The Pretender Page 19
In the bedroom, I found several unopened packages of men’s underwear and the neatly made bed—too neatly. What I didn’t find, to my very real annoyance, was dirty dishes in the sink, worn clothing on the floor, empty beer cans, trash. So much for verisimilitude. As for anti-verisimilitude, how about the copies of USA Today with the Ramada’s “Complimentary” sticker that Albert had left lying around? The sticker might as well have read, “Courtesy of the FBI.” Clearly, this pair wasn’t producing professional UC work. They were either incompetent or simply didn’t care. Seeing younger agents not take pride in their work—with ten years under my belt, I was now officially “mid-career”—was a disappointment. Albert ended up in management (surprise). Tina probably continued on the Applicant Squad. Don’t know, don’t care.
I placed the gym bag on a high shelf in the bedroom closet and tossed some clothing over it. This placement seemed pretty likely as a fugitive’s attempt to hide the money and therefore not likely to arouse suspicion that it was a plant. But it would also be someplace the detectives would look, if they looked at all. Then I spent an hour doing my best to make the place look as though it had been occupied. And occupied by tenants who had left in a hurry. Once I left the apartment, there would be no going back. Once the Mount Vernon detectives got the final tip, this place would be the operational zone. I turned on the lights before locking the doors.
Late that afternoon, in the perch across the street, Ed and I tested the equipment. For each lamp camera we had a control box with a joystick that could move the lens up-down, left-right. The cables from the parabolic antennas, placed several feet back from the windows, fed monitors that would allow us to observe what was being recorded on the big reel-to-reel. And we maintained a constant eye on the windows and, via the CCTV monitor, the closet. If the cash in the closet were somehow to evaporate prematurely, we would be in a highly unpleasant situation. As for leaving our building for any reason, well, white guys (especially one who looked like Ed) walking around in that neighborhood would be a major tip-off to any observant, even half-sharp local cop that some game was afoot. We were stuck in our perch for the duration.
Everything was ready to go. SO-13’s team, with Jim Hanstein at the helm, was discreetly sprinkled throughout the town. Craig Dotlo gave the green light. Astorino took the call from the lieutenant in Florida around 6:00 p.m. Our snitch just got a call from Lester. Now, ten minutes ago. He’s at his girlfriend’s apartment. The snitch knows her, she’s at 30 East 4th, 2d Floor, in your town, in Mount Vernon. Standing by the windows of the darkened perch, binoculars in hand, Ed and I waited for the inevitable explosion of police activity. The fugitive assassin had been located. Would the detectives stake out the apartment while a search warrant was being signed by the local on-duty night court judge, or would they simply break down the door?
Neither. Nothing happened. We sat in our folding picnic chairs, the only furniture in the apartment, and waited. Finally, around 8:30 p.m., an unmarked car was called out as leaving the MVPD garage, pulling up directly in front of 30 East 4th ten minutes later. Four men got out, all white. We could make out the stout, tall form of Chief of Detectives Robert Astorino and the bearded James Garcia. Garcia and one of the other two detectives entered the building while the others stood by their car. Through the transmitters inside the apartment we heard loud knocks and shouts, “Police! Open up!”
Of course, no one was home. Five minutes later, the detectives came out. All four entered the car and drove off.
“They did what?” Craig’s voice blasted from my old cell phone’s handset. At this point, the real Lester, had he existed and been inside the apartment, would be beating feet for the Camaro and hightailing it for parts unknown.
Craig called Florida. No, the lieutenant down there hadn’t heard back from the MVPD. He would find out what was happening.
How you guys making out? Printing Lester yet?
He wasn’t home.
And you lazy assholes know that because he didn’t come to the door and invite you in? But the lieutenant in Florida didn’t actually say that, though sorely tempted. He just thought it. He called Craig back.
They’re going to try again in the morning. I pleaded with them to go back now, not to give him a chance to skip. This was the best I could do.
This made sense—from the “what works best for my schedule” point of view. Not from a professional law enforcement point of view. The detectives’ shift on Friday started at 8:00 a.m. We were lucky, in a way. They could have been pulling another four to midnight. Now Ed and I would be spending the next twelve or so hours taking turns eyeballing the apartment and, more specifically, the cash. The mood was grim all around, with six months of preparation on the verge of failure, the corrupt detectives about to avoid our sting, and not by dint of ingenuity, not due to a professional sixth sense developed through years of experience, but rather as a result of laziness, disinterest in helping a sister department, and indifference regarding a (supposedly) wanted murderer roaming the streets. The streets of the town they were supposed to be protecting.
One of the many surveillance agents posted around town stopped by the perch with nourishment purchased at a local 7-Eleven. Delicious. Ed and I alternated between reading our one newspaper and watching “TV”—a rather dull show, as it turned out, no characters at all, the set just a crummy uninhabited living room and crummy uninhabited bedroom. Around 3:00 a.m., Ed managed to fall asleep, stretched out on the floor with foam rubber from one of the Pelikan equipment cases as a pillow. Not having the heart to wake him, I stared red-eyed at the monitors, entertaining myself by using the joystick to remotely manipulate the camera in the lamp and explore every nick and cranny of the bedroom. The control box also had a toggle switch for a zoom function, adding another dimension to my diversion.
For an hour or so I fooled around, looking at the ceiling, the worn parquet flooring, the wall on the left, the wall on the right, back and forth, back and—WHAT? I was moving the joystick, but the camera was stuck. Panic now. Back, right, left, up, back—no movement. It was stuck in the full down position. The monitor showed me a few square feet of floor, nothing else in the room—the room with $31,000 in cash, the room where, if everything went according to the best-case scenario, the detectives would find and take possession of this loot. All of which would go unrecorded because I had been playing with the tech equipment. Six months of work by special agents, Florida criminal justice officials, prosecutors, financial analysts, confidential informants, and witnesses—all lost, plus a few hundred thousand in expenses. And the reason would be known to Craig, the SAC, the Assistant Director, the U.S. Attorney’s office, FBIHQ, and the Public Corruption Division at the Department of Justice. Ruination. Any fears I may have felt over the years in the course of UC ops, lonely meetings with drug dealers and ruthless thugs, paled in comparison. So it seemed to me, in my dazed 3:00 a.m. state of mind. We wouldn’t have the video, but if lucky would have the money—marked bills—if found on the detectives. Some pretty big “ifs,” all thanks to yours truly.
Frantically, I manipulated the joystick. With no results. Calming down, I adopted a calculated approach. Small jiggle back. Small jiggle forward. Over and over. Fortunately, Ed continued to snore, oblivious. After about forty minutes, which seemed like hours … small jiggle back, and the lens slowly commenced an upward movement. Saved. I raised the lens to middle position with full view of the room, resolved that the joystick would now go untouched until the case was done, whatever the results.
Finally, dawn arrived. May 6, 1994. My handi-talkie started to squawk as our various agents came back on line. At 8:30, the detectives’ car pulled up outside the apartment. Garcia entered the building. Of course, there was no response from inside the empty apartment. And off they went. Now, one would think that even the most uninspired of lawmen would obtain a warrant and search for clues as to the whereabouts of a fugitive sought for a cold-blooded murder. And … there just might be some cash stashed there; if the fugiti
ve has been gone since the previous day, he may still return. But no. These crime-fighters were apparently headed back to the office to call Hillsborough County in Florida to report that the tip from the informant had not panned out. Lester could not be found in Mount Vernon, they had done all that they could do. Sorry. It was over. Handset to my ear, the staticky line of my antique cell phone did not mask the resignation in Craig’s voice. We had planned for every contingency—minus this one: that the detectives could not be bothered.
But wait. I had a sudden brainstorm and asked Craig if the New Rochelle resident tech agent, Hal, was around. If so, could he call a contact at AT&T and see how long it would take to call forward the phone in the fugitive apartment to the Hello Phone in our squad area? Then get Bim to stand by the phone with a very simple assignment. Bim was a pro, not the original amateur Albert, who was long gone, having insufficient interest to be on hand for the final act, to see how all of our six-months-plus work turned out.
Hal said this could be accomplished within minutes. Okay. Now Craig got ahold of the lieutenant in Florida and relayed the new plan. Astorino, as hoped, soon called Florida and reported the negative results. The detective down there begged—could the guys in Mount Vernon just try calling the apartment, one last, small, effortless try.
All right, but that’s it. Then we’re done.
Five minutes later, the Hello Phone rang.
“Yo.” That was Bim, employing his best version of the stereotypical black street greeting.
The connection clicked off immediately.
Our eye on the garage, cool and professional, almost laconic:
“It’s show-time. Three unmarked cars coming out, fast. At least eight guys in plainclothes, some carrying shotguns.”
Within minutes, two of the cars had quietly set up at both ends of East 4th, the third car heading to the courthouse. Apparently this was going to be done legally, at least so far as the entry was concerned. Forty-five minutes later, that third car arrived at East 4th and all three cars converged on #30. The cars emptied. Two detectives set up, pointing weapons at the apartment window, using their car as cover. Five ran into the building: Astorino, Garcia, and Lauria—our main three targets—and two we didn’t recognize. Through the transmitters and CCTV, we heard shouts, banging, a crash as the lock broke; men with pistols drawn and shotguns at the ready running through the apartment, into the bedroom and.… knocking over the lamp! Great idea, the lamp. The bedroom monitor (the one that had jammed on me earlier) went dead. Shit, shit, shit. Then, a quieting down when they had ascertained that the apartment was empty. Lester had managed to flee.
Now fate intervened. On the living room monitor, we could see Astorino looking around, then Garcia entering from the bedroom carrying the gym bag. Looking at Astorino, pointing at bag, making the “okay” sign, not saying a word. One of the unknown detectives was still in the apartment. Astorino sent him on some errand. Garcia then unzipped the bag as Lauria entered from the bedroom. Astorino looked inside, reached inside, took out a fistful of cash and handed it to Garcia, another fistful to Lauria, another fistful for himself. Each detective stuffing both their jacket pockets. All in the living room. All on camera.
We learned a few hours later from Commissioner Isley that $20,000 was vouchered as evidence. That left $11,000 in the pockets of the three detectives. The arrest warrants were already being drafted, along with search warrants for their homes and office desks and lockers. A few hours later, Garcia and Lauria were arrested at police headquarters, Astorino at his home. Marked bills from Lester Banks’s tainted stash were recovered from all three men. That evening, before a Southern District Magistrate, they were arraigned on federal corruption charges and now faced twenty-five years in federal prison. They were done.
As always, I did not participate in the arrests or searches or any other aspect of the postgame cleanup. Concurrently with BLUE SCORE, I was working cameo UC ops around the city, buy-busts and sometimes backing up another UC. It wouldn’t do to have my photo taken in Mount Vernon during this public phase of an unrelated case.
Just two months later, in July, Astorino, Garcia, and Lauria all pled out and all went to jail. A couple of months after the convictions, Police Commissioner Isley, in recognition of his integrity and efforts to root out corruption in the MVPD, was fired.
8
SUNBLOCK
At 125th Street and Broadway, I stepped off the uptown number 1 train, walked down the metal stairs, found the old limo waiting at the intersection, and knocked on the window. ¿Estás esperando para Alejandro Perez? The middle-aged Dominican driver nodded, and I hopped in. With his long sideburns, my man looked as though he had stepped out of a gritty seventies NYC crime film. With the noise of the elevated subway, the dirty snow on the run-down streets and the well-maintained ancient car, there was a sense of unreality to my movements and words. I felt as though I had stepped into a scene from The French Connection. I was dressed in full-Alex: three-quarter-length black leather coat, long ponytail and gelled hair, Gucci shirt, sufficient jewelry.
There’s a pertinent story behind that leather coat, and that story begins with an ankle holster that was now falling apart, specifically, the one I used (when off duty) for my .40 caliber Glock semiautomatic pistol. And there’s a story behind that pistol: Its large caliber yet relatively small size was an inadvertent by-product of federal anti-gun laws from the early nineties. The politicians had decreed that magazines available to non–law enforcement purchasers could hold no more than ten rounds—in the apparent belief that it would not occur to the ill-intentioned to carry additional magazines. The unintended consequence of the restriction was that the engineers at major weapons firms developed new technology, building pistols capable of carrying a magazine with ten very large caliber bullets in a frame half the size. On the street, when not using the fanny pack, I simply stuck this weapon in my waistband. (Bad guys don’t use holsters. Cops use holsters.) Only when off duty—strictly, totally off duty—I housed the weapon in the ankle holster, for a simple reason: the ankle holster would be the equivalent of wearing a police cap. And due to its difficulty of access (unless sitting in a car), the holster required a lot of practice to draw quickly. Alex Perez would never use one on the street. Mostly, it was for warm-weather use in low-risk off-duty environments. Parties, dinner with friends, blind dates.
So the stitching on my relic of an off-duty holster was coming apart, and a few blocks down from the Ramada in New Rochelle was a cluttered, old-time shoe-repair shop. Inside, the seventyish stooped Italian cobbler was always hard at work. When Alex walked into a legitimate commercial establishment, the reaction was frequently thinly masked hostility, or apprehension, so I wasted no time explaining that I was an FBI agent from up the street, then presented my odd work request. (Was I breaking cover by revealing my real identity? Perhaps. It was a judgment call.) He smiled broadly, introduced himself as Pete Mazzei, reached under his worn leather apron and pulled out a huge revolver, something like the “hand cannon” made famous in Pulp Fiction. Robbery attempts had proved seriously unsuccessful in his store, Pete explained.
He solved my holster issue, then came up with a novel solution to another problem. He lined the left pocket of my mid-length black leather coat with extra-thick leather, converting it into a holster capable of carrying a midsize semiautomatic. Quick access to the Glock in midwinter, buried under layers of clothing, was impossible. This had been a pet peeve for years. Peeve now resolved. After that first meeting, from time to time, I would stop in to chat with Pete, a kindred spirit. Several years later, after my New Rochelle days were over, I received a call from his son, who had found my business card in the shop. Pete had died. At the reception after the funeral, I was stunned by his lovely home in upper Westchester County. His sons, his daughters—the children of this Old World immigrant—all had college degrees. An American success story. Maybe this sounds corny, but I always believed I was in the business of helping to protect and enhance this dream. The case
I was working at the time, SUNBLOCK, perfectly illustrates how the American Dream can go awry.
In the old limo, decked out as Alex Perez, I was en route to my first-ever drug meet—heroin. I gave the driver the address for the Buccaneer II Diner on Astoria Boulevard in Queens, near LaGuardia Airport. Thirty minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot and I looked through the diner windows. There were four people in the diner, a frumpy couple by the door and the two guys I was expecting to find, and who were surely expecting me, description of the ponytail and the bling in hand, and they would have assumed some equivalent of the Glock somewhere on my person.
Richard was Chinese Malaysian, about five feet six inches, pudgy with a thick dark mustache. His companion, Chang, was younger, leaner, and clean cut, also Chinese Malaysian. Having conducted business with Italians, Hispanics, West Africans, Palestinians, and Wall Streeters (not an officially designated ethnic group, perhaps), I was used to making all kinds of small talk during meets and deals. I’m fluent in three languages, but Chinese was not one of them. But here we were, sitting in a booth, short on language. They didn’t want to order anything more than coffee, so I ordered a cup as well. They were smoking Marlboros, and even though I hadn’t smoked cigarettes since college nearly twenty years earlier, I accepted Richard’s courteous offer when he held out the pack. And smoked it slowly, just to kill time. They started talking in Chinese—Mandarin or Cantonese (or something else, maybe Malaysian, I had no idea), and I was beginning to wonder where this was leading. Wondering, but not particularly worrying. On this day, safety wasn’t really an issue. I wasn’t there to buy any of their product, so they weren’t expecting me to have a lot of cash. And if they got hinky about me for any reason, they could simply have gotten up and walked out the door. (On the other hand, Chuck Reed, the Bureau UC in Philadelphia, had been shot and killed at just such a meet. As was Everett Hatcher, a New York DEA UC who had been working a joint case with the Bu. No, I didn’t like all the incomprehensible Chinese.)