The Last Undercover (15 page)
Shortly after one, Steele and Noel arrived at Denny’s. The mood was tense. Both Noel and I were trying to “out-bad” the other. He demanded to see the money and I demanded to see the powder. Since I didn’t have $400,000, I had every incentive to be demanding. Noel relented and the three of us left the restaurant for his car. Steele went directly to his pickup, which seemed odd.
Noel and I sat in the front seat of his car. I was wearing a transmitter and a recorder; only later did I learn the transmitter wasn’t working. Noel portrayed himself as a major player in the L.A. coke trade, but his car certainly didn’t reflect that: it was a Volkswagen Jetta. His sample also didn’t reflect the big time. The cocaine was wrapped in duct tape and plastic, not the fiberglass packaging often seen with coke directly shipped from South America. His package looked more like something that could have been stepped on. Continuing to play up my macho image, I complained about the packaging. Noel didn’t back down; he told me it came “packaged all different ways.” I wanted him to continue his taunts and his brags, telling me how much he knew about drugs and how naïve I was. His expertise would play well with a jury.
“This is the
reina
!” he insisted.
Reina
is Spanish for “queen,” a street term indicative of the highest-quality goods.
Finally, I acquiesced and told him I’d accept the sample. We agreed to go to my office to complete the deal. I exited the Jetta and headed toward my car where they thought I had the $400,000. And then, things began to go quite awry.
Noel jumped out of his car and screamed toward Steele. Steele gunned his engine and came barreling toward me in his pickup truck as I crossed the parking lot.
SEXUAL ADDICTION
A
s Steele’s pickup bore down on me in the parking lot, my training took over. I pulled my five-shot .38 revolver from beneath my shirt and fired once, striking Steele in the neck. His vehicle veered to the right. Almost simultaneously I heard the screeching of tires and turned to see Noel’s car racing toward me. I fired two more shots, and then jumped out of the way. Noel sped off, leaving the parking lot and his wounded companion, now lying on the pavement. I rushed over to Steele, blood pouring from his neck.
Mike, an FBI agent and a member of the arrest team, ran over to Steele and with no regard for his personal safety—especially in light of the AIDS epidemic plaguing L.A.—cradled Steele and applied pressure to the neck wound; Mike wasn’t wearing gloves. Sirens wailed in the background as LAPD units and paramedics responded. Mike’s quick action saved Steele’s life.
Within minutes an LAPD unit reported they found Noel, who wrecked his car several blocks from the scene. One of my rounds penetrated his chest, bounced around inside, and punctured both lungs. Both he and Steele were rushed to the hospital.
Controlled chaos prevailed at the shooting scene as FBI agents, police officers from Beverly Hills, and LAPD officers conducted their respective shooting inquiries. As policy dictates, they took my gun from me but left my recorder. So, as I sat in a surveillance van, waiting for various investigators to interview me, I called Michael.
“Everything went great,” I told him. “I got the entire load. I know I can move it quickly; come on over and I’ll give you your cut now. Oh, by the way, just to avoid any problems, meet me a few blocks west of the restaurant. That way, if any heat is hanging around, they won’t put us together.”
Once again, greed prevailed over fear and Michael hustled to our prearranged location. News copters and police units surrounded the parking lot of Denny’s; every passing motorist and pedestrian strained to view the commotion—every driver, that is, but one. Michael drove past the scene in his distinctive black Firebird, oblivious to the law-enforcement presence, as I watched from the surveillance van. Greed and stupidity proved his downfall. When he arrived at our meeting spot, he was quickly taken into custody. The Colombian, who had been under surveillance by FBI agents since meeting with Noel and Steele earlier in the morning, was also arrested a few blocks from Denny’s.
As we tried to unfold the story, it appears the suppliers believed I was easy pickings. The plan was to steal the $400,000 and kill me in the process, if necessary. Steele admitted as much.
Steele and Noel pleaded guilty. Michael and the Colombian went to trial and I spent several days on the stand. The first day was especially nerve-wracking as three of the Columbian’s relatives sat in the back of the courtroom. His cousin glared at me throughout my testimony. At various times when I looked to the back row, the cousin would discreetly put his finger to his head as if simulating a weapon and pull the trigger. The meaning was clear.
During a recess, I approached the defense attorney and asked if I could speak to his client. It was an unusual request; at first he balked, then I told him he could be present. I approached his client in a calm manner and resorted to some language I learned in the Marine Corps. My message was equally clear: I wasn’t intimidated, and if his friends didn’t knock it off, I’d have people in prison make his stay most unpleasant.
The attorney thanked me for not making it an issue with the judge, and the Colombian’s friends never returned.
The trial took an interesting turn when at one point the prosecutor, Chris Johnson, who while a Navy judge advocate actually participated in the trial upon which the film
A Few Good Men
was based, attempted to introduce yet another tape-recorded conversation between me and Michael. The judge balked at the request, loudly proclaiming he was sick and tired of the profanity on the tapes. “Everyone is swearing and I’m sick of it. The defendant is cussing and so is the undercover agent.” With that remark one the jurors blurted out, “No, Your Honor, the agent hasn’t sworn yet.” I was glad the juror was paying such close attention and thankful I hadn’t been caught on tape swearing—this time.
Both Michael and the Colombian were convicted, and all four spent substantial time in federal prison for their part in the drug conspiracy.
I never really got to play contract killer, but the four arrests sort of took away the sting.
Los Angeles, after the New York Conference
Following the New York NAMBLA conference, I wanted to maintain my credibility with the organization. I decided the best way to do this would be to quickly follow up with the “Privacy” pamphlet project; I naïvely thought the membership actually expected some sort of finished product. Using cut-and-paste skills and the Internet, in less than a day I prepared a multipage document discussing privacy issues. I e-mailed a copy of my work to each of the members on the committee, including Peter Herman. I heard nothing from anyone but Peter, who suggested my article was too detailed and requested I condense it to a one-page format. I had little interest in editing the pamphlet. I decided if I were ever questioned, I could lay blame on the rest of the committee for not responding to my initial work product.
One matter that did require further inquiry was Jeff Devore, someone in whom we had an investigative interest. He was a NAMBLA member, a resident of Orange County—within the Los Angeles office’s jurisdiction—a youth minister, a medical professional, and an admitted traveler who used the Internet to meet and set up a sexual encounter with a sixteen-year-old boy. The predication was perfect and we opened a case.
Once I returned from the conference, Jeff and I traded e-mails and agreed to meet for dinner.
I was deeply involved in another undercover operation at the same time, targeting Chinese, Russian, and Iraqi organized crime figures. For that assignment, my chosen cover was that of someone who lived off an inherited family trust and managed several private financial accounts. It was an almost perfect cover because there was no way for any subject to verify my employment or challenge my story. I could also be somewhat nebulous about my daily activities, and I had sufficient “wealth” to live comfortably, but not extravagantly. My business card reflected a Beverly Hills address, a private post office box. I maintained the same cover for the NAMBLA investigation, even keeping the same name and phone number. The only difference was that as a “straight” organized crime associate, I was “Bob.” To my NAMBLA friends, I was “Robert.” Moving from one persona to the other could give a guy whiplash, if he wasn’t careful.
I scheduled dinner for Jeff and myself at a Beverly Hills restaurant, one I frequented in an undercover capacity while working organized crime cases a decade earlier. The outdoor tables and paparazzi provided a perfect atmosphere. The ownership had not changed nor had the menu. They had no idea I was an agent, and as I had in the past, I ordered something not on the menu. The waiter always accommodated my unique request, and it appeared as though I was a regular with special connections. It all played into my role and provided that little something extra that added to my credibility.
Hollywood types frequented the restaurant. On one occasion, as Jeff and I were eating, Jon Voight walked in and sat one table away. I think Jeff was impressed. I know I was.
Jeff seemed to have a gentle spirit but was sad and troubled, something I hadn’t seen in our limited contact at the conference. His mental anguish became clear at our first dinner.
I did little talking that first evening and dug into my capellini puttanesca. Jeff expressed a real struggle with his sexuality. He admitted to being gay but wasn’t sure he was really a boy lover. He spoke of trying to find himself and had hoped his four-year participation as a member of NAMBLA would answer a lot of questions, or “fill in missing pieces of the puzzle,” as he put it. In fact, it created more uncertainties for him. He grimaced as he talked about trying to identify his real sexual desires.
Unlike some boy lovers I met or read about, Jeff characterized his desires as a “sexual addiction” rather than age-specific targeting. He openly talked of upping his age of preference into the legal range. Even his pornography collection ranged from preteen to adult. Many boy lovers were quite specific in their preferences: pedophiles desired prepubescent boys; pederasts were attracted to boys who had entered puberty. Once a boy exceeded a specific age he was no longer desirable and would be cast aside for a younger target. Jeff was confused as to where he drew the line and occasionally expressed an interest in drawing that line beyond the long arm of the criminal law.
As part of his quest for answers, he joined a 12-step sexual addiction program. I certainly wasn’t expecting this when we opened the investigation. Despite his participation in this program, he admitted to being in regular Internet contact with a fourteen-year-old in Canada with whom he engaged in online sex. He claimed they never physically met but Jeff was contemplating a trip.
Jeff also talked of an online relationship with an eighteen-year-old in Missouri. Jeff was planning a trip after Christmas to visit relatives and was debating whether he would try to set up a meeting with the boy. Sex with the teenager was part of the plan, if they met.
An ordained minister in the United Church of Christ, he was still active in his church, yet maintained a full-time job as a chiropractor, taught at a chiropractic school, and worked with chiropractic interns at a West Hollywood AIDS clinic. He denied ever seducing or molesting anyone at the church. He claimed the senior pastor was aware of his boy-lover desires and approved of Jeff’s conduct as long as the acts were consensual. It was an area I wanted to explore with the senior pastor but knew we were treading on thin legal ice since we had no evidence the senior pastor committed a crime.
Divorced with three children, Jeff was quite candid when he talked about having homoerotic fantasies during intercourse with his ex-wife. “When making love to my wife, I wished a man was doing to me what I was doing to her.” If the investigation ended with Jeff’s conviction, I thought, he just might get his wish—but not in the way he imagined.
Jeff was a tragic figure. He summed it up best in an e-mail to me.
I’ve been running from my own BL tendencies. I’ve wanted to leave it behind, yet I stay in almost daily e-mail contact with the young man in Canada. I’m not sure if I’m running toward sanity or away from a wonderful opportunity. I don’t expect you to sort this out for me, but it’s good to reach out to a fellow traveler.
In January, we met again. Jeff maintained his participation in the 12-step program. In furtherance of that participation, he said he “destroyed 98 percent” of the pornography on his zip drives, a portion of which was child pornography. Once again, he surprised me—his actions weren’t typical. Most individuals who collect child pornography rarely dispose of it; the material becomes a cherished possession, often hidden in a secure place, but kept for years. Although the Internet has made the task somewhat easier, collections are still difficult to obtain. Efforts to accumulate the illegal images may take years and usually aren’t destroyed with a single act. But maybe Jeff was different.
Jeff repeated the story he told me at dinner at the NAMBLA conference, about his sexual encounter with a sixteen-year-old in San Diego. Jeff said the two met again on the boy’s seventeenth birthday and had recently met with a third person from Nebraska, involving a three-way tryst in front of a fireplace. His detailed account was more than I really wanted to hear.
Interacting with Jeff was somewhat easy. He enjoyed sharing his experiences and didn’t really delve too deeply into my history, desires, or orientation. Usually I could counter any personal questions with a disjointed answer followed by a question, throwing the conversation back to him. Since most of us really prefer to talk about ourselves anyway, it wasn’t too hard to keep Jeff’s discussions turned most advantageously for me.
Jeff again spoke of the Canadian youth with whom he was having online sex. He also mentioned another sixteen-year-old with whom he had renewed an online relationship. The previous night, Jeff and the boy had a sexually explicit chat. According to Jeff, the boy “got off” but Jeff did not masturbate, believing that abstinence was in keeping with his 12-step “sobriety” promise.
