____________________________
“The scariest and most insidious type of barring, hands down, is when you are back-roomed. There are plenty of ‘legal’ ways for them to fuck you up.”
Dave Stann, Hollywood Blackjack
Earlier that morning I’d intended to recommend a two-man back-counting and call-in strategy for Kyung and me, but I was discouraged after my back-off at Foxwoods. Also, Kyung’s more than half hour spent rescheduling his flight and navigating the airlines’ automated phone system had left him feeling frustrated and on edge. So I suggested we each play on our own for about an hour, meet back in the hotel room to pack up, then head to the airport and call it a weekend. Kyung agreed. We pulled into the valet stand and I put the ticket in my pocket, then we went our separate ways. I would’ve enjoyed having another win to keep my Mohegan Sun streak alive, but all I really wanted was for the trip to end on a positive note for us both. If Kyung and I could bank a combined profit, it would keep our six-figure bankroll intact for the New Year’s trip. We were playing at a $200 unit and, although that weekend’s fluctuations were extremely mild, we knew that we could easily swing $10,000 in either direction on this session alone.
I found a fairly busy, but not overly crowded, pit in which to go to work. A few of the tables allowed mid-shoe entry so I decided to back-count, then wong into a game and stay at that table for the session. Nothing materialized for the first 15 minutes. Finally, the count rose sufficiently to warrant a decent level of action. I pulled out an open seat and sat down, locating my players card at the same time.
My real identity was clean at Mohegan Sun, so there was no need to play under an alias. The floorperson checked me in and the dealer slid me $2,500 in black chips as she stuffed the cash that I’d laid on the table into the drop box. I placed two bets of $500 in the circles in front of me.
I was sensing relief that the weekend was about to conclude. I was tired. The game had started taking its toll on me a few weeks earlier in Vegas. Once, as I sat in McCarran Airport waiting for my midnight flight home, I wondered how much energy I had left for it all. I loved the game itself—the math, the mental challenge, the energy, and the perks—but I didn’t love the grind. I was starting to feel the exhaustion of airports and aliases and the losing sessions that accompanied the wins. I became more pensive on each trip we took. But somehow, after a week or two at home, being in the routine at work and among friends, it didn’t take long for my energy level to rise back up.
I remembered Mike telling me that he wanted to get back in the game. I imagined how playing blackjack at the the highest level might have taxed him, but that eventually he still wanted back in. I was pretty sure, however, that once I chose to walk away from blackjack, it would be a permanent decision. While I was active, I planned on squeezing every ounce of life out of it that I could. Yet once I felt like I’d accomplished my goals, I would move on without regret. It had been years since I took up the game and I knew I wasn’t far from stepping down. I had a year, maybe, possibly two, and then I’d be done. For now, however, I was focused on my two bets of $500 in front of me and the cards that were about to be dealt.
“Turney!”
I faintly recognized the voice behind me that called out the name. I thought nothing of it and watched as the dealer dealt the round of cards.
“Turney!”
There it was again. But it couldn’t be. I knew for sure that I’d checked into the table under my own players card. I only ever used the Turney Jones alias at Foxwoods and one place in Vegas. I was confused.
“Turney Jones!”
My chair was on a swivel and I spun around quickly. There stood a casino suit that was backed by three hefty security guards. Nothing was registering for me. I was beyond confused. It made no sense. As far as I knew, Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun didn’t share information because they were competitors. But with the technological advent of facial recognition software (FRS) it dawned on me that anything was possible.
“Grab your fuckin’ chips and get over here … now!”
A rush of blood flowed throughout my body. My heart pounded like never before. I couldn’t believe the anger coming from this man. Swearing in front of other patrons like that meant he was dead serious. The other players at the table were stunned. They watched in awe as I gathered my chips and got up from the table. I was relieved that my real players card was in my pocket. The dealer, smiling a few seconds before and wishing me luck, now looked on with wide eyes and a sense of pity for the ire that I was about to endure.
“Turney. You played at Foxwoods earlier today, didn’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
“Well, did you?!”
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
“They asked you not to play there anymore, right?”
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on here,” I pleaded.
Despite the commotion, the spectators and the overt rage the suit was radiating, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. It was merely a scare tactic, but it was starting to work. Even so, I never let intimidation techniques prevent me from legally beating the casino at its own game. I’d been backed off before and could deal with the heat. I just needed to bide my time until this guy asked me to leave.
“We know you’re a professional,” he said. It was the first time a casino representative had come right out and said that. “Card counters aren’t allowed on our property. Now go with security. They’re going to take you off the floor and ask you a few questions.”
I knew my response.
“I think I’d rather just leave.”
“You can’t leave, not until you answer a few questions.”
I didn’t expect that. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I was being forced to stay. Legally casinos have no right to detain a player unless they have reason to believe that the player is cheating. But I wasn’t cheating. I was just using my mind.
The suit himself had even said that he knew I was counting cards, which, by law, was not cheating. That didn’t do much to ease my concerns about the fact that I was on an Indian reservation, sovereign land with a different set of laws. I wasn’t sure what rights I actually had. I read the signs near Foxwoods that said “Tribal Law enforced,” whatever that meant.
I believed that I could walk out the door, but I wasn’t sure. I worried that if I did try to walk, I might find out that the laws that they enforced, these “tribal laws,” were not as favorable as the laws in Vegas or Atlantic City. It was my own mistake, because I hadn’t properly educated myself. I didn’t know what to do.
“What do you mean, I can’t leave? I’m going to walk out right now!”
“Turney, you don’t realize how big of a mistake that would be. If you try to leave I can assure you that you’ll regret it.”
He turned to one of the security guards. “Get him the fuck out of here. And find his goddamn friends. I know he’s not working alone.”
At that point, I felt I had no other option but to follow the guards. I had more than $20,000 in cash in my pockets, players cards with different names, and $2,500 in black casino chips in my cupped hands. I quickly jostled them into my pockets in case I found the nerve to make a run for it.
I never thought that someday I’d see the infamous “back room.” It wasn’t exactly what I expected. A bank of surveillance monitors circled the room, stacked one on top of the other, and there were dozens of them. Behind them all sat men and women in cheap royal blue blazers, sipping from coffee cups, so focused on their jobs that they were oblivious to my presence. It wasn’t a big room. Using the ceiling tiles to measure, I estimated it to be about 20 x 15. In the middle of the room sat an empty folding chair. The guard nodded toward it, which was my cue to sit down.
I’d heard the stories. Some blackjack books suggested that tactics like this were no longer used today and I always assumed that was the case. But there I sat, in the middle of this dank room lined with security monitors, whose operators were intensely focused on catching advantage players like me. They had little concern that three intimidating security guards were yelling at me with their faces so close to mine that I could smell their breath.
“What’s your friend’s name?!”
“Who are you talking about?”
“The Asian kid you drove here with.”
“Look, what do you want? Just let me go.”
I was still nervous, but I was equally curious to find out what their process was for a back-room encounter like this. It felt a bit like research. I’d become a student of the game and the idea of back rooms was so nebulous that I was partly intrigued. I was also incredibly uncomfortable unsure about what was going to happen. They were trying to intimidate me and it was working. I knew that I had to calm myself somehow. Breathe. I had to get myself together.
“Tell me who the fuck he is. We’re going to find him, so you’d better just tell us.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Where do you live?”
“Why does it matter?”
“What’s your date of birth?”
“Look, I don’t have to say shit to you,” I felt an inner strength developing.
The security guard inched closer. I felt his anger, literally, as the spit from his words flew directly into my face.
“If you don’t cooperate it’s going to get pretty fuckin’ miserable here in a second. Answer my questions, asshole!” The guy was out of control.
Meanwhile, not one surveillance operator in the room turned his head in the direction of the commotion. They clearly heard what was going on, but they didn’t glance over once. One of the guards left the room, presumably to help locate Kyung. Now there were only three people in the room that mattered, two guards and me. The odds were not in my favor, so I took a chance.
“Look, I don’t have to answer your questions and I don’t have to stay here against my will. I’m sure of that.” Truth be told, I wasn’t sure at all, but I threw out the bluff. For just a split second, I saw a tiny bit of weakness in the lead guard’s eyes. It was brief, but I knew that my comments had an impact.
“Well, we know you’re a card counter so we have every right to ask you questions.”
“Even if I was a card counter and even if you have the right to ask me questions, I have rights, too. I have the right to walk out of this place right now.” I could tell from his body language that my bluff prbably wasn’t a bluff. I did have rights. I hadn’t been sure, until now. “So isn’t it against the law to detain me without cause? Isn’t what you’re doing to me illegal?”
The guard paused while contemplating his next move.
“Okay, listen. I’m going to let you go. But first, I’m gonna read you something. It’s called the Trespass Act. After I read it you’ll need to sign it to acknowledge that it’s been read to you. Then we’re going to take you to the cage to cash out your chips and escort you to the valet. Once you get in your car, we’re going to have one of our security trucks follow you off the property. If you step foot on our property ever again, you’ll be arrested. Understood?”
During the walk to the cage, escorted by the two guards, I felt like a fugitive being extradited. The eyes of patrons along the way made me feel a sense of guilt, but that was fleeting. I’d looked my adversaries squarely in the eyes and stood my ground. I didn’t compromise Kyung’s identity and I hadn’t given any information about myself. All they had was a digital photograph they shot of me in the back room, a name that didn’t match mine, and a chicken-scratch signature on their form.
As soon as I was off property, I pulled out my phone. There were 14 missed messages. Kyung had been trying to call since I “disappeared” nearly an hour earlier. He knew something wasn’t right, so he packed up both of our belongings and waited in the room. I called him.
“Where the hell are you?” he asked, franticly.
“I’m at the first exit on the highway. Listen, I just got back-roomed and trespassed. You’ll need to take a cab here, but first, grab my bag in the room.”
“Oh, shit. Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. A little shaken, but fine.”
“Okay, I’ll be there soon.”
I knew I was done with Connecticut for a while and, although I was headed toward a much-needed three-week reprieve from blackjack, the back-room incident unexpectedly added fuel to my fire.
I was anxious to get back to Vegas for New Year’s. The casinos had spit in my eyes and it was just what I needed to catch my second wind.