The Pretender Read online

  But Alicia was one of us. Her presence would resolve my (Alex’s) “personal life” issues and simultaneously enhance my own status as the boyfriend of this beautiful fox. Alicia got her permissions, and within a month after I met her at the conference, she accompanied me on a routine trip to Yonkers DMV. We had decided beforehand what her basic uniform should be: halter-top, tight jeans, teased hair with sequins, flashy nail polish (anything but red). She would chew gum, smile, and say very little beyond hi and bye. Her street name was Alice. For Alice’s gun, a 9mm Sig Sauer, we purchased a midsize purse made of supple high-grade leather. The front seam was sealed not by thread but Velcro, permitting instant access to her weapon. (The producer was Guardian Leather, the now-defunct manufacturer of the best UC gear ever.)

  As it turned out, Julio, Duardo, Merick, and some of the other guys were on hand at the DMV. True to my appropriately macho character, I acted as though my old lady didn’t exist. And so did my fellow runners, out of respect. But the next day, when I returned to the DMV on my own, there were many compliments, nods, sly smiles, winks. Alicia’s opening performance as Alice had been a major hit. She became a welcome adornment to almost all of Alex’s appearances around town. Her presence was never challenged. In fact, it was always welcome—in sharp contrast to the effect the presence of an unexplained man by my side would have had. While I worked my subject, my girlfriend was, to all appearances, minding her own business, vaguely looking around but in fact carefully observing parked but occupied cars, loiterers, guys approaching from behind or across the street. She chewed her gum and maybe started to get bored, to all appearances. But if she said, “I’m getting bored, Alex,” that meant someone just entering the scene required close attention. Such was the code we had developed as my confidence in her grew, and vice-versa. In the course of the hundreds of UC meets we worked, she had to employ those code words maybe a dozen times. A dozen critical times.

  “Bored” was important, but the most important code word is the one to invoke if you decide you’re about to get shot and don’t want even a split-second hesitation by your partner or surveillance. It also needs to be a word that’s hard to mistake over a static-prone radio transmitter. Hey, did Marc just say Monday or Hyundai? That’s no good. Hey, did that sound like a gunshot? That’s no good. So I always set up a word that, while perhaps out of place, would be unmistakable even with a garbled transmission. One time some years later, when I didn’t trust my team, the word was “Help!” With Alicia, who was standing right next to me, maybe sitting in the backseat, the word was “Honey.” That sounds too common! No, it wasn’t. I, Marc Ruskin, would normally never use that word. I just wouldn’t say it by accident, so if I did say it during a meet, if I called Alice “Honey,” she would immediately open fire, shoot, and kill the subject. If during a meet she was seated in the backseat (always the backseat, never the front, pursuant to Alex’s Rules of Survival) of my red Jeep Cherokee (now my main ride, replacing the Chrysler, for the most part, which had replaced the Mercedes, for the most part), Alicia might not have been in a position to see the subject’s hands, but my “Honey” would inform her of the deadly peril. It perhaps goes without saying that we would never be moving in a subject’s car, also pursuant to Alex’s Rules of Survival. I just wouldn’t do it. Alex, let’s take my car. When this happened, I would have to come up with something. We’ll follow you, I won’t have time to come back and pick up my ride. No one ever pushed. If they had, their insistence would have justified concerns on my part as to what they were up to. I would never have gotten in that other vehicle.

  I didn’t take Alice out to Mahmoud and Holyland for her first two or three months. I knew Mahmoud could turn violent in a flash—recall John Sultan’s face slammed onto the desk—and I wanted Alicia and me to really have our act down before meeting him together. When we did, no problem. My old lady smiled, kept quiet, and stood a bit back. Her presence did not raise the least concern with Mahmoud. I was impressed. Alicia appeared fearless.

  “I was terrified,” she said in the car.

  Which doubly impressed me. With Alicia, I’d never need to worry about the surveillance team that wasn’t there, or the surveillance team that was a couple of blocks away, trying to decipher an emergency code word over a staticky radio line. I had my surveillance team right by my side. Alicia would just start shooting. Fortunately, she never had to. I never had to say “Honey” (or any of the other red-alert codes I used with other backup agents and surveillance over the years).

  One tactical problem remained. I needed to figure out a better system for recording significant conversations. The new set-up had to meet two criteria. First, it had to be virtually undetectable. Still fresh in my mind was the COMMCORR debacle, when Jim Clemente’s wire was discovered during accidental jostling. If that happened with my new friends on the street, it would be curtains for both Alex Perez and Marc Ruskin, and for Alicia. Second, it had to reliably produce usable tapes, not shreds of conversation barely, if at all, decipherable through the background noise. On the first count, the Nagra was too large to conceal on skinny Alex. The mini-Nagra was the right size, but where to carry it? Where on my person would the virtually all-male subject population be least likely to find it? Okay, we have that answer, so the next issue was the mechanics. Rita Fitzpatrick, an agent on the organized-crime squad in New Rochelle, came up with the design: an elastic waistband, with two eight-inch by eight-inch pieces of white cloth in front. Sandwiched between them was a cotton pouch, sized for the Mini, attached with Velcro. It was situated right over my crotch, with a twelve-inch wire passing through a hole in my right pants pocket where it connected with a remote on-off switch held in place with a safety pin. The mics, likewise, were held in place with safety pins and attached to the carrier’s waistband, a few inches below my belly button. With baggy pants, combined with a small fanny pack containing my Walther PPK, this contraption fit my criterion: virtually undetectable by any but the most careful, invasive pat down. Hats off to Rita, who was even nice enough to stitch together the carrier. She was true FBI family: her father had been an agent—and both his daughters followed in his footsteps.

  Some years later, the DeSantis holster company came out with a “concealment” fanny-pack holster that became the (law enforcement) industry standard for covert carry—for three or four years, maybe five, by which time word had spread through the underworld and they were widely recognized on the street as holsters. Their value evaporated. Wearing one had become as discreet as pinning on a badge.

  That on-off switch was ticklish. Craig Dotlo had to arm-wrestle with the prosecutors to obtain written authorization for me to have one. The rule in place, and still in place, was that a recording device is turned on before contact with subjects and left on until the contact is over. The rule does make sense, in that it provides the defense counsel no opportunity to ask the UC agent on the witness stand the following question: “So, Agent Jones, you only had the recording device on when my client made seemingly incriminating remarks, and turned it off when he made his repeated refusals to participate in your criminal schemes, is that not correct?”

  I contended that the mini’s tape had a recording time of two hours, while I was often meeting with multiple subjects over a five- or six-hour period. I couldn’t burn valuable tape time recording endless conversations about girls, cars, ball games, different girls, and the rest of it. Nor could I change the tape. The U.S. Attorney’s office gave me the green light. They wanted the incriminating conversations recorded and understood that my trial experience as a Brooklyn prosecutor would enable me to withstand the most withering cross-examination. (Really.)

  That was one recording device. I also had a second one in my rugged-nylon, black Guardian portfolio, with the level three ballistic (bulletproof) panel and concealed weapon seam. One end of the portfolio had a real seam; the other end fastened by Velcro, ordinary to sight and touch and providing an easily accessible holster. In one of the two compartments accessed by zippers running
along the top, I often carried one of my Nagras. (I had a drawer full of recording devices and transmitter accessories, and next to my desk was the small suitcase-size machine for transferring the recordings to cassette.) The standard mics for Nagras had long wires, for running the mic down from a shirt collar to the recording device, but among my prized tools were three-quarter-inch mics that would screw directly onto the top of the Nagra. No wires. Before a meet, I would place fresh batteries into the Nagra and a new reel of tape. Also into my portfolio would go a few large yellow manila envelopes, rubber bands, and masking tape, maybe some other “believable” stuff. En route to the meet, five or ten minutes away, probably after a little dry-cleaning, I would pull into a parking lot, turn on the Nagra, then place a little masking tape over the switch to make sure it stayed on. Then into the manila envelope went the Nagra, sealed with a belt of masking tape and rubber bands. Before leaving the office, I had made imperceptible pinpricks in the envelope with a sewing needle—experience had shown me that otherwise, the recordings came out muffled. Arriving at the meet, inside my portfolio was a manila envelope containing a small, hard box, which might contain cash, drugs, whatever. If anyone saw it, the likelihood of a “what’s that?” was remote. If it happened, my answer was easy. What’s it to you?

  Two recording devices. Of course, one of the runners nearly found the one lodged in my crotch. Standing in the noisy lobby at the DMV, shooting the breeze with Julio, Manuel, and a couple of others, I sensed a motion behind me, perhaps reacting to a smile or glimmer in the eyes of one of the guys. Alicia was not by my side on this occasion (she still had a few regular cases to work for her own squad). Leaning forward, I clapped both hands over my privates just as Neno, one of the regulars, goosed me from behind. His hand squeezed flesh rather than steel.

  “MARICON,” I shouted, laughing, “You can’t get any at home, you want a guy with a ponytail.”

  Everyone was very amused. Good-natured Alex had once again showed himself to be one of the guys. After what could have been a melancholy end to a nice day.

  On another occasion, across the street from the DMV in a small park where the runners and their friends and girls would hang out when the weather was nice, Neno and I were alone in the park, talking about a no-ID title registration. A slender Dominican with long frizzy hair and a scraggly mustache, he was amicable, and somewhat mischievous. But his humor had a crafty side to it, which made me realize that there was more depth and survival instinct to him than was suggested by his happy-go-lucky demeanor. There was no one nearby. Looking directly at my face, without glancing downward, Neno moved his right arm forward and clamped his hand around my fanny pack. What he found was the hard steel barrel of my Walther. His eyes widened. I stared back, moved my right index finger to my lips and smiled. He smiled. Any lingering doubts about Alex’s hard-case character were extinguished. My good reputation was sealed. While many of the subjects I was dealing with owned (and sold) guns, carrying on a daily basis was a sign of a heightened machismo. Getting caught with a handgun tucked in one’s waistband meant guaranteed jail time. Some didn’t care; others used discretion, wearing their guns when they thought it might possibly come in handy.

  * * *

  To be accepted as a real criminal, you have to behave like a real criminal. The appearance of being engaged in some ongoing, low-level petty crime can only help the UC cause—some kind of tangible demonstration that conformity with the law is not a personal hang-up. My personal contribution to the playbook were the Swatches I used with the runners in Yonkers. One day I brought a couple of dozen complete with the display case—acquired legitimately, at full retail price.

  “Hey, I got something you may be interested in, in my car.”

  After a quick (and obvious) scan right and left, I opened the trunk, gestured to the display case with the lid wide open, the $50 price tags clearly visible.

  “Twenty each. Anybody want a few?”

  The runners quickly scooped up those Swatches. Everybody loves a bargain. That Alex, he’s a thief at heart. We can trust him.

  Another reason they could trust me is that I had been careful to follow my rule about indirection. I didn’t talk about myself except with vague comments, and I didn’t ask questions, particularly about matters that were none of my business. In Donnie Brasco, Joe Pistone wrote that he spent a half year hanging out at a mob bar before he insinuated himself into any discussions of criminal activity. Pistone’s book was one of my principal textbooks. He had had patience, and now I had patience—ingrained after three years as a surveillance agent in Puerto Rico—and so did the Bureau. But there was a limit, of course, and three months after my first appearance at the DMV in Yonkers, the moment of truth had arrived. Well, a moment of truth, but an important one. The timing of this moment had been much debated. I was concerned about making a move too early, without being fully accepted by this close-knit cabal of mid-level crooks. My supervisor and case agents were eager to show the bosses results. I said okay. Here goes. I showed up one morning—by myself (Alicia not having yet obtained the green light to join me on the street). The runner named Carlos was leaning against the wall, an eye on the line snaking up to the tellers. Craig, Vicki, and Dave were back in the office waiting.

  “Hermano, can you help me out, I’ve got a no-ID I need to get done.”

  Carlos smiled, looked at me. “Give me the piece. And fifty dollars for the teller. Also, I’ve got to give my girl twenty-five dollars for going through the line.”

  Late that afternoon, I proudly returned to the Ramada with a NYS registration and a set of license plates obtained for a nonexistent owner with a bribe paid to the teller. RUN-DMV had its first two subjects—Carlos and the clerk—dead to rights, and we were set for more. Once the threshold had been crossed, the number of Alex’s no-IDs mounted quickly. In order to broaden the number of subjects and to prevent developing a reputation as “one-way Alex,” I started to bring my own girls to Yonkers, to handle my “pieces.” Initially, I’d bring a dressed-down Jen or Bridget (two agents from my squad). Julio and the others thought it was great to have white girls do the transactions, because they were less likely to catch the eye of the supervisors than Spanish girls. Julio and others would give me their work to process. I just had to be sure that the tellers understood that it was okay to process these no-IDs for Alex’s girls. Once Alice became my regular girlfriend, she would do all the pieces, and soon the tellers who were on the take were comfortable processing the no-IDs that she brought to their windows.

  There was, of course, as always, a legal issue raised by the AUSA (Assistant U.S. Attorney).

  Perhaps a word or three is in order on the subject of these prosecutors. My perception of most AUSAs, particularly in the Southern and Eastern Districts of New York, was that they were (today, most still are) Ivy Leaguers doing their two or three years of make-myself-feel-good public service prior to joining a white-shoe law firm for the rest of their very well-compensated professional lives. Safely ensconced behind their temporary desks, they could comfortably be “tough” and “hard-nosed.” Which, given their lack of street smarts and real-life experience, often resulted in harsh and uneven treatment of subjects and unrealistic demands on investigators. Typically, at a meeting with the case agent and the assigned AUSA, the prosecutor would ask me: “Marc, at your next meet with Jose, ask him where he gets the Glocks” (or cocaine, or counterfeit bills, or whatever). I would reply that real criminals don’t ask that kind of question. As long as the guns work or the coke is of sufficient purity, as long as the price is right, why should they care where it comes from? As I just noted above, you can’t ask questions like that. Only a cop is going to be asking a question like that, seeking information that is none of his or her business. Before I knew better, I would argue with the AUSAs, and the meetings would end on a sour note. Then the solution occurred to me. I would agree to whatever request they made. If it was something appropriate, I would follow through at the meet. If not, I wouldn’t. If I was lat
er asked why not, I replied, “Yeah, I tried to work that in, but the opportunity never came up.”

  With RUN-DMV, the AUSAs expressed concern about UC Alex’s role in processing the no-IDs for the other runners. While it significantly broadened the pool of subjects, runners, and DMV clerks, there was a liability issue. Someone driving a car with a no-ID registration, obtained with the assistance of an FBI undercover agent, getting into a serious accident, then vanishing … such a scenario posed obvious legal issues. The AUSAs finally agreed to let me process the pieces, with the proviso that I would note all the details so that Vicki and Dave could pass them on to Jack Wright at DMV Headquarters in Albany. I would manage this by speaking the information for the mini-Nagra when out of earshot (“Let’s see … Jane Doe, plate number ABC123; John Smith, plate number…”). As soon as the case went down, these no-ID registrations that had been allowed to walk, allowed to reach their crooked purchasers, would be voided.

  Six months into RUN-DMV, the CI Timmy/Yonkers DMV thread of the op became somewhat like fishing in a well-stocked stream. In the course of time, I also developed subjects and cases at the Bronx and Harlem DMV offices, but Yonkers was by far the biggest crime scene for fraudulent automobile paperwork. While I continued to fish there, as the number of subjects and criminal counts continued to grow, I started to focus attention on the other angles, fish in the other streams. Holyland, for example. I stopped by Mahmoud’s place of illegal business from time to time. There was little progress on our original transaction for the fraudulent auto registration. Even Mahmoud, in his genuine efforts to illegally register my undocumented (i.e., stolen) car, could not get around the absence of a title. No matter. Among criminal businessmen, just as with those who are legitimate, there is often confident agreement followed by an inability to follow through. The incomplete deal provided an excuse for my visits and made Mahmoud all the more eager to come across on new, illegal transactions.