by Thomas Craig
The congestion on land, with the trucks trying to get into port, was arguably worse. Every five to ten seconds, a rig left the Norfolk Port, bound to deliver goods to Anytown, USA. With such a massive volume of cargo, inspections had become random versus mandatory for all containers. It was not easy and there were many obvious risks, but the Ibagué Cartel moved their drugs and women through the Port trying to exploit the random inspections.
The Department of Homeland Security’s Customs and Border Protection branch was designed to inspect cargo entering ports and stop illegal cargo before it was even loaded on ships bound for the US.
The government branch took a proactive approach with 40 major ports throughout Europe, the Middle East, Africa, and Asia which had signed the Container Security Initiative agreement enabling USA Customs and Border Protection (CBP) officials to work with foreign officials to inspect containers bound for the US. The CBP also received electronic manifests from all cargo ships leaving these ports in route to the U.S. and had plenty of time to run software analysis to decide which ships, based on cargo, should be listed as high risk and would then be part of the 15% that got inspected upon arriving in port.
The Ibagué Cartel liked the odds of pushing their business through one of the busiest Eastern Ports. Even though the South American Ports had not signed such Security Initiative Agreements with the USA, it did not mean that their Cargo Ships were not subjected to inspections. It made them more likely for more random security checks.
The Cartels preferred not to gamble with millions of dollars of product, so when and where they could, they stacked the deck to be in their favor. They would look for weakness in the ship ranks or dockworkers finding people willing to cut corners to make extra money. Cartels would also leverage people in financial trouble through extortion, knowing the victim would want to keep their lives or dirty secrets safe.
The biggest threats to the Cartels’ shipments were the mobile vehicle and cargo inspection systems. These devices were becoming more common at major ports and allowed the CBP officers and Port Authority to X-ray a truck or shipping containers as they passed by. The drugs could be disguised, and possibly fool the person trying to understand what the X-ray had produced on the scene. Women as cargo, on the other hand, could be easily detected.
To avoid the X-ray, they used their inside man in the Port Authority to remove the women at night from the shipping container and smuggled them out in his truck. Those who did not fit in the truck were placed in the Port Authority’s janitor’s vehicle, who just happened to be a member of the Latin Lords Crew.
The CBP officers and their X-ray machines concentrated on the truckers that left port, and not the dock workers. The Port Authorities were allowed to spot check any vehicle, NIT employees included, they generally just didn’t due to the already insane workload.
As we entered NIT, Holliday and I made our first stop at the Virginia Port Authority building. We had made several calls ahead of time, speaking with the port’s Chief of Police, Mike Whitehouse, to ensure he had the support needed to secure the Santiago and crew before any crew members or cargo were allowed to leave the ship.
The Port Authority Police Response Team, led by Captain Lawrence Yates, (whom the Chief knew better than his kids), boarded and retrieved the manifest from the Crown Maritime Corporation Santiago. PA Authority Police Captain Yates stayed aboard the Santiago and questioned the boat’s captain thoroughly about the cargo and crew. His team ensured all deckhands and crew were accounted for, and the questioning and researching of cargo went on for hours.
As we entered the building and spoke to the officer at the front desk, we started to learn just how much our investigation was impacting the port.
“This Santiago business you boys are here for is causing a serious backlog with loading containers on the rail now. To make matters worse, three of our hustlers are not working.”
Holliday turns to me, “Hustlers?” I just shrugged my shoulders. Never having been to a shipping yard, I could only guess it was a piece of equipment.
The officer noticed our exchange and explained that they were quick maneuvering tractors for moving containers on and off rail cars. With less working equipment and the delays caused by the holding of the Santiago’s cargo, tensions were rising. There was never a lack of hours or overtime for anyone working the port terminals, which was nice for the pocketbooks. However, the stress of deadlines, long shifts, and people barking at each other was the unappreciated flipside of the situation.
The officer asked us if we had anything to do with a supervisor holding an officer in one of the questioning rooms for the past few hours.
“I doubt it,” I replied, not wanting to feed any gossiping that might already be developing.
“We are meeting up with Captain Yates. Is he waiting for us on the Santiago?” Holliday asked as if it were a casual meeting between old friends.
“Well, he is on the ship, but I don’t know about waiting for you. Let me radio him.” With a doubtful look our way, he radioed the Port Authority Police Captain and then promptly found himself escorting us to the ship.
We received quick instructions that sounded more like a warning to stay close and park exactly next to him on his left. Something about not getting run over, so we stayed closed and followed him in our car a few blocks before we found ourselves at the base of the Santiago cargo ship. It was massive. Like 3 football fields long massive. Three impressive cranes that towered eight to nine stories high were making short work of removing 20-foot containers what seemed like every two minutes from the ship and placing them on the ground where fast straddle carriers were driving in, picking up and driving away the containers towards the railyard.
“It looks like we diverted some of our straddle carriers here to move these containers to rail. Normally we drop these boxes on hustlers and away they go,” the officer pointed out.
I was about to question why the containers were being removed, as I thought we had explicitly expressed the ‘hold’ on all crew and shipment. However, Holliday was already walking to board the ship and I took that as my cue to follow.
After boarding, we managed more than a few flights of stairs and hallways to find the bridge where both the Port Authority Police Captain Yates and the Captain of the Santiago were talking.
To our surprise, the Port Authority Police made short work of the ships manifest hours ago narrowing down which containers were suspicious. They were good at this. They had to be. The list of possible suspicious containers was down to 30 topside units the crew could have accessed and opened during the journey. They already had two crew under guard and being questioned. They also already checked 25 of the 30 containers.
“Permission to enter the bridge Captain?” Holliday belted out to get their attention.
The Captain of the ship nodded to acknowledge the formality and our presence. Port Authority Captain Lawrence Yates came over and extended his hand making introductions, “Larry Yates, Captain of the Port Authority Response Team. This is Captain Juarez, of the CMC Santiago.”
“CMC?” asked Holliday.
“Crown Maritime Corporation,” answered Juarez in surprisingly good English.
Yates looked like he ate two of the crew and stored their remains in his chest and neck. He was abnormally disproportionate with a huge barrel chest that tapered to a slender waist. If his physique didn’t get my attention, his grip sure as shit did. I think he broke a few bones in my hand as he squeezed a hello from me.
Holliday just smiled as the two exchanged vice-like handshakes. I honestly don’t think Yates was trying to prove anything with his handshake like some assholes try to do. He obviously chopped down trees for fun in his spare time and his death grip was the byproduct.
The Captain of the ship was the opposite of Yates. A rail of a man that likely lived on crackers, sardines, and a gallon of coffee a day. The bridge reeked of his Pielroja brand cigarette smoke and the remains of the strong Colombian black tobacco which littered several nea
rby ashtrays. After introducing himself, he quickly started to repeat his story to us. The story Captain Juarez told, of course, did not implicate himself in any wrongdoing.
“Much like airline pilots who walk onto the plane at the last minute and fly the people to the next city, they trust that the TSA and gate agents only allowed law-abiding passengers aboard and without hazardous material. I operate the same way. I, too, come in and pilot the ship, trusting who loads her and what is listed is what I ship,” he explained.
I didn’t doubt that the Captain was unaware of the exact items onboard, but he was accountable for the crew, including any involvement in the corruption tied to the cartel smuggling. Two of the crew members could not explain their whereabouts each night. 5 Containers remained for searching. The time had come for us to see what was in these containers.
It made sense why only 30 containers out of 2,000 were at the top of the list to search. The containers were stacked 15 across and 12 high and the rows were back-to-back. This meant that if people wanted to come and go from a container, they would need to be on a bottom row with a door that was not blocked by another container. They would also have to be in rows that are not in plain view of the crew or line-of-sight from the bridge. That did not leave many to search.
The crew in question were not holding up very well to the Port Authorities light interrogation in the empty mess hall. We were walking through it on our way to the last 5 containers when the Captain overheard something one of the crew members was confessing. He stopped and verbally laid into the man, causing him to shrink in his chair.
The two men were paid handsomely to throw out waste each night and replace water rations for the stowaways. They gave the Captain the container number, one of the remaining five to be searched.
It only took a few minutes, and we were standing in front of this container positioned behind the bridge. As we approached to take a closer look, we could see where the metal security cable seal was cut, which allowed the crew to open the door for their nightly deeds.
As both Captains moved the lever up and opened the doors, the smell caused a gag. A few high-powered flashlights were pointed into the container sweeping from side to side revealing a dozen women shielding their eyes from the first light they have seen in close to a week.
The conditions were worse than one could have imagined. Buckets of waste were knocked over in the dark and the women were covered in a slurry of feces, urine, and vomit. It was embarrassing how cruel human beings could be to each other.
Captain Juarez felt a high degree of guilt and embarrassment, as he should, knowing his crew was involved in this heinous act. He gave some orders, and what seemed like seconds later, blankets appeared. He insisted on running the women through the ship's showers and giving them fresh clothes and a proper meal before going to the hospital.
It took a few moments to record the scene, as further help was arranged. Yates made a call to organize for a few vans to move the women off the boat and to the nearest hospital for examination.
One of the women was having a hard time staying conscious, so the Port Authority medical team attended to her and called for an ambulance just to be safe.
I felt guilty I could not work my way over to the young woman to help heal her. It would have been too suspicious if I insisted. Thankfully, her condition improved slightly when a medic gave her an IV and oxygen from a portable oxygen tank. The color returned to her face as she took in more air from the breather mask over her nose and mouth.
She was smiling now as they led her to the Captain’s quarters for a shower. The others were taken to the crew showers.
“Captain Yates, would you mind if we broke away and questioned your officer in holding?” Holliday asked. He could tell Yates had everything under control and that we were just two more people he was responsible for while in the port terminal.
“Yes, that is fine. You should talk to him before I do,” Yates said without a hint of emotion. “If he had anything to do with smuggling these women from ship to transport, I will strangle him.”
We knew the officer in holding would feel the full force of Yates’ grip if we did not intervene. Holliday could see the anger starting to set into Yates’ jaw muscles. How his teeth were not exploding into dust from the immense pressure of his tightening jaw, was incomprehensible.
“I have a daughter in High School and one in College. From the looks of this group we just rescued, my daughters are around the same age.” The situation was starting to crack Yates’ stone exterior.
We could read Yates' and knew if his PA officer in holding was involved, it would be best for us to just detain the officer versus leaving him with Yates.
“Tell you what, if he is our in-between man, we will take him off your hands and write it up however you want. All I ask is that you text me as soon as you know where the women are headed for care, as we need to interview them as soon as possible.” Holliday handed Yates a business card.
Yates nodded in agreement and pocketed the card.
ICE would be Yates' next call and we all knew that deportation would likely be arranged as soon as the women were fit to travel again to reunite them with their families abroad.
I thought we could first try to get information from the detained officer about how the women were transported and who took them from the port. Then we could go to the hospital in hopes the women could give us leads on Taz and his location.
Back at the Port Authority holding cell, Officer Brian Wickshaw was not as helpful at first as we hoped he would be. But when Holliday started describing what Captain Yates was going to do to him once we left the room, Officer Wickshaw started thinking about his options.
Holliday poked him in the side of his head and said, “You’ve been colluding with a known Cartel. Drug trafficking is considered an act of terrorism. It’s time we start treating you like a terrorist. Do you know where we imprison terrorists?”
Officer Wickshaw looked around as if searching for the answer.
“Shoot, don’t feel bad that you don’t know. I don’t even know what dark hole we put you guys in these days. It’s supposed to be that way because no one gives a shit,” Holliday explained with special emphasis on the last five words. Then he drove the last nail in Wickshaw’s coffin.
“If that reality is not bad enough for you, just think what the evil sons of bitches lurking in that dark hole will do to you every day when we tell them you sold teenagers and young women into prostitution.”
The posturing we had seen moments ago faded into nervous twitching and mumblings that kind of sounded like, ‘what can I do to make this right?’
But there was nothing this sorry excuse for a human being could do to erase his actions and clear his conscience. All he could do was give us every detail to help us, and the dark hole he went to wouldn’t learn of his evil actions towards young girls from us. Of course, the other prisoners would eventually find out. They always do.
The officer gave up the information he had.
“I was approached through my home computer and the plan came across as not optional,” he explained.
“That’s such bullshit, there is always an option,” I blurted out.
“Look, days after the email, I was approached by the gang member that was the key to smuggling the women out of the port in his van. He happened to be one of the many janitors that worked in the port. He showed me pictures of my friends and family members explaining they would stay safe with my cooperation. Does that sound like I had a choice?” Officer Brian Wickshaw asked, hoping for some sympathy.
He did not get any from us.
This was feeling like a good break. An actual member of the LLC working as a janitor here, directly connected to the Cartel’s human trafficking. Then it hit me.
“He’s working today, isn’t he?” I asked.
“Yes, he should be here somewhere, waiting to get the container number and location once placed in the holding area,” he further explained that nonpriority containers g
o to a holding area for stacking and staging for transportation at a later time or date.
Sometimes they sat in the staging area for days until the other priority containers had been moved. This holding area made it possible for the officer and janitor to plan their timing and removal of the women from the container to the van to exit the port.
The next part seemed too easy. With Captain Yates’ support, we used Wickshaw’s cell phone to text the janitor a container number that was in a non-busy part of the staging area. We wanted to catch the suspect in the act of opening the container.
The trap was set. Six Port Authority Officers were in the immediate area. One was in the container with Holliday, ready to tackle the guy to the ground. I was with another officer about 40 yards away.
Within an hour of texting the janitor, he came strolling up to the container. He stood in front of it for a moment looking back and forth from his phone to the container number, double-checking. Then he examined the altered metal cable security seal on the door handles. When he saw the cable seal was cut, he knew he had the right container.
Next, he placed a backpack on the ground and pulled out a mask with filters, and placed it over his nose and mouth preparing for the stench he was all too familiar with from previous extractions.
He wasn’t done with the backpack. He pulled a cable out and laid it on the ground. Both ends of the cable had handcuffs attached to it and handcuffs every two feet. It looked much like how prisoners were moved in groups of five or ten on a chain.
We all started to move in slowly. The janitor removed the broken security cable and slowly lifted the metal door lever releasing the right-side door allowing it to start to open.
As I came around the corner of the opposite container, I saw the janitor opening the door. That was our cue to put the lights on him and take him in. But that is not exactly how the next 4 seconds went.
Pop! Pop Pop Pop!
Four quick shots and muzzle flashes to match were exchanged at the door. Floodlights came on and the Janitor was laying on his back. I could also see boots toe up in the container and a Port Authority Officer walking out with his gun on the janitor.
