Breakfast in Kersey: Tales of a Federal Narc

By Thomas G. Blacklock

No Drug deal is worth dying for, was the first rule of the street that I chose to call a Street Smart rule and was one of ten informal rules which guided me through a career as a Federal Agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA). In my book Breakfast in Kersey I detail these ten rules, the Street Smarts, that I deduced from actual street experience and incorporated them with anecdotal incidents which traced the highs and lows of my Special Agent career.

In tracing my long career, the many facets of drug law enforcement are exposed; from the exciting and dangerous work of undercover to the rather mundane tasks such as long-term surveillance. Additionally, the highs and lows of a federal narcotics career are examined from the thrill of making a big seizure or arrest to the heartbreaking hardships that this job has on a family and personal life.

And fi nally, I off er insights at the frustrations of the job such as inane policies and procedures established by a higher headquarters that tended to hinder investigations and, at times, agent safety to the petty bickering that existed between local, state and federal agencies over drug and or money seizures and jurisdiction. Interwoven into these facets are anecdotes, both humorous and sad but every one of them real allowing a keen insight as to what it was really like to toil in the realm of narcotics enforcement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456811914

Thomas G. Blacklock

About the Author Thomas (Tom) Blacklock was a U.S. Marine Vietnam Combat Veteran who went on to become a Special Agent and Supervisory Special Agent with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) retiring after thirty years of Federal Service.

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Copyright © 2010 by Thomas G. Blacklock.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2010916602

ISBN: Hardcover    978-1-4568-1190-7

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4568-1189-1

ISBN: Ebook           978-1-4568-1191-4

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to those agents and task force officers who now daily fight or have valiantly fought the never-ending War on Drugs and have made great personal selfless sacrifices to free our society of the scourge of illicit drugs.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to acknowledge Susan Smith of The Wordsmith, my copy editor, writing companion and friend, for her excellent work in editing this book. Her efforts in detecting my errors, insight and recommendations made this endeavor more readable and are greatly appreciated.

I would also like to acknowledge the excellent efforts of Judy Waters whose critical editorial insights, comments and suggestions significantly increased the readability of this book.

To my loving wife Jeri I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge her support while I endeavored to write this book and who read this work with a critical eye. Thanks dear for helping me bring this book to fruition.

To Judy Knott, Carol and Michelle Hartle I offer my sincere thanks for your critical readings of portions of this book.

Last but not least I would like to offer my humble thanks to all those individuals who appear herein and who made this book possible. You know who you are and I do not need to single you out.

PROLOGUE

The Drug Enforcement Administration, DEA, is a relatively new Federal Law Enforcement Agency celebrating its 35th Anniversary in July 2008. It was established in July of 1973 by then President Nixon who sought to centralize the federal drug law enforcement effort into one federal agency. Consolidating the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, BNDD, the Office of Drug Abuse Law Enforcement, ODALE and those elements of the U.S Customs Service who retained domestic narcotic enforcement powers into one agency, the DEA, the administration hoped to formulate a more consolidated effort in ridding out communities of the scourge of narcotics and dangerous drugs and to eliminate the sometimes derisive lack of cooperation and often unhealthy competition that persisted among the agencies that exercised narcotic enforcement authority. From its early humble and tumultuous beginnings, fighting adversaries from both within and outside government, the DEA grew into a highly responsive and successful narcotics enforcement agency fighting the drug traffickers on a world-wide basis and continues in its efforts to prevent the subjugation of the citizens of the United States from those who seek to enslave them with debilitating drugs or who would do them bodily harm from a narco-terroristic sponsored event.

When I proudly joined the DEA as a Special Agent it was a relatively small agency with approximately two thousand special agents spread throughout the United States and sixty-three foreign countries. It grew to almost double that number of Special Agents during my tenure and increased its foreign presence to eighty-seven countries.

The House Resolution of the 110 Congress Second Session (H.Con.Res.369 of June 10, 2008) Honoring the Men and Woman of the Drug Enforcement Administration on the occasion of its 35th Anniversary succinctly and accurately describes the august1history and accomplishments of DEA since its creation. In an effort to better inform the readers about DEA and its accomplishments over the past 35 years I have taken the liberty of copying the Resolution and providing it here in full.

CONCURRENT RESOLUTION

"Honoring the men and women of the Drug Enforcement

Administration on the occasion of its 35th anniversary.

Whereas the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) was created by an Executive order on July 6, 1973, and merged the previously separate law enforcement and intelligence agencies responsible for narcotics control;

Whereas the first administrator of the DEA, John R. Bartels, Jr., was confirmed by the Senate on October 4, 1973;

Whereas since 1973, the men and women of the DEA have served our Nation with courage, vision, and determination, protecting all Americans from the scourge of drug trafficking, drug abuse, and related violence;

Whereas the DEA has adjusted and refined the tactics and methods by which it targets the most dangerous drug trafficking operations to bring to justice criminals such as New York City’s Nicky Barnes, key members of the infamous Colombian Medellin cartel, Thai warlord Khun

Sa, several members of the Mexican Arellano-Felix organization, Afghan terrorist Haji Baz Mohammad, and international arms dealer Viktor Bout;

Whereas throughout its 35 years, the DEA has continually adapted to the evolving trends of drug trafficking organizations by aggressively targeting organizations involved in the growing, manufacturing, and distribution of such substances as marijuana, cocaine, heroin, methamphetamine, Ecstasy, and controlled prescription drugs;

Whereas in its 227 domestic offices in 21 field divisions, the DEA continues to strengthen and enhance existing relationships with Federal, State, and local counterparts in every State in the Union to combat drug trafficking;

Whereas in this decade alone, DEA special agents have seized over 5,500 kilograms of heroin; 650,000 kilograms of cocaine; 2,300,000 kilograms of marijuana; 13,000 kilograms of methamphetamine; almost 80,000,000 dosage units of hallucinogens; and made over 240,000 arrests;

Whereas in its 87 foreign offices in 63 countries, the DEA has the largest international presence of any Federal law enforcement agency;

Whereas its personnel continue to collaborate closely with international partners around the globe, including in such drug-producing countries as Colombia, Mexico, Afghanistan, and Thailand;

Whereas the results of this international collaboration in this decade alone have led to the indictments of 63 leaders, members, and associates of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, a designated foreign terrorist organization, as well as 144 arrests and detainments of narcotics traffickers for violations of Afghan and United States narcotics laws and terrorist-related offenses;

Whereas through the creation of the Diversion Control Program in 1971, the DEA now registers and regulates over 1,200,000 registrants, while simultaneously combating the continually-evolving threat posed by the diversion of controlled pharmaceuticals;

Whereas the DEA continues to hit drug traffickers financially, where it hurts the most, denying drug trafficking organizations $3,500,000,000 in fiscal year 2007 alone, exceeding their 5-year goal of $3,000,000,000 annually by fiscal year 2009;

Whereas DEA special agents continue to work shoulder-to shoulder with Federal, State, and local law enforcement officials throughout the Nation in a cooperative effort to put drug traffickers behind bars;

Whereas throughout its history, many DEA employees and members of the agency’s task forces have given their lives in the line of duty, including: Charles Archie Wood, Stafford E. Beckett, Joseph W. Floyd, Bert S. Gregory, James T. Williams, Louis L. Marks, James E. Brown, James R. Kerrigan, John W. Crozier, Spencer Stafford, Andrew P. Sanderson, Anker M. Bangs, Wilson M. Shee, Mansel R. Burrell, Hector Jordan, Gene A. Clifton, Frank Tummillo, Richard Heath, Jr., George F. White, Emir Benitez, Gerald Sawyer, Leslie S. Grosso, Nickolas Fragos, Mary M. Keehan, Charles H. Mann, Anna Y. Mounger, Anna J. Pope, Martha D. Skeels, Mary P. Sullivan, Larry D. Wallace, Ralph N. Shaw, James T. Lunn, Octavio Gonzalez, Francis J. Miller, Robert C. Lightfoot, Thomas J. Devine, Larry N. Carwell, Marcellus Ward, Enrique S. Camarena, James A. Avant, Charles M. Bassing, Kevin L. Brosch, Susan M. Hoefler, William Ramos, Raymond J. Stastny, Arthur L. Cash, Terry W. McNett, George M. Montoya, Paul S. Seema, Everett E. Hatcher, Rickie C. Finley, Joseph T. Aversa, Wallie Howard, Jr., Eugene T. McCarthy, Alan H. Winn, George D. Althouse, Becky L. Dwojeski, Stephen J. Strehl, Juan C. Vars, Jay W. Seale, Meredith Thompson, Frank S. Wallace, Jr., Frank Fernandez, Jr., Kenneth G. McCullough, Carrol June Fields, Rona L. Chafey, Shelly D. Bland, Carrie A. Lenz, Shaun E. Curl, Royce D. Tramel, Alice Faye Hall-Walton, Elton Armstead, Larry Steilen, Terry Loftus, Jay Balchunas, and Richard E. Fass;

Whereas many other DEA employees and task force officers have been wounded or injured in the line of duty; and

Whereas over 9,000 employees of the DEA, including special agents, intelligence analysts, diversion investigators, program analysts, forensic chemists, attorneys, and administrative support, along with over 2,000 task force officers, and over 2,000 vetted foreign officers, work tirelessly to hunt down and bring to justice the drug trafficking cartels that seek to poison our citizens with dangerous narcotics:

Now, therefore, be it Resolved by the House of Representatives (the Senate concurring),

That Congress—

we on PRODPC61 with BILLS

(1) congratulates the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) on the occasion of its 35th anniversary;

(2) honors the heroic sacrifice of the agency’s employees who have given their lives or have been wounded or injured in service of our Nation; and

(3) gives heartfelt thanks to all the men and women of the DEA for their past and continued efforts to defend the American people from the scourge of illegal drugs and terrorism." 31 2005 02:25 Jun

CHAPTER ONE

Breakfast in Kersey

At 4 a.m. the air was cold and damp, and the tulle-like fog was so thick I could barely see fifty feet ahead, typical for an early fall morning in northeast Colorado. As the headlights of my government-issued Blazer attempted to bore holes in Mother Nature’s water vapor shroud, I thought how it would be just my luck that some farmer’s cow would be standing smack dab in the middle of the road up ahead, waiting for my car to reduce it to steaks or, more likely, hamburger. I’d end up buying Bossy just as Chuck did several years ago when he hit that cow on the Indian Reservation near Ramona, California. The old Indian didn’t care that Chuck was a federal agent or that his mangy old cow had virtually destroyed Chuck’s G-ride. The law specified that range cattle could roam on the highway, and anybody hitting a cow could be financially liable. Fortunately for Chuck, the highway patrol arrived on the scene just before Chuck and the old Indian went to war. Like then, this fog was as thick as pea soup and it had covered us all the way from Denver.

Our mission this morning was to assist some local officers in the search of a farm residence and barn where a suspected speed lab was in operation. As the supervisor of the Drug Enforcement Administration’s Clandestine Laboratory Enforcement Group in Denver, I had made it my practice always to go on searches where a suspected lab was located. One reason was I probably was the most experienced DEA agent in the group in working labs. The second reason was because early morning raids usually meant that some female would be in bed, either scantily attired or entirely sans clothing. We older narcs had to get our cheap thrills where we could.

From the very beginning, I had a bad feeling about this impending search. We had never worked with this particular local police department before, and according to Greg, my case agent, the local investigator was a fucking jerk who knew everything there was to know about drug law enforcement even though he admitted that he’d never done a lab case before. Early on in the investigation, I had come to realize that this jerk wouldn’t listen to our self-considered sage advice. I harbored the thought that we might just get lucky and that this beer-belly narc wouldn’t heed my advice about not smoking his smelly cigar next to a five-gallon can of ether, and that ether just might blow him, his redneck cowboy boots and over-sized belt buckle to Kingdom Come. The only problem was that ether, which has more explosive power than dynamite, would probably level the entire farm, along with every officer there, including yours truly.

In any event, here I was at a rest stop alongside a two-lane highway in the middle of East Jesus listening to this fat jerk explain how the raid would occur. As his briefing droned on, I couldn’t get my mind to focus on anything but the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. In my younger years, I would have attributed this feeling to apprehension about the impending raid. But this morning the feeling had nothing to do with any fear or trepidation. My sixth sense—that uncanny hunch that federal judges in the District of Colorado refuse to believe we old-time narcs possess—told me that the raid would be a waste of time. Instead, the feeling was caused by a lack of food and maybe just the slight residual effects of too much Miller time the night before. My mind filled with the thought that this idiot needed to get on with it so we could get the raid over and go to breakfast. Heck, way out here, even once the raid and subsequent search were completed, it would still be at least an hour’s drive before we found a town big enough to have a restaurant. Suddenly an attack of anxiety hit me. What if there really was a lab here? Forget breakfast; we wouldn’t even make lunch. Now I was really depressed. You’ve got to understand that to us old narcs, finding a good breakfast place is almost as important as finding a large stash of dope or money. I guess the new breed of narcs might compare it with not missing their gym time or their fancy fu fu coffee and biscotti at Starbucks.

This need to find a good place to have breakfast is seated deep in my psyche and there has been, throughout my law enforcement career, the continual need to satisfy this compelling urge. I can recall when I was assigned to the Narcotics Task Force (NTF) in San Diego, we made it a practice to actually put the breakfast spot right on the written raid plan. If anybody arrived at the raid briefing late and missed out on the pre-briefing donuts, all he had to do was look at the breakfast meeting place, cleverly disguised and labeled as the post-raid debriefing site, to judge where in the county we were going to be operating and what he could expect for breakfast.

After what I considered to be an eternity, we suited up, that is to say we put on our raid gear, which consisted of a ballistic vest, raid jacket marked DEA POLICE, and pistol belts. We then convoyed to the vicinity of the raid site where we all got into several vehicles. By this time my stomach was really talking to me. As I sat in the back of a Sheriff’s van, my only consolation was that if I was hungry, Geno, the human garbage pail sitting across from me, must have been starved.

Finally, we put our raid of the farm into action. Just as I suspected, the local narcotics expert was not only wrong, but he was dead wrong. There was no clandestine speed lab at this farm; moreover, there were no signs that a lab had ever been there. The only dope found was Jerry, the resident of a trailer home on the property. Jerry had the misfortune of having several outstanding local arrest warrants for failure to appear in local courts for various infractions of the law. At least Jerry did us the courtesy of being at home when we paid a visit, and at least someone was going to go to jail for all our efforts. Jerry was rather inhospitable and did not even offer us coffee. I tried my best to be cordial and commented how lifelike his blow-up girlfriend looked laying next to his bed. For this act of kindness, I received the stern rebuke of: Fuck you.

When it was obvious that we feds were no longer needed, we bid our fond adieus to the local guys, telling them it had been a slice of life and that we should do it more often. We began our trek back to Denver. By this time the sun was up, and I could see the desolate country that we had passed through earlier in the fog. Nothing but miles and miles of harvested cornstalks that had already turned brown, and the desolation of the countryside only deepened my depression.

As I had previously figured, we would have to travel to Greeley, fifty miles distant and west, of course, as Horace Greeley, the town’s namesake, once said, before we could find a breakfast spot. Some thirty-five miles later I slowed my vehicle down to about fifty miles an hour as I passed through a small town. I recalled seeing a town’s name on a road sign several miles back and guessed that this must be the metropolis of Kersey. As with most eastern Colorado plains towns, I drove through Kersey before I knew it. And then just when I reached the west end of town, out of the corner of my tired eyes, I saw a sign with the magical words: Pancake House. The sign had appeared out of nowhere, like an apparition, and it drew my entire being to it like metal to a magnet. Quickly, I halted my Blazer and simultaneously grabbed the mic to alert my troops as to my find. Of course, my troops did not drive like Grandpa out on a Sunday drive, as they had characterized my driving, and they had left me in their dust as usual. However, upon hearing my news, they quickly slammed on their brakes and returned to Kersey. In a cloud of dust, and possibly some scurrying chickens, the four of us descended upon the Pancake House.

When I say the words pancake house, your mind probably conjures up a vivid image of a bright red, white, and blue high-peaked modern building like you see in many cities. Well, disabuse yourself of such notions and images. Even in better times the Kersey Pancake House could have been considered a shack. It was a white, one-story, wood-framed building that, in all likelihood, had been someone’s dream home at the turn of the century.

Once assembled in front of this establishment, my troops and I made our grand entrance, and my initial suspicions were immediately confirmed. The modified building had, indeed, once been someone’s dream home. Naturally, the place was full of farmers and other locals, and we big-city narcs were as out of place as a smelly fart in church. All eyes turned to us as we entered. A low counter ran down the center of what probably used to be the living room, and tables sat against the outer walls with window views of the parking lot. The kitchen appeared to be somewhere behind the counter, with a pass-through window connecting the two areas. We were in luck. I spotted an empty un-bused table, and ignoring the wait to be seated sign, we quickly occupied it. Immediately a waitress, who could have been right out of Mel’s Diner in the old television sit-com, descended upon us.

Don’t they teach you big city boys how to read? she asked, obviously in reference to the wait-to-be-seated sign.

In my mind I had already named the waitress Flo, and I answered her wisecrack with one of my own. We’re not smoking, and because we called ahead for reservations, we figured this was our table.

Flo smiled and then placed in front of us the four coffee cups she had picked up when she saw us heading towards the table.

After shooing the flies away and clearing the dirty dishes, Flo poured coffee all around and gave us menus. The menu was a typewritten sheet of paper inserted into a plastic sleeve. Flo called our attention to the daily specials written on a chalkboard above the counter.

After disregarding the flies and perusing the menu, I knew my decision to stop here was a good one. The prices were incredible, a complete country breakfast for $2.95. In my estimation, we had hit an old narc’s dream, a place that served plenty of greasy food at cheap prices. Who gives a crap about quality anyway?

Geno ordered one of everything on the menu, or at least that’s how it seemed to us. I explained to a curious Flo that we had just broken Geno out of a state mental institution and that he had not had solid food since his breakdown. Moreover, I explained that this was the first time he had access to knives and forks since the unfortunate incident with a waitress in another restaurant which led to his breakdown and then to his incarceration in the mental institution. I could tell that we are beginning to make Flo’s day and that she was really starting to warm up to us.

All right, she said, what do you other assholes want?

I settled for eggs and sausage, which, of course, came with fried potatoes and a short stack of pancakes.

In no time at all our meal arrived, requiring two men and a small boy to carry it all. I could not believe my eyes. The sausage patties that came with my meal would have put a McDonald’s quarter-pounder to shame, and the home fries were actually the highest landmark in Kersey. A short stack of pancakes in this place was larger than a full stack anywhere else. As I began to eat, I thought that I had discovered heaven on earth. During the next few minutes I got as close to Nirvana as possible without dying.

Because Geno had ordered the most food, we had to wait for him to finish. More than satisfied with my breakfast, I contemplated that what had started out as a bad day had actually ended up being great. Even though the raid was a failure, our quest to find a good breakfast spot had been an over-the-top success.

After leaving a generous tip for Flo, we said our goodbyes and resumed our trek back to Denver. In the solitude of my Blazer, I pondered the sad truth that the highlight of my day had been finding a good breakfast spot in the middle of nowhere. However, the life of a career narc is full of many highs and lows, and little delights such as finding a good breakfast spot are few and far between. Despite being sarcastic pessimists, we learn very early on in our careers to savor these few precious highlights. I still wake up at nights in a cold sweat with flashbacks to the great breakfast that we had that fall morning in the Kersey Pancake House.

A postscript to this episode is that Jerry, the dope at the farm, was subsequently murdered by his son and estranged wife, who buried him under the doorstep of the trailer home we searched. They were eventually caught and convicted of Jerry’s murder. And Geno, the human garbage pail, lost over thirty pounds and now considers physical fitness more important than a good greasy breakfast. Go figure.

During a thirty-year career, a narc encounters many interesting people and episodes such as this. In this book, I have attempted to trace my career as an average narc, neither a flamboyant self-aggrandizing hero who constantly bragged about the big cases he had made nor a lazy government minion who cruised through a career without doing anything of significance. I was just a hard-working cop trying to make it through life and, to a small extent, trying to make a difference in our modern drug-ridden society. In tracing my long career, I will expose the many facets of enforcing drug laws, from the exciting and dangerous work of undercover to the rather mundane tasks such as long-term surveillance. I will focus on the highs and lows of a thirty-year career, from the thrill of making a big seizure or arrest to the heartbreaking hardships that this job has on a family and personal life. And finally, I will look at the frustrations of the job, such as the inane policies and procedures established by a higher headquarters to the petty bickering that exists between local, state, and federal agencies over drug or money seizures and jurisdiction. Anecdotes, both humorous and sad, will be interwoven into these facets, every one allowing a keen insight as to what it is really like in the realm of narcotics enforcement.

But before I commence I would like to offer a few words about Narcotic Enforcement in general. For the uninitiated, narcotic enforcement tends to be non-traditional in that many investigations are what I choose to call pro-active and not reactive. They are pro-active in the sense that the investigation is proceeding while the crime is actually being committed. Traditional enforcement tends to be more reactive, responding to crimes that have already been committed. Because of this pro-active approach, agents and officers working narcotics employ different enforcement strategies and methodologies to achieve their objectives. The active use of informants and undercover operations are the most common techniques in drug operations. Of course, at times narcs utilize more traditional approaches. This is especially true in working historical conspiracies where prior illegal actions are documented and the violators are charged with violating conspiracy laws or the Racketeering Influenced and Corrupt Organization (RICO) statutes.

The true measure of an agent is his ability to develop quality cases. To develop these cases, the agent is required to use all available resources at his disposal. The use of informants and undercover narcs certainly played a great role in case development, as did surveillance and referrals from other agencies.

As a new agent, one had to learn just where cases could be developed. For example, a brand-new agent or agent newly assigned to an office usually had no established network to develop drug intelligence and had to basically beat the bushes to develop his own leads. And unlike local and some state police agencies, DEA did not have a patrol division out on the street to arrest people in possession of controlled substances who might be willing to cooperate with the police for consideration in the prosecution of their own case. This situation was fertile ground for informant development, and a new DEA agent was at a great disadvantage in this regard.

When I was a brand-new agent, I was assigned to the Los Angeles office and I lacked the local police contacts that I would have had if I had remained in the San Diego office where I had been a special agent for the Naval Investigative Service for two years. As a result, my case development was slow at best. Fortunately, my group supervisor assigned me to work with a senior partner who had a myriad of resources to develop cases, and I began to have some limited success within several months after joining the L.A. office. When I became an enforcement group supervisor in Denver, I always tried to pair a new agent with a seasoned agent in order to help him develop his leads.

With that said let’s get on with it.

CHAPTER TWO

Street Smarts

It is said that some men are born to greatness, some men seek greatness, and some have it thrust upon them. In my case the word greatness would have to be replaced with mediocrity, as I was neither born with greatness nor sought greatness as an agent, and I certainly did not have it thrust upon me. During my career, I played no direct role in the elimination of such major drug trafficking notables as Pablo Escobar, Carlos Lehder, Nicky Barnes, or Amado Carrillo Fuentes. Instead, my investigations were usually against traffickers who were many times removed from these kingpins. And while I played a direct role in dismantling some smaller drug organizations, I considered myself to be just an average agent doing what was required by the job description and what society expected of its public minions.

In retrospect, I think the most enjoyable period of my long career was when I was a street agent with relative freedom to work my cases and assist my fellow agents with their endeavors. The only person to whom I was really responsible was myself, and if I did not give 100 percent then in all likelihood I would be the only one who would suffer. However, there were very few times when I did not give at least 100 percent as a street agent. I enjoyed the job too much. It was fun and relatively easy, and each day offered a new challenge, either from the crooks that I was attempting to make a case against or the bureaucracy that came with working within the federal government.

During my years of working narcotics, I learned through personal experiences that there are a number of givens inherent in working drug-type investigations. And if one knew, understood, and accepted these givens which I have elected to call street smarts, they would, at the least, make a career in narcotics a little more bearable and, in some instances, might even save an agent’s life. I have labored arduously to determine what to call these street smarts. At one time I referred to them as Blackie’s Laws, but that seemed somewhat presumptive and a bit arrogant as I did not personally develop these notions nor did they fit the definition of a law or even a rule, for that matter. I also considered labeling them Street Smart Theorems, but that smacked of the same arrogance as Blackie’s Laws and was a bit esoteric and much too haughty for a common narc like me. In the end I just called them Street Smarts, and they are listed below in no particular order of importance except for the first one.

Street Smart Number One: No drug deal is worth a life.

While there were many sedate and routine activities that were not fraught with danger, there were also a number of aspects of working narcotics which could easily become life threatening if the proper precautions were not taken. I imagine that most people consider working undercover or doing high-risk entries such as serving a search warrant the most dangerous aspects of the job of a narc. While both of these activities historically have been associated with violence and often result in physical injury and sometimes death, I found that doing a moving surveillance was just as likely to place an agent in jeopardy, especially if the surveillance happened in a place like the freeways of Southern California. I recall driving literally like a mad man to stay up with the subject of surveillance a number of times. As I mellowed with age, I had a propensity to break off surveillance if the subject placed us in jeopardy by driving erratically.

A number of axioms went along with Street Smart Number One, and all relate to the physical aspects of the law enforcement role and street narcotic enforcement in particular. The first of these is It is better to be tried by twelve than carried by six. Succinctly, this statement advises that it is better for an agent to endure a trial by jury for causing death or injury to another than to be carried in a coffin by six of his closest associates during his funeral which followed his failure to act successfully in his own defense.

Another axiom that I favored was I am always going home to dinner. What I derived from this statement was that even though my home might be a small cell in some cold and dank institution and my dinner table might be in my cell or a large prisoner dining facility, I would be alive to partake of this repast.

Yet another important axiom along these lines, and one that I always shared when I began a new partnership with another agent, was Never surrender your gun. I explained my position to a new partner by advising that if either of us ever became a hostage, neither of us should ever give up his gun, no matter what the hostage taker demanded. To do so would, in all probability, mean that we both would be killed. Instead, whichever one of us became a hostage should make a move that would allow the other one to get a clear shot at the hostage taker.

Corresponding to this axiom was another that said: if you don’t have it when you need it, you may never need it again. This bit of knowledge always tugged at my conscience when I went undercover and did not carry a weapon for fear that I would be searched by the suspects during the deal. As I matured, I began to adhere more strictly to this axiom and deduced ways to have a gun, no matter what the situation allegedly dictated.

When I began to be paired with female partners, I always advised them to use whatever force was necessary, including lethal force, if a suspect got the advantage of me and was about to separate me from my weapon. Because of their physical limitations, I did not expect them to wrestle with someone who outweighed them by a hundred pounds when they retained the equalizer in their holster.

And as for the use of force, I adhered to the axiom that: There is no such thing as second place in a street fight. Actually this is a misnomer. There are two places awarded for coming in second in a street fight: the hospital emergency room and the morgue, both places I fervently attempted to avoid. In physical confrontations, I found that it was always best to come on strong and then relax as the situation deemed rather than start out as Mr. Nice Guy and then try to ratchet up the physical demands once the situation began to go sour. Remember, I always told my junior partners, you can get more with a kind word and a gun than a kind word alone.

Street Smart Number Two: Never do an undercover deal where surveillance cannot keep an eye on you, but if you choose to violate this principle, refer to number one.

Did we violate this principle? You bet we did. And were there consequences? Yes, there were, and fortunately during my career the consequences were not life threatening. Surveillance was an agent’s security blanket, and it was imperative that the agents running surveillance could come to the undercover agent’s assistance if the deal started to go sideways. Visual was the best method of providing this security. Audio devices for surveillance were just too unreliable at times.

Street Smart Number Three: Never front the money—except.

The basic policy of DEA was never to front the money, or in layman’s terms, give the money to the crook before seeing the dope. The preferred method was to exchange the money for the drugs simultaneously. However, there were some exceptions where fronting the money worked and the cases were a success. There were also instances where the money was fronted and the suspects absconded with it. As agents, we often had to decide if fronting the money was worth suffering the potential discipline if the money was lost. Moreover, experienced agents commonly thought that if an agent got into the routine of fronting the money in a particular case, he would never be able to break the routine, and as he continued to make undercover purchases of drugs from this particular suspect, he would be expected to front larger and larger sums of money.

A good example of a time I was sorely tempted to violate this principle was during undercover negotiations with an outlaw motorcycle gangster who offered to have me sit with his old lady in his house while he went with my money to get the drugs from his nearby source. His rationale was that he certainly would not try to rip me off while I had his old lady as a hostage. Actually his logic was sound, and I am willing to bet that if I had agreed, I would have gotten the dope without a problem. However, we were negotiating for a sizeable amount of methamphetamine, and if I had lost the thousands of dollars that were involved, I would have surely suffered severe discipline and probably been ordered to make restitution to the government. I did give his proposal some serious consideration, and to this day I ponder if I had fronted the money would surveillance have been able to determine from whom he obtained the methamphetamine. A sort of corollary to this street smart was always to keep the crook guessing where the money was located. If he or she—I have to be politically correct—did not know where the money was located, there was less of a chance of the agent being ripped off.

Street Smart Number Four: Never go into unfamiliar places to do a deal.

This principle goes hand in hand with Street Smart Number Two. Doing a deal in an unfamiliar place puts surveillance at a disadvantage and can create severe consequences for the undercover operative. I know of an instance where an agent was shot in a housing project in Chicago, and he almost bled to death by the time surveillance could locate him. Moreover, an agent cannot know what or who he will be facing in an unfamiliar environment.

Street Smart Number Five: Informants are always informants.

With minor exceptions, a person who becomes an informant has some type of motive for becoming one. An agent can never lose sight of the fact that an informant could be working for him one day and working against him the next. One just has to hope that the informant does not have a change of heart during the middle of an undercover drug deal. The jilted girlfriend or ex-spouse is the most tenuous in this regard. Additionally, informants are very quick to complain to an agent’s supervisor or internal affairs if they have something on him, such as a violation of department rules and regulations or the law. They will give an agent up in a New York minute to gain some advantage over him.

Street Smart Number Six: There is no honor among dopers.

While there is a common expression that there is honor among thieves, I found this is not true of dopers. Most dopers that I encountered would give up their mothers to stay out of jail or to gain money or an advantageous position over others.

Street Smart Number Seven: No drug deal ever goes according to plan, and if it does, something is wrong.

No matter how much planning and coordinating an agent does and regardless of whether he works with informants or deals directly with suspects in an undercover role, the deal will, in all likelihood, not go according to plan. There will always be some last minute change, and an agent must be flexible enough to accommodate or react appropriately to the change. I found that any deal that went according to plan without the usual stalls or delays, changes of locations, etc., were suspicious and were either a rip-off or a case of other cops unwittingly working an agent or his informant.

Street Smart Number Eight: All dopers and most narcs are paranoid by nature.

The bane of a doper’s existence is the constant need to meet strangers. Because these strangers could turn out to be the man at any time, dopers are extremely suspicious of all new acquaintances. While the doper might not have any hard evidence or even firm suspicion that an agent acting in an undercover capacity was the man, he would generally still challenge him. In fact, there was a popular misconception in the drug world that if a doper accused an agent of being a narc and the agent openly denied these accusations, then the agent had entrapped him and he would have what is referred to as an affirmative defense to prosecution. This was a myth which I believe was purposely perpetuated by narcs. Just because a narc lied to the doper should not in any way have affected the outcome of the case. Narcs are just as likely to be paranoid. An agent often suspects that he has been burned, meaning the doper discovered that he was being followed, or that the doper has made him for the man when in actuality neither case is true. Paranoia, I believe, is good for a narc. It keeps him alert and on his toes during undercover and on surveillance.

Street Smart Number Nine: In choosing a spot for surveillance, no matter what house you sit in front of, the resident will come home or leave while you are there.

It seemed to me that no matter how carefully I selected my surveillance position, especially in a residential community, one of the residents would either depart or arrive home while I was sitting in front of his house or his neighbor’s house. And in many instances he would either confront me or call the local police who would confront me.

Street Smart Number Ten: While the bad guys are always looking for surveillance, they rarely see it.

This principle acts in concert with Number Eight. Many of the dopers that I encountered did what we in the trade called counter-surveillance techniques in an attempt to burn surveillance. However, most of us were familiar with these techniques, and with a minimum of caution we were able to overcome these tactics. In several investigations we followed suspects for months and never got burned.

CHAPTER THREE

Informants, Generally Speaking

They came in all shapes and sizes and in all colors and sexes, and we referred to them by many names: informants, snitches, squeals, squeaks, CIs (cooperating individuals or confidential informants), and, my all-time favorite, stools. The word reminded me of a piece of shit, which, in reality, was what most informants ultimately ended up being. In any event, informants were both the backbone and the bane of a narc’s existence. It is the often repeated refrain of a narc that informants are much like women: You can’t live with them and you certainly cannot live without them. When I think of the word informant, the image of actor Joe Pesci, who played the role of an informant in the movie Lethal Weapon II, comes to mind. In this role Pesci was whiney, clinging, and a general pain in the butt, a description which accurately described a good number of informants with whom I was associated. However, one true measure of a good narc was how he managed his informants. In dealing with mine, I always was mindful of Street Smart Number Four: Informants are always informants.

People become informants for many reasons. In narcotics cases the most common type of informant was one who had been arrested and had to do something to help himself with the law. In most jurisdictions, such an informant usually got tremendous consideration for assisting the authorities in a bigger case than the one for which he had been arrested. For example, if we arrested Juan Doe with a kilogram of cocaine, we would try to convince Juan to set up his source of cocaine for more than a kilogram and then we would arrest his source. Such cooperation certainly validates Principle Number Five: There is no honor among dopers. In this case Juan traded his assistance for consideration by the courts when his case came up. This was, of course, not true in all jurisdictions.

In the federal courts in Colorado, which consisted of an ultra-liberal judiciary, the Winner Rule prevailed. In essence, this was a rule made by former Federal Judge Winner which prohibited the cops from using someone who had been arrested as an informant without the approval of the presiding judge. This was an absurd rule made by a former defense lawyer turned judge, I suspect, to protect the large fees that defense lawyers could command from arrested defendants. Ostensibly the best time to get a suspect’s cooperation was immediately after he had been arrested. This was also his best opportunity to set up his drug source. As time passed, the opportunities waned. His source would ultimately learn of the suspect’s arrest and would not trust him. Also, it was my experience that once attorneys got into the act, in all likelihood, the suspect would not cooperate. I frequently told suspects after their arrest that I could be their best friend if they cooperated, but if they waited to see an attorney, they’d probably end up in jail.

A good example of this phenomenon was Randy, a self-professed member in good standing of what I called the Southern California Cocaine Dealers Association. When we arrested Randy for possession for several kilograms of cocaine, I advised him that I could become his best friend and could work wonders for him in the court system if he assisted us in arresting his Colombian source. Randy laughed us off and opted for the best attorney that money could buy. After paying this attorney a small fortune, Randy was convicted in federal court and sentenced to fifteen years custody of the attorney general, just as I had predicted to him at the time of his arrest. Instead of settling for a sentence like three or four years or even possibly straight probation, Randy listened to the sage advice of his lawyer and went to jail for fifteen years.

Less than six months after his conviction, I began receiving collect calls from Randy, who now found himself in Lexington, Kentucky, in the federal prison for the crazies and drug addicts. Evidently, Randy had pitched a fit when he was sent to the medium-security facility at Lompoc, California, because he was not allowed to wear his Guccis. Randy had subsequently been sent to Lexington for psychiatric evaluation. Now Randy pleaded with me to become his best friend. I ultimately agreed, and in exchange for his extensive cooperation against his Colombian sources, Randy’s sentence was reduced to two years. The point of Randy’s story is that he would not have served any time if he had elected to cooperate at the time of his arrest, but because he relied on his high-priced attorney he spent two miserable years in jail, lost his wife and all his money, and was assaulted by several inmates who wanted to make him their boy toy.The second most prevalent type of motivation to become an informant was for financial gain. These were my favorite type of informants because I knew right from the outset that they were greedy bastards and once they understood that they would not get serious money unless the case was successfully concluded—that is to say, that a large seizure of money or drugs was made or that a