by Sally Denton
“I’ll be in touch,” Drew responded.
He hung up the phone and walked out into the warm, humid air. The French Quarter was dotted with tourists who were gawking at the artists. He walked a few blocks to find a different phone booth he could use to call the individuals who were awaiting word from him. In his briefcase he carried rolls of quarters to pay for the long distance calls so that there would be no charge-card record.
Drew returned his phone calls, only to have his suspicions confirmed that something was amiss. Drew and his associates had established a method for contacting each other, using coded messages. His friend Richard Merrill had failed to comply, instead leaving a vague reference to a lobster dinner.
Becoming increasingly paranoid, Drew returned to the Royal Orleans to check out. He had three hours to kill before he was supposed to meet Merrill in Slidell, thirty miles north of New Orleans, across Lake Pontchartrain. Merrill had rented two rooms at the Slidell Ramada Inn, from which he was supposed to direct the activities of two pickup trucks with covered rear compartments, one van with the seats removed, two rental cars, a fifty-seven-foot converted mine sweeper called The Forty, a twenty-foot fishing boat, an airplane and pilot who was maintaining air-to-ground radio contact with all the vehicles, and a small army of personnel who were facilitating the importation of several thousand pounds of pot in the middle of the night.
Cocky about the competence of his new organization, Drew had the utmost faith in Merrill. Like himself, the forty-year-old Merrill was a blueblood—the progeny of a clan residing in the rolling racehorse grazing land of northern Virginia. The owner of plush resorts in northern California and Florida, Merrill’s polished veneer was a far cry from the stereotypical drug smuggler.
No matter how professional and bright his associates were, things could still go wrong for Drew. His instincts must have told him that something had. Indeed, as Drew strolled aimlessly along the banks of the Mississippi River, biding his time, Richard Merrill was being interrogated at the side of a Louisiana highway by undercover Customs agents. During the middle of the night, while Drew meditated in his hotel room, overtaken by a bout of insomnia, Customs agents boarded The Forty under the auspices of a documentation check, and had seized the vessel when they saw marijuana debris in plain view. Agents noticed one of the men on board the boat discarding items from his wallet into the water. Diving to retrieve the items, the feds found printed business cards for Andrew C. Thornton, and a yellow sheet of paper upon which had been written an undecipherable code. A search by the federal narcs netted charts with markings indicating directions from South America to Lake Pontchartrain, an aircraft radio, a shotgun, and South American foodstuffs such as Colombian coffee. The strong odor of pine oil disinfectant permeated the craft. Not far from where the boat was seized, agents had also raided a rustic cabin situated on an inlet. At the cabin, which had been rented by one of Drew’s subordinates for the purpose of off-loading the pot, they seized twenty-six bales of marijuana weighing fifteen hundred pounds.
Meanwhile, throughout that night the Ramada Inn rooms were under surveillance by Customs agents, who followed Merrill when he left the hotel early the following morning. They pulled Merrill’s car over and searched it, finding an AR 180 weapon, a Bearcat scanner, a VHP radio, and a parachute. Questioned about the items, Merrill admitted a good friend named Drew Thornton had given them to him.
Later that same afternoon, Drew slid into a dark bar and ordered a beer. He drank it down without stopping, placed some money next to the empty glass, and walked down a deserted hallway to the pay telephone. Again, he dialed his 800 number in Cincinnati.
Impatient with the operator’s pleasantries, Drew listened carefully to the next batch of messages:
“Rex called. Exchange is overdue. Still waiting. Held up en route. Delay unknown.
“Mr. Joseph has called five times. No message. He says you have the number.
“Tony called. He said it’s very important that you return his call tonight because he will be flying tomorrow,”
Drew called “Rex,” “Mr. Joseph,” and “Tony.”
Something had gone terribly wrong. Drew, knowing that he shouldn’t go near Slidell or the cabin, returned his rental car downtown and took a taxi to a private airfield. He asked the taxi driver to circle the airport a couple of times, searching for anything that resembled surveillance. Once he was convinced he hadn’t been followed, and that no one was waiting to apprehend him, Drew approached his plane.
Neglecting to file a flight plan with the control tower, Drew fled New Orleans, reasonably sure he had left no trail. For the first time, Drew was entering a new phase of his life. He was committing himself wholeheartedly to the obscure existence of a fugitive from justice.
As a lawyer, Drew must have known that the China Lake indictment would be a tough one to beat. According to the broad federal conspiracy statutes, every participant in a conspiracy or a continuing criminal enterprise shared equally in liability. Even though the only evidence the feds had against him was that he piloted the DC-4 into Lexington, under the laws of conspiracy, or continuing criminal enterprise, his legal troubles could be as serious as Bradley’s—who had been much sloppier. Bradley’s tracks were everywhere including on the registrations of the planes and trucks, with the nightscopes stolen from China Lake, and on phone records. To complicate matters further, twenty-five people were now under indictment for myriad smuggling escapades that dated back two years.
Since that time, Drew and Bradley had split, and the codefendants presented a mixed bag of loyalties. Drew couldn’t help wondering how many defendants would be scrambling to make a deal with the government, not to mention how many already had made deals in order to avoid indictment. He was amused that Dan Chandler had managed to disappear from the latest indictment—his name stricken, even as an unindicted coconspirator. Drew was relieved but not surprised that Harold Brown had escaped indictment. The DEA would bale Harold out of trouble, considering what an enormous embarrassment the indictment of a DEA regional director would be to the agency. Brown did not emerge wholly unscathed from the scandal, though. The DEA forced him into early retirement, just six months short of qualifying for full retirement benefits.
Drew thought it in his best interest to remain a fugitive for as long as possible and claim, when caught, not to know about the outstanding warrant for his arrest. As long as the government couldn’t prove that Drew knew he was a wanted man, Drew could not be accused of intentionally fleeing to avoid prosecution.
He didn’t know that Ralph Ross was monitoring every call that came in to his Cincinnati answering service. The National Security Agency in Washington was also helping to break Drew’s codes. NSA and other intelligence agencies were analyzing the references to today’s quotation and confirmation number in an attempt to understand the language used by Drew and his associates in facilitating their apparent smuggling ventures.
Ralph, while interested in any illegal activities in which Drew might be participating, was becoming increasingly concerned with determining Drew’s location.
Ralph wasn’t the only one. U.S. Customs in New Orleans had induced the owner of the answering-service company to provide Customs with a complete log of all incoming calls to Drew Thornton’s number. Inspired by the recent arrest of Richard Merrill and seven other Thornton associates in November 1981, Customs’ incentive to apprehend Drew was heightened by their perception of the Kentucky native as the kingpin of the group.
Even Ralph was slightly surprised at the blatancy with which Drew continued operating, undaunted by the fact that several state and federal agencies were salivating at the challenge of capturing him.
Ralph put on his heavy frame glasses so he could read the stack of papers that had been dropped on his desk by a state police analyst. Either Drew’s former associates were now using aliases, Ralph thought, or Drew had a completely new organization. Regardle
ss, it was clear to Ralph that Drew had tightened his circle. Ralph reviewed the calls made to a second answering service Drew had engaged for the month of December. Someone identifying himself alternately as Mr. Whitt or Mr. White called the number an average of four times a day, asking to have his calls returned to numbers in Los Angeles, Boston, New York, Dallas, and the Virgin Islands. Another individual named Mr. Graham also called frequently, leaving various Los Angeles numbers. Gone were the calls from Rebecca, Sally, Mary Jane, Patricia, Ruby, Queen, and various other women who had left regular messages on the Cincinnati service. Rebecca still called daily, but used the initials R.J. instead. This new list suggested to Ralph that Drew was more concerned with security, hoping to eliminate potential leaks from his circle of intimates.
Ralph’s eye focused upon some of the more interesting messages:
Captain Story called. Return his call as soon as possible. It’s a matter of life and death. It is urgent that he speak with you. 809/773-1668.
Dennis the Menace called. He needs to talk to you today.
A woman called and would not leave her name. Please call her back in Delaware.
Lorie called to say Merry Christmas.
Tony called. Go to the place and say “Morgan” and you’ll be able to go in. If you have any trouble, ask for Gloria.
On the last day of the year, at 8:30 p.m., a call came in. The only message: They are ready to move.
Attached to the list of phone calls was a Kentucky State Police memorandum marked CONFIDENTIAL and entitled “Associates of Andrew Carter Thornton II.” That document provided an analysis of all telephone numbers left on Drew’s answering service, including the identity and biographical information about the subscriber, and the address where the telephone was actually installed.
“We’ll nab him within a few weeks,” Ralph said aloud.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It would seem that Ralph had his hands full, as he tried to maintain an alertness to details in the Lambert drug investigation, the continuing China Lake probe of the Company, the Rebecca Moore homicide, the public corruption grand jury, and the Customs search for Drew Thornton. As if those matters were not sufficiently time-consuming, Neil Welch expected Ralph to perform “other endeavors” of a more political nature.
“Sometime in early November 1981,” Ralph said, “Welch called me and told me to get my bugging equipment organized so I’d be ready to go at an instant’s notice. He didn’t tell me what the situation would be—just said that some kind of deal was going to go down and I’d have to be prepared to do a job immediately.”
By the time Thanksgiving had rolled around, Ralph marveled at how quickly the past year had come and gone. He had been working directly for Neil Welch for a year and a half and still felt as though he didn’t really know or understand the man. The Jesuit-trained, sixfoot-two, two-hundred-pound former FBI SAC (special agent in charge) could have been the prototype for the deadpan expression. His poker face, conservative business suits, tight lips, bland gestures, ubiquitous smirk, and monotone voice constituted the perfect disguise for an undercover cop. While Welch’s physical presence was not threatening, neither was it warm and inviting. One walked away from meeting Neil Welch feeling slightly disappointed that the personality did not match up to the reputation. Welch had seemed preoccupied with a book he was writing about J. Edgar Hoover that Welch claimed would “blow the lid off the FBI.” He spent hours communicating with his collaborator on the project, a former federal prosecutor. Secretive and mysterious about the details of the upcoming book, Welch frequently trusted Ralph to be a courier of documents between the two authors.
Neil Welch could remain unscorched, no matter how close the fire nipped at his heels. A quote from an FBI agent, which would be published in Welch’s book long after Welch’s tenure in Kentucky had ended, epitomized this characteristic:
“Welch is smart. He works like a Mafia guy, always keeps himself insulated. He chooses one agent he can trust, and does everything through him.”
Unfortunately for Ralph, he was Welch’s pick of the litter.
Ralph was just nodding off in his chair when the phone rang in his Lexington apartment. It was 10 p.m. on the Friday after Thanksgiving. All his men were on vacation; he could barely move his 230-pound frame, thanks to all he had eaten over the past two days; and he wasn’t expecting any calls or visitors.
“Hullo,” he said, in a low, sleepy voice.
“Remember when I told you to get your equipment ready for a quick job?”
“Yes, sir,” Ralph responded to Welch’s voice.
“Well, it’s time. Can you catch a plane to Florida tonight?”
Ralph listened as Welch briefed him on the details. Frank Metts, the Secretary of Transportation, had scheduled a meeting with a Frankfort highway contractor named Bill May. As part of Metts’s notorious belt-tightening, he had recently canceled millions of dollars’ worth of contracts that May had been awarded by the previous administration. May was understandably rankled, and Metts had a feeling that May might attempt to bribe him at the upcoming meeting. As a precautionary measure, Metts had asked Neil Welch to bug the conversation between the two men,
“Sounds fine to me,” Ralph said. “Where do I go?”
Welch rattled off a seven-digit number in the 305 area code. “Gall Metts when you arrive and he’ll give you directions.”
“I’ll need to take a man with me,” Ralph said.
“Whatever you need,” Welch replied, and then hung up.
Ralph immediately called the airport to make reservations. The earliest flight he could find was for 10 a.m. the following morning. He booked two seats, then called one of his detectives.
Ralph then called Frank Metts at the Florida number to let him know they would be arriving around noon on Saturday.
“The meeting is scheduled for 1 p.m.,” Metts told Ralph.
“There’s no way in the world I can get set up by then,” Ralph said. “Can the meeting be postponed?”
Metts agreed he would try to stall May until later in the day. “Call me when you arrive and I’ll tell you how to get here.”
At noon the next day, Ralph and his detective deplaned in Fort Lauderdale, and went directly to the rental car area. While his partner arranged for a car, Ralph went to a pay phone to call Metts.
“Bill May will be here at 7 p.m.,” Metts said. “That should give you plenty of time to get ready for him. I’m staying at John Y. Brown’s house. Come on over as soon as you can.”
Metts gave Ralph explicit directions to follow Highway A1A south along the coastline. “When you come to a sign that says ‘Golden Beach’ you’ll see a big, yellow house on your left. I’ll be waiting for you.”
They had no trouble finding the mansion. Set back behind a five-foot concrete wall, the circular driveway was empty except for one white Cadillac. The front yard was nothing more than an oblong patch of grass, in the middle of which sat a huge, white fountain. The pale yellow house was trimmed with white wrought iron more typical of New Orleans. The back side of the house faced the Atlantic Ocean, its private beach dotted with expensive outdoor furniture.
“The governor’s got a right nice vacation home,” Ralph said to his partner, as he pulled his rental car up to the front door. They were greeted at the entrance by a black butler.
Metts, his wife Sandy, and their children were spending the Thanksgiving holiday in the extravagantly decorated residence. “We were just down here on a vacation,” Metts told Ralph. “John Y. called and said Bill May was also in Florida, and he had finally been able to set up a meeting between me and May.” Metts explained that the governor had “on three or four occasions” tried to get the two men together to settle their differences. “Johnny said to me, ‘I want you and May to get this issue resolved once and for all.’”
Metts told Ralph that he had cancel
ed May’s contracts and that May, furious, wanted to discuss the matter. “There’s nothing to discuss,” Metts told Ralph. “They [the contracts] were a big waste of the taxpayers’ money.” Certain that May was going to offer him a bribe, Metts wanted to record the conversation for his own protection.
Metts then left to take his family out for an air boat ride, promising to return in a few hours. Ralph watched as Metts handed some cash and a set of car keys to the servant, telling him to take off until the following day.
As soon as everyone had left, the state cops set about wiring the living room and den. They placed Nagra recorders in both rooms, taping one to the bottom of a marble coffee table and the second in a flower arrangement on top of a wicker table. They slid the transmitter into Metis’s supple leather briefcase that was open at the top. Ralph climbed the stairs to John Y.’s master bedroom, where he attached a receiver to a tape recorder.
