in the traditional sense; the attitude and mannerisms that she conveyed demonstrated a level of concern that I would expect to see while someone awaits receiving the bill when bringing in a car for a transmission repair. She kept her phone close by in case the kidnappers tried to contact her. She asked me what the chances of successfully recovering her husband alive were. I told her that in all honesty, based on my experience, successful recovery of a victim is rare. I tried to prepare her for the worst, but she appeared to have already come to terms with her husband’s predicament.
[2014] Eyes Pried Open: Rookie FBI Agent Page 22
