Yes, I had made it to the infamous polygraph exam portion of becoming an FBI agent. After leading a life that would have made me almost eligible for sainthood, I could not imagine having anything to worry about. I was told that the best way to prepare for the polygraph was NOT to prepare. In other words, the less an applicant thought and obsessed about the test, the less likely he or she was to be stressed by the questions; theoretically the candidate should theoretically pass the test with ease. But this theory proved not to be fact, at least for me.
Earlier that morning, a couple of weeks after passing the Phase 2 examination, I had met with other candidates, and we were put through our paces and tested on running, pushups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. I enjoyed the morning. I barely met the pushup requirement of thirty, but I passed. I fared better on the sit-ups; I didn’t “wow” anyone, but I held my own with a respectable forty in one minute. The 300-meter sprint flew by in less than fifty seconds, well ahead of the minimum time. All that remained was the 1.5 mile run. I had to run in under ten minutes and thirty seconds to achieve the necessary total points to pass the physical fitness test. I had to make up for my weakness in the other events with a strong run.
Out of all physical activities, running is what I know best. I flew around the track in just over ten minutes, and audibly “wowed” the agents who administered the test. By my former running standards, ten minutes to cover a mile and half was not fast at all. I had run two full miles in the same ten minute period when I had tried out for the Texas A&M cross country team, which I failed to make. But that had been ten years prior, so I was happy with my result. I had passed the physical exam. For corporate “desk jockeys” like me, the test was not a breeze, but for younger applicants with military experience, I would expect that this test would be a simple. I was happy with my result, one step closer to becoming an agent.
I took the entire day off from my corporate job, and after physical testing in the morning, I had several hours to kill before my polygraph. I changed clothes and decided to relax and watch a movie at a nearby theater. My ego-inflated head could barely fit through those wide theater doors. I was extremely confident that I was going to be an agent and would pass the polygraph without a hitch. In fact, I was quite overconfident. The polygraph started at about 1:00 PM. I was in good spirits and felt that I would soon be past what I saw as a mere formality. Three hours later I realized how incredibly wrong I had been.
After I was strapped in a chair and hooked up with various sensors, the test began. Basically, the polygrapher asks the candidate a series of questions that can indicate, based on his or her physiological signs (breathing, sweating, and heart rate), if he or she is being truthful. The tests are not always accurate but generally are a good indicator of whether a person is being deceptive in his or her answers.
The polygrapher, a black female FBI agent in her 40s, was one of the smartest, toughest, and most menacing figures I had ever met. She was cordial, completely professional, but all business. That was her job, and she did it well.
After I was asked the same questions over and over, the polygrapher would leave the room and come back in with her brow furrowed. She truly seemed puzzled at the results, leading me to believe that the FBI was convinced that I was being extremely deceptive. At first I felt that she was pretending that the machine was broken, but behind the stern face she believed I was being honest, but as the afternoon went on, she stated categorically, “The machine seems to be working fine, and we keep getting the same results.” The unspoken message I received was something along the lines of, “You are a liar! The FBI doesn't hire liars! How dare you walk in here and lie, lie, lie!”
I had never (and to this day have never) done any illegal drugs. Not even a drag on a marijuana cigarette. Sure, I loved watching Cheech and Chong with my dad, which served as my education on pot. I had been to enough concerts and festivals to know what pot looked and smelled like. But I had not ever even seen any harder drugs, except for what movies and television portrayed.
I was asked the same question over and over about whether I had ever done any illegal drugs, and I began to feel guilty. Could inhaling secondhand smoke from another aisle at a concert be considered doing drugs? What else could possibly be buried in my subconscious that was starting to arise and throw a major wrench in my plan of being an agent?
I stood by my answer. Despite an urge to respond with a sarcastic “yes,” I seriously responded to the question about whether I was the Pope, which was a follow-up question when I denied doing drugs for the fourth time, with a simple but firm “No.” The repeated questions continued. When pushed to the brink and feeling that the questions were being repeated just to irritate me, I finally stopped giving “yes” or “no” answers, and impatiently, forcefully, and with finality said, “Look, I’ve never done any illegal drugs. Never. Maybe I am a strong person with convictions, maybe I’m just lucky that I hung out with the right crowd, or maybe both. But for whatever reason, I’ve never done any drugs, and if your test tells you otherwise, well, then your test is wrong.”
After more than three hours of being strapped in the chair, the polygrapher unstrapped me and said I was free to go. I felt about as free as a person leaving a prison after a brutal beating from the other inmates. I felt guilty. Guilty as hell. I was almost ready to admit to anything that had even the most remote grain of truth. I wished that there was something in my past that I could admit to, but I was not about to start lying to the FBI just to please the polygrapher.
That was my first taste of why there could be valid legal challenges to confessions obtained during duress. I had led a sheltered life to that point. I had never known any cops or any real criminals. I believe that a person’s rights throughout the legal process are of critical importance; in my opinion it is better to let one, ten, or even a thousand guilty persons go free than imprison one innocent person. Clearly depending on the mental state of someone who is given a polygraph test, a person could be tempted to admit to something, just to end the misery of the lengthy test.
Upon completion of the polygraph I began the most difficult phase of the entire FBI application process, which was simply waiting to see if I passed the polygraph. There was nothing I could do to help my odds. There was no preparation or training left to do. I kept painfully replaying how the polygrapher acted when she saw me out of the office. She was friendly and said I was “good to go,” which really told me nothing. Each day I felt my chances of passing diminishing. After two weeks I began calling the FBI office to see if they had results. Nothing.
In the meantime, I continued to live my life but was thinking about the FBI every second. I went to a party in my hometown of West, Texas, and saw numerous old friends who had heard I was “going to be an FBI agent.” Since I was still awaiting my polygraph results, I knew that I might not have passed. Instead of relishing the moment, I felt like a new actor in a television show pilot that just found out the show might be cancelled.
Almost one painful and worrisome month after my polygraph test, I finally got the call. I had passed the polygraph test. And I almost fainted; I was ecstatic! I knew I was in good shape and had a clean background, so for all intents and purposes, deep down I knew at that point that I would live the dream of being an FBI agent.
CHAPTER 3
The End of Normalcy
The transition from a corporate job to working in the FBI was fast and furious; the logistics of moving and preparation for my new job were overwhelming. Agents are expected to completely change lives in as little as a week. The only promise agents get from the FBI as to where they will be sent is that they will not be coming back to the office in the city in which they applied; they will not be coming back to their hometowns. This is a cause of stress and worry that foreshadows life in the Bureau.
I kept quiet about my testing to become an agent. I did not wa
nt to damage my flourishing professional career if I did not get hired by the FBI. And of even more importance to me personally, I wanted to preserve my pride if I failed to become an agent. I knew that the saying, “the only guarantee of failure is not to try,” but I did not want to advertise my failure if I were not selected by the FBI.
I took various vacation days to have time to make preparations for life in the FBI. In the meantime, I was more successful than ever with my corporate job. About the time I was invited to fly to Kansas City for the Phase 2 interview, I was awarded a lifetime achievement award, complete with cake, speeches, and attendance of the top management of my company, including the CEO. I am a loyal person so I felt like I was being unfaithful. And in retrospect, despite the best wishes and ultimate acceptance and understanding of my decision to pursue the FBI career, to some extent I was right. I will always feel a small pang of guilt when thinking about the wonderful people at my former workplace, the same way that someone might feel bad about breaking up with the perfect mate who has been nothing but good to him or her. Only now in hindsight do I recognize how much I enjoyed my coworkers, and that overall the quality of my former corporate workplace was top notch.
After passing my Phase 2 testing and receiving my conditional appointment, I knew the time had come to tell my company that I was leaving. I spoke to my boss, who was completely accepting and understanding. I spoke with numerous other managers and employees, including the two who reported to me, and everyone was extremely positive. There was lots of hand-shaking and a general recognition that I was going on to serve a greater purpose and calling. The people at my company, including the CEO, could not have been more supportive. They allowed me to continue to work indefinitely until I went into the FBI, whether that was one month or one year. I will never forget these people who supported me with my dream.
The months drug on, through testing, through medical reviews, and through the background check. Aside from my job, my personal life needed significant attention. I was in the process of finalizing my divorce (which did raise a few questions from the FBI), and was an owner of a motocross bike, a boat, and a house, all items which for practical purposes I needed to get rid of before heading to the FBI Academy. It is no small task to get rid of possessions and rearrange a life in such a short and uncertain timeframe.
In November of 2005, I received final word that my background investigation had been approved, and that there were no more hurdles to entering the FBI Academy. From the online community, I had learned that at this point most people had to wait several months before entering the FBI Academy, so I expected to have several months to get my affairs in order. I put my house up for sale. I sold my boat. I sold my motorcycle. I made arrangements with my mother to store my other possessions. I was thankful that I did not have a spouse or children to worry about through this difficult transition period. Once again, this was a preview of how life would be in the FBI.
Only a few weeks after learning that I had made it through the entire pre-Academy processes, I received another call saying that I needed to report to the FBI Academy in two weeks. The report date was on a Sunday, and counting backwards, including travel time, I had nine days to wrap up my old corporate life. The call came right after Thanksgiving. I was elated. And I was terrified.
An incredible whirlwind of activity ensued. I gave my company a one-week notice of my departure. I accepted an offer for the sale of my home, and attended the closing the day before heading to Quantico. I worked furiously on moving possessions out of my house. I bought clothes and supplies for my upcoming FBI Academy experience.
Along the way, I managed to fall in love. There does seem to be truth in the phrase that you find love when you least expect it. I had been separated from my ex-wife for some time, and had recently finalized my divorce. I was not interested in establishing a romantic a relationship before heading to the FBI. In fact, I was specifically determined not to begin a relationship. But I found the perfect woman for me, Jennifer, and I could not help acting on what I knew would result in a lifetime of happiness. The chance to become an FBI agent was a lifelong dream, and a gift. But meeting my future wife was a much greater gift. People achieve happiness in different ways. For me, true happiness comes from a happy home life; a job, no matter how satisfying, is only “icing on the cake.” Ultimately, knowing this helped me move on from my career in the FBI. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself; at that point I had many exciting adventures awaiting me in the FBI.
So on Friday, December 9, 2005, on my nephew’s second birthday and the day before what would have been my father’s sixty-first birthday, I began the drive from Texas to Virginia. I took my time, enjoyed being on the road, felt relief that I had managed to get all of my affairs in order, and felt excitement that is difficult to explain. A lifelong dream was about to be fulfilled. Driving through the snow-covered Virginia landscape, I felt like a great explorer heading out to make discoveries. I was indeed on a journey that would prove to be enlightening and change my world.
CHAPTER 4
Welcome to Quantico
The first time I drove onto the Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia, I had images from Silence of the Lambs flashing before me. The forested rolling hills were dotted with snow patches. They were beautiful yet ominous. After driving several miles onto the base, after passing through a heavily guarded checkpoint, and after seeing ammunition depots and firing ranges, the harshness of my new home brought the serious reality of my endeavor to light.
I finally saw the sign pointing to a side road for the FBI Academy. The FBI seal further enforced the gravity of the journey I was about to take. After another thorough check was made of my identity, I was allowed to drive onto the FBI Academy grounds. I spotted more firing ranges. A sign pointed to the new FBI lab. I pulled into a parking lot, where I saw other vehicles that held occupants who shared the “deer in the headlights” look with me. I killed the engine in my truck. I had arrived. It was show time, and I felt like a terrified actor attempting his first performance.
I had preconceived notions that every action might be watched while I was at the Academy. Every situation could be a test. I thought there might be hidden cameras and microphones watching my every move. Evaluating me. Deciding if I was a worthy agent candidate. This compounded my fear and stress level.
A woman wearing khaki pants and a blue polo shirt with the wording “FBI Academy” greeted me. She was also wearing a holster with a blue plastic gun, which would become known simply as “blue handles.” She was almost overly friendly and asked if I wanted help with my bags. I felt important driving to the Academy. But once I was there I knew I was at the bottom of the food chain. I was a true freshman. And a freshman getting help from an upperclassman, especially on a cold Sunday afternoon, set off alarm bells on all levels. Were new agents expected to work seven days a week? Would I be mopping floors? Cleaning restrooms with a toothbrush? I wanted to turn around and leave. Panic and terror waves pounded me. Fight or flight instinct kicked in. But I had quit my job, sold my house, and had nothing to go back to. Flight was not an option. I had dozens of friends and family who were counting on me to become an FBI agent. So going forward with my fight was the only choice. My dream was already feeling like a nightmare, and I had not even signed in.
Prior to arriving, I had filled out my stacks of pre-employment paperwork thoroughly. After signing in, I was immediately handed a huge stack of papers to complete. To my surprise, these papers were similar to what I had filled out before. Some were exactly the same. But that did not matter, because they wanted the “latest” forms, and the forms that I had previously filled out, which were sent by the FBI’s human resources area, were not always current or complete. As a person with significant business process improvement experience, I had more alarm bells ringing. It was evident that the FBI is not immune to government inefficiency.
; After gathering my bags, the New Agent Trainee, referred to as a NAT (each letter pronounced separately, not pronounced like the name of an insect) who originally greeted me showed me to my room. It was a cold and sparsely appointed dorm room, exactly like a college dorm room. Two suites connected sharing a single toilet and shower, with two sinks. There was minimal closet space. There were two beds with meager sheets and blankets. I had experienced living in a dorm in college and had never desired to return to those living conditions. But here I was, with five months of dorm life staring at me. Only I knew this dorm life was not going to be fun. No freedom to skip class and read a book by the lake. No pinball games at the student union. No television allowed in the room. This was more like a children’s boarding school than like a college. The type of boarding school operated by tough, ruler-wielding nuns. The corner of my mouth revealed a small grin when I thought of the phrase “nuns with guns.” My sense of humor would serve me well in making it through the difficult upcoming months.
Next came a tour of the facilities. Firing ranges. The gymnasium. Workout mats. Boxing gear. More firing ranges. A large lap swimming pool. The hall of honor, dedicated to fallen FBI agents. A library. The cafeteria. And yes, a building with some actual classrooms. I actually did look forward to class. Learning real crime scene investigation techniques while getting paid sounded like heaven to me; I could not imagine a better way to make a living. I figured that if I focused on the positives and things that I enjoyed, my attitude could carry me forward above any negatives that I would experience with my new profession.
Eyes Pried Open Page 2
