Eyes Pried Open

by Vincent Sellers

  CHAPTER 24

  Baker to Vegas

  Within the law enforcement community, there is an annual team footrace that attracts hundreds of participating law enforcement organizations represented by thousands of individual participants. This event, known as Baker to Vegas, is the largest competitive running event held for law enforcement in the world. The majority of the teams are from the southwestern United States, but teams from all over the United States and even international teams fly in for the competition. The course winds from Baker, California, to Las Vegas, Nevada, over 120 miles of desolate desert and mountain roads. Teams are comprised of twenty members who split up the course by running relay legs ranging from five to ten miles each.

  The San Diego FBI fields a team for this event each year. While the race is held with a fun spirit of camaraderie among law enforcement agencies, there is no question about the level of commitment and competition that is displayed. Law enforcement tends to attract competitive individuals, and the Baker to Vegas event highlights this common DNA found throughout the law enforcement community. Competition within the San Diego office was stiff to make the team. While I was not in the greatest shape of my life, my natural running abilities propelled me to finishing strong enough in a time trial to secure a spot on the team. I could hardly wait to participate in this event.

  I was assigned to run a seven-mile leg in the relay. I studied the course elevation, and calculated that I would be running in the mountains in the middle of the night. I prepared for several months in advance with a training regimen that included plenty of hills. Unfortunately, to this day, my knees are not thankful for the abuse that I put them through; bending my legs sounds like I have bags of marbles hidden under my knee caps. But it was worth it.

  The team members spanned agents from a variety of squads in San Diego, with mostly male but a few female racers. This was a fit bunch of people, but fit was not a term that I would use to describe many of the agents in the office. A number were overweight, and I was amazed that some could ever have been in shape to pass the physical exam to get into the FBI. Fortunately for them, the FBI does not have ongoing physical tests for agents; only firearms proficiency is tested periodically once an agent graduates from the FBI Academy.

  The weekend of the race finally arrived. Jennifer and I booked a hotel in Las Vegas and then rode with other agents to the race course. I was in awe of the incredible amount of logistics that were involved. With multiple vehicles and runners on the roadway, I was surprised that injuries or accidents were not common. However, the participants were all active law enforcement members, so they were capable of operating safely in these challenging conditions. If a similar event were open to the public, the results would have been disastrous.

  The hundreds of teams that participated in the race were organized into competitive groupings based on size. We were in an extremely competitive division composed of about 30 teams. The entire team treated the event as if winning would provide world peace. I treated my leg of the race accordingly, and put more effort into that race than I had ever put into any other physical endeavor.

  Waiting for my leg of the race to start seemed like an eternity. When I finally took the baton, my team was in a respectable second place. Ahead by about a quarter mile was the San Diego DEA team. While we were frequent partners in law enforcement operations, we were bitter rivals in this race. I vowed to run down the DEA agent by the end of my relay leg. He was thin and athletic, and clearly weighed less than I did by at least thirty pounds. But I knew that despite being heavier, I was a natural runner and that I could endure the pain that comes with running fast better than most.

  As I raced through the cool night desert air, complete with a black sky peppered by thousands of shining stars, I felt incredibly alive. I was soaring down the road, experienced moments of elation when I thought to myself, “Wow, I am running a race as an agent on the FBI team!” I slowly caught up to the DEA agent, put on a kick that Olympians would be proud of, and passed him like he was standing still. A few hundred yards later, I backed off the pace. I gasped and was feeling the pain of my anaerobic efforts, but I was thrilled to have put my team in the lead. I finished up my leg and pushed as hard as I could to the baton relay point. I collapsed by the road, felt sick, and looked like hell, but I was beaming.

  The race continued on through the night. I learned that at some point the DEA had an incredibly fast runner who reclaimed the lead, and they were able to finish ahead of us. But we still finished up second in our division, which was a great accomplishment. I have won countless trophies, ribbons, and medals for road races, including overall wins, but my second place Baker-to-Vegas award mug is my most prized possession for running. While I was not in love with my career in the FBI per se, the camaraderie and experiences that I shared with other agents was priceless.

  CHAPTER 25

  Face of the FBI

  The FBI rotates the duty of answering incoming calls and visitors among agents so that no one agent is permanently stuck performing this desk job which is referred to as “the duty agent.” Answering phones and being the public face of the FBI sometimes could be stressful but also proved to be entertaining and sometimes comical. On numerous occasions, I was the first “real” FBI agent that a person had ever met. I tried my best to assume the intelligent and professional image that I assumed people had in their mind of what an FBI agent is like. However, many of the citizens who strolled through the doors of the FBI were most certainly not what I had envisioned as “normal” people who need help from the FBI. Most of the crimes reported to the FBI are serious, but like moths to a flame, the FBI tends to attract more than their fair share of lunatics.

  While I was the duty agent, people shared several ludicrous stories with me. One person thought the government was spying on him, but since he was convinced it was the CIA, he though the FBI could assist; in his mind the FBI and CIA were rivals, and he wanted “Team FBI’s” help. Another person visited the office and reported that he had been kidnapped, and that while he was kidnapped, the government had placed radio implants in his head; he truly believed that his every thought was being read by the government. He seemed genuinely surprised that I was not aware of this already, since clearly I worked for the government and must have access to the radio transmissions that were “beaming” out his every thought.

  On these occasions I eventually would have to stop the person from talking (which was usually a difficult task), and then tell him or her that I believed that he or she was trying to be honest, but that unfortunately I could not help him or her. I then would recommend to the person that he or she seek professional help for mental illness. I had been around unstable people before, but to be put in a position in which I had to tell someone that he or she was mentally ill made for quite an unpleasant conversation. Directly accusing people of being mentally ill would infuriate them, because they truly believed what they were saying were true. I always was professional and told these people that if they could produce evidence that would substantiate that what they were saying were true, then we would certainly take their claims seriously.

  Sometimes people would refuse to leave the FBI property. They would continue to talk indefinitely and would spin increasingly outrageous stories. I was always prepared for a physical attack, because people that demonstrate this type of extreme instability or delusions can be incredibly unpredictable and dangerous. For such an event, we would call in the FBI security guards, who were uniformed and armed, and we would have to have some people physically removed from the FBI grounds. When that occurred, the person’s name and information would be added to our 5150 file, which was a repository of mentally unstable people who were no longer allowed on FBI grounds. 5150 is the section number in the California legal code that authorizes the involuntary handling of mentally unstable people who pose a threat of danger to themselves or othe
rs. We simply referred to people that were in the file as 5150s. I frequently see popular culture references to 5150s, and that term will always have a special meaning for me since I had to deal with some of the actual delusional people in the world that make up real 5150 files.

  Part III

  Never a Dull Moment

  CHAPTER 26

  Early Bird

  My first major planned arrest, as opposed to reactive arrests for bank robbers which typically are not planned out in advance, was for a subject facing charges for alien smuggling. This woman was the girlfriend of a corrupt customs agent, who also was facing arrest; the customs agent was known to accept cash bribes to allow vehicles to pass into the United States without being inspected. Obviously allowing vehicles that are ferrying some type of illegal objects or people into the United States is a huge problem. Not only does this contribute to illegal immigration, but allows illegal drugs into the country, and can even be a mechanism that enables foreign terrorists to set foot on American soil.

  There were several other arrest locations and sites that were part of a large coordinated effort. This was my first experience with an organized full-scale arrest scenario, and reminded me of what I had seen in movies in which the entire operation involved multiple agencies, including FBI, U.S. Customs and Border Patrol, and Immigration and Customs Enforcement, also known as ICE. The arrest plan, which was a standard document prepared prior to each planned FBI arrest, called for what was known as “knock and announce.” That means that at 6:00 a.m., agents planned to knock on the door and yell for the occupants to open up; and after a few seconds the door would be broken in if there was no response. To have all of the pieces in place, this meant getting up by 4:00 a.m., meeting and assembling by 5:00 a.m., with the arrest occurring at 6:00 a.m., an hour which has legally been upheld as a reasonable time to perform searches and arrests. Arrests late in the evening or earlier in the morning require documentation of special circumstances and a special court order, which is not easily obtained.

  As part of determining an arrest plan, we had to locate and document the nearest high-level trauma hospital in case of someone, either a suspect or an agent, being shot. The FBI likes to plan for every conceivable scenario so that things go as smoothly and safely as possible. Also pre-planned is the role that each person is assigned to play during the arrest. Since I was a new agent, I did not expect to play a significant role during the arrest; I expected to provide backup, crowd control, and possibly a few minor supporting roles. However, since I was the largest person out of all the agents in my arrest team, and after getting suggestive glances when the arrest team leader asked for a volunteer to take the battering ram and be the lead when approaching the house, somehow I found myself raising my hand and mumbling, “I’ll do it.” I had seen this on TV hundreds of times, and with my training I knew that this is the most dangerous position on an arrest team. But I was anxious to establish my reputation as a good agent; I needed to get experience doing everything, and that included performing dangerous roles under pressure. Besides, I clearly was the largest person and the most logical candidate for the job. As we approached 6:00 a.m., images kept flashing through my head of my having to break the door down and finding myself standing in the doorway, also known as the “fatal funnel,” armed only with a fifty-pound battering ram and no gun. I could envision a team of drug cartel members just waiting for me to break the door open before pulling their triggers to unload packed magazines from automatic weapons. I knew this was a risk, but I reasoned that if I hustled and immediately got out of harm’s way, even if there was gunfire, I had a good chance of not being hit. Still, knowing that there was any elevated risk of being shot tended to get my adrenaline flowing.

  The agents drove from our pre-arrest assembly point to the site of the arrest in several unmarked cars. We did not want to announce our presence, so we ran without lights or a siren. Despite this, any early-morning dog walkers would have immediately noticed the site of multiple dark window tinted sedans screaming through a neighborhood at about 60 mph. We just hoped we would not attract the attention of the occupants of our arrest location.

  It was incredibly exciting to roll up to the house, knowing what we planned to do, and yet not knowing what would actually happen. I grasped my battering ram, checked my bulletproof vest straps, and felt for my sidearm location in the event that I would need to discard the battering ram and draw my weapon as fast as possible. Our cars parked a few houses down the street from the target house, and agents poured from car doors and immediately assembled in a line, just as my training had prepared me for. I was the second person in the line of agents. The battering ram, which earlier felt heavy, now felt as light as a feather. My body was on fully-automatic mode at that point, with my heart pounding like crazy as we approached the front door. The agent in charge of the arrest led the group to the door, with everyone lined up and visually scanning doors and windows for movement. I felt extremely vulnerable as the agent pounded on the door yelling, “FBI, we have a warrant, open up the door immediately!!”

  From personal experience, I believed that the majority of people were still fast asleep at 6:00 a.m., especially criminals who are not exactly known for being hard-working early risers. If someone knocked on my front door at that time of day, it would probably take me at least a full minute to get some clothes on, and then I would try to figure out who was there, what they wanted, and whether they posed a threat. But for this arrest, after a few seconds went by, my logic and reasoning took an imaginative turn, and suddenly I envisioning tattooed gangsters and criminals pulling out their weapons, popping clips into their automatic machine guns, and aiming for the door. A few more seconds went by and the agent pounded on the door again, but nobody opened up. My heart rate must have been approaching 200 at that point; the adrenaline was flowing and I had reached a primal fight or flight mode. The lead agent looked back at me and nodded, meaning that it was my turn to step up and knock in the door using the battering ram.

  In an instant as I was stepping into position, the door opened up and a teenage girl's face appeared. The battering ram would not have to be used on that day. I jumped out of the doorway, set the ram down, pulled out my weapon, and felt comforted that my own life was mostly now back in my own hands, and that it appeared that the subjects and other residents of the house would fully comply with the arrest team.

  We got to work and followed our standard operating procedures for that situation, which entailed removing the girl from the scene. According to the girl, her mother, who was the target of this arrest, was not home. Agents can always count on criminals lying on behalf of their family members, but my instincts told me that this sleepy teenager truly did not know why we were there, or the whereabouts of her mother. The house was normal in appearance and was the largest house that I had been in during my time in San Diego. I was angered that criminals would be able to afford much nicer and more spacious living accommodations than the tiny apartment that my government salary as an FBI agent afforded us. This was certainly not the last time that this thought would cross my mind.

  Agents with machine guns carefully cleared out the residence, and then the search portion of the operation began, as we had obtained both arrest and search warrants. The teenage girl was instructed to call her mother and tell her to come home, and her mother complied with her request. As soon as the mother showed up and pulled into the driveway, agents arrested her, placed her in handcuffs, and drove her back to the main FBI office so that she could be questioned along with the other subjects whom were being arrested that day.

  For the search I played the role of photographer. This was much more familiar and comfortable territory for me. With the extreme danger element over, I enjoyed being at a crime scene and having the opportunity to amass the photographic evidence as part of the operation. Experienced agents helped place number “tents” that marked the locati
on of the pieces of evidence. I thoroughly documented the condition of the house before we entered. All hands searched the house for relevant evidence, and I continued to take photos in support of the operation. I took the photos in each room, and then as agents found evidence, I would take pictures of the evidence. In the meantime, I also had the opportunity to do some searching of my own in some areas of the house.

  Searching through someone’s personal property gave me an uncomfortable, prying feeling. I had always been taught to respect personal privacy and space, including possessions, and my built-in moral compass told me that it was wrong to dig through other people's things. Of course in this case the court had allowed us to perform the search, and we were looking for evidence that could help put a criminal behind bars. But I still had a wary feeling when opening drawers, looking under beds, and searching through the owner’s possessions.

  While searching in the garage, I came across a stash of “adult” related items, including leather outfits, whips, and other “adult” toys. This further compounded the feeling that I was invading someone's privacy. It helped me personally to realize the importance of limiting searches and to appreciate our basic rights afforded by the U.S. Constitution, which protect citizens from illegal searches and seizures. I could now easily visualize how a police state where law enforcement and the military can just walk into anyone's home would truly limit freedom. To me, the greatest core principles of the United States are our freedoms and privacy. In the searches I performed I respected privacy as much as possible, and I absolutely never did share comments or jokes about the possessions that we were searching through with other agents. I felt that all of the agents I worked with tried to follow the same overall search principles that I did. However, over time I would find that during some searches conducted with uniformed police officers, there were isolated incidences of crude remarks and jokes made during searches. To me this did not demonstrate the professionalism that most FBI agents and other federal law enforcement personnel showed. After a few hours, we completed our search and walked away with documents that established the relationship of the woman we arrested with the corrupt customs agent at the border.