Washington, D.C., September 1969
We were on day work. The routine of petite larcenies, lost tourists, auto accidents, and a few robberies seemed somewhat predictable. Working as Acting Sergeant, I was reviewing some paperwork completed by other officers earlier when Lieutenant Dominik approached me with a sober face.
“The captain would like to see you.”
“Now?”
“Now would be fine.” I didn’t ask why because he wouldn’t say even if he knew.
Two brief knocks were answered, “Come in.
“At ease. Officer Stone, you have an appointment tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. with Inspector Schmidt of the Intelligence Division in his office. Arrive alone and don’t be late.”
“Sir, do you know what this concerns?”
“No. He led me to believe, however, you may know more than I do. Since you work for me, kindly stop by tomorrow and tell me what is going on. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned on my heels and barely remember closing the door. I suddenly felt like the victim of a planned seduction. Detective Lieutenant John Roberts had mentioned that U.S. Customs seizures of cocaine had risen by more than three-hundred percent from 1967 to the middle of this year. The Narcotics Division had bumped this issue up to the Intelligence Division. On the other hand, perhaps an invisible partnership between the two divisions always existed. An inspector headed the Intelligence Division, aided by one captain, three lieutenants, and about twenty-five men and women. No one outside the unit was sure what they did. They were deeply involved in the periodic, and large, anti-Vietnam war protests and various groups considered violent by the FBI and D.C. Police. Among the well-known names are the Black Panthers, Weather Underground, Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee, and Students for a Democratic Society, to name a few. Their bomb-making abilities and plans for disrupting otherwise peaceful marches in the nation’s capital concerned the Intelligence Division, the FBI, and the CIA, whose involvement was an open secret.
As a member of the Civil Disturbance Unit, I received some of this information secondhand. For example, the Intelligence Division once told the Civil Disturbance Unit that they did not believe radicals would attack the South Vietnamese Embassy. Consequently, commanders assigned only six officers to guard the embassy during the protest. These groups, however, were not drug importers, just consumers. The Intelligence Division was clearly multi-mission. Their plans for me would wait until 9:00 a.m.
The Offer
“Good morning, Officer Stone. I believe you know Detective Lieutenant Roberts,” began the Inspector in charge of the Intelligence Division. “I’m Ray Schmidt, and this is my second in command, Captain Roy Wilson. I oversee a staff of about twenty-five persons. Also with us today is Floyd Wainwright, FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Miami field office.
“We would appreciate your help in eliminating the primary source of cocaine that is poisoning our city, as well as our sister cities north to Philadelphia and south to Richmond. Emergency room reports show this cocaine has caused numerous deaths because its users are not accustomed to its high purity. Like heroin, when it comes from one of the authorized distributors, it has a brand name. In this case, it’s Orbit. Your friend from the rainy car chase was a secondary distributor who had not yet cut his product for resale. Equally disturbing is the rise of gangs at the low end of the distribution chain, with each gang claiming its own turf. Homicides are rising because most inter-gang disputes are settled by gunfire.”
“May I speak freely?” I began. The room, the entire staff area, was inside – windowless. Maybe the rumors about their wide-ranging and semi-legal tactics were true. The word windowless rattled inside my skull as I prepared to continue. “Since my conversations with Lieutenant Roberts, I speculated that I was being groomed for something, but never given a clue as to what it might be, an unusual approach in dealing with a beat cop.”
“Although necessary, we apologize, for the approach. You are no ordinary beat cop. You are college-educated, a commercial pilot, a martial arts expert, honest and, according to interviews with superiors, resourceful in dealing with difficult situations. In addition, you were honest before you married Karen. A stack of hundred dollar bills will not turn your head. Detective Lieutenant Roberts told you, the FBI, at our request, completed a full-field re-investigation, and they have granted you a national security clearance of secret. Later, there are agreements to sign. Accordingly, some of what I’m about to tell you is classified. I also want to allay a possible concern you are being railroaded into accepting any assignment. After our discussions today, you may decline the offer and return to your regular duties without prejudice. Fair enough?”
“Yes, sir.”
Of course, having gone to so much trouble, they might redefine regular duties as a year of picking up cigarette butts in the warehouse district while walking permanent midnights. I decided not to share my cynical thoughts.
Lieutenant Roberts began to speak. “The President recently signed what’s called a PDD, or Presidential Decision Directive, which defines the flow of illicit drugs into this country as a threat to our national security. How efforts will be coordinated across the U.S. remains to be determined. He is, however, aware of our local problem and asked the Chief to take all necessary measures to address this regional surge in cocaine. We thought we had a victory when we tightened the laws and prescribing practices of physicians on amphetamines. Cocaine, however, quickly filled the gap, and availability grows on a daily basis. We know that the supply comes from a well-coordinated, multinational group – not a collection of amateurs smuggling in a few keys from South America. We have squeezed dry our informants and lockups.
“We think we know the following. The big boss here sends drivers to Miami, loads a truck or station wagon, and drives the cocaine to this area. We cannot stop that. Rather than bring a large load into the city, we suspect the vehicle drives to a house in a nearby, but rural, part of Virginia, or maybe Maryland. Cars with mixed plates, not all DC, come at random times to pick up their share. These are the primary dealers, who later put the Orbit sticker on their product. We did arrest one of them who made it clear that talking to us was a death sentence. We told him if he did cooperate, we would reduce charges. He hardly reacted. He said he was probably a dead man, and we could play any game we wanted. The secondary and tertiary dealers are almost as afraid. They give us a little something to ease their pain, but their information often conflicts with what we get elsewhere. In short, few facts are reliable. We do not know who is pulling the strings here. Thanks to some good work done by the FBI and CIA, however, we believe we know who the Miami connection is.”
I reacted, “Does the CIA have law enforcement authority on domestic cases?”
Inspector Schmidt breezed past the legal realities. “They do indirectly because it’s defined as a national security matter. These drugs are not coming from within the United States.”
Roberts continued, “We believe this is the same organization that was using young women and packing them with three or four keys so they appeared very pregnant, complete with large breasts and butts. The shaping was done skillfully and successfully until an alert agent began to ask basic questions one mule couldn’t answer. She cooperated but knew nothing. The flight was from Barranquilla to Miami. Retrospective interviews of U.S. Customs agents by the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, we call them the BNDD, revealed others who remembered young, pregnant women taking the same flight. This random catch told us nothing about them, but it took away their system. For now, they have adapted and are using swallowers. This is an interim method because it cuts into their volume.
“Then we got what appears to be a break. Agents from BNDD have been suspicious of Marcus Sterling for some time. Tax returns from his business did not seem to square with his wealthy lifestyle. BNDD Miami believes Marcus Sterling, a real estate agent, is the intermediary in this farm-to-arm operation. He never touches the product, but he is in charge of logistical issues, which are, in this case, getting the cocaine into the United States and ultimately into our area. At first, we focused on seaworthy ships taking the drugs from Barranquilla to a remote expanse along the coasts of Puerto Rico. There, the bad guys could lower a fast boat for a beach delivery, which puts the drugs in the United States and Customs out of the picture. This method has been used by other narco-traffickers. Problems for them include the distance and cost. From Barranquilla to Puerto Rico is seven hundred and seventy miles of open sea at maybe fifteen knots. Storms in that area can be severe. A sturdy boat would be expensive and subject to boarding by the U.S. Coast Guard and later the Customs Service.
“Finally, with the help of the FBI, we leaned on selected baggage handlers for Eastern Airlines because they had been compromised before. We found no reason to believe commercial flights were bringing cocaine into Miami. For a while, we were stumped. A Mexican route was out of the question. In fact, they could not move product any further west than Cartagena. Agreements backed by firepower dictate which routes are open to whom.
“BNDD continued to investigate. A fair number of persons who purchased Sterling homes had been in and out of prison for drug-related charges. In addition, he corresponds with another Cuban in Coleman Prison, in central Florida. As you may know, prison staff opens all correspondence before being passed onto, or from, any inmate. BNDD had asked for copies of the correspondence between Sterling and Jesus Ramirez, doing federal time for drug trafficking. Until recently, the letters talked about old times and seemed harmless. Last month, however, Sterling said he had sold property to some orange and fruit growers who needed agricultural pilots. Maybe they could talk about it further. Sterling’s real-estate transactions do not include any agricultural businesses. He is seeking pilots. You can tell where this is going. Do you want out or do we continue?”
I was curious. They had a plan, but it wasn’t ‘Drug dealer needs pilots’ in some help-wanted ad.
“Go on,” I said.
Roberts continued with the lead. “We believe they are using general aviation aircraft to fly the drugs from Barranquilla to Miami.”
“Whoa,” I reacted. “That’s probably over one-thousand miles if you cut across the center of Cuban airspace. I don’t think so.”
“We know,” said Captain Roy Wilson who spoke for the first time. “I flew F-4 Phantoms for a year in ‘Nam before taking this job. We are quite sure they pass through the Windward Passage between Gitmo on the west, and Haiti on the east to refuel somewhere in the Bahamas. Among the seven hundred Bahamian islands, a few have airports with fuel. This is a sketchy picture because they run a tight ship, with everything on a need-to-know basis and employee loyalty beyond question. With the exception of Sterling, we do not know any of the other principals and are relying on informed conjecture – which is an oxymoron. I suspect they have been using ex-Batista pilots, some of whom have not flown for nine years. Such a limited pool may be the reason they are looking for younger, better-trained American pilots who can be trusted.
“We want you to fly for Sterling.”
They said it! Fear and excitement mingled together, creating a powerful turmoil within me. This was mad, yet heady stuff. I felt a visceral pull to be in the middle of it. Maybe the deaths of Carol, the swallower, and many unknown to me were not in vain. Others could fill out dog-bite reports.
“We, and the agencies we work with,” began Inspector Schmidt, “have the resources to place you deep undercover, with a new identity as a pilot who was busted on federal charges for flying marijuana from Mexico into Texas. The cover includes having served most of your four-year sentence in El Reno prison in Oklahoma. Afterward, the Bureau of Prisons transferred you to Coleman prison in central Florida prior to release on parole. You requested Florida because you want to live with your half-sister in Miami as part of the pre-release plan while you look for work. Your half-sister is an undercover FBI agent working on another assignment. Her name, for this operation, is Jamie Hudson. She will be your liaison with us and the FBI, as well as helping you regarding any needs you may have.”
“Will I actually be imprisoned in Coleman? How do I meet this Jesus guy? What can I tell my wife about this?”
“Yes,” continued Schmidt. “You enter Colman as a regular inmate for one month. Only the warden will know your identity, and you will share a cell with Ramirez. We can say little to Mrs. Stone for the protection of both of you. Captain Wilson plans to visit her, emphasizing the importance of this unique assignment and the necessary isolation. He will give her his direct phone number, although he cannot say much except that we are in contact and you are okay.
“Doing time requires specific skills to maintain your cover. All inmates can smell a fish or new inmate a mile away. Having served more than three years in El Reno, you must act like this is only a transfer. Each federal prison has a thirty-to forty-page Admission and Orientation Handbook for inmates. We will give you one for El Reno and one for Coleman, along with some other reading material written by former inmates and guards. After you have read all this thoroughly, a veteran federal prison guard will coach you for a few days here in a D.C. hotel. He has done this before for federal agents, and the process includes some realistic role-playing.”
I began to feel overwhelmed. So much for heady stuff. I can’t be made as a fish because that blows my cover – a death sentence for an undercover cop in prison.
Lieutenant Roberts spoke, “There’s a little more about the admission process you need to understand. Each prison has two types of Special Housing Units, better known as the hole. They are for administrative or disciplinary segregation from the general population. They all look similar: an eight by ten feet concrete cell, with bunk beds, one metal desk, and sink-toilet combination. Food is bad and comes in on a tray pushed through a slot in the door. We cannot break procedure. You will spend four or five days there until they decide what to do with you. That, of course, will be to bunk with Ramirez on the low-security side of the complex. The hole can be profoundly stressful. The guard will teach you some methods to help manage those few days better.”
I lost it and blurted out. “I’m going to put up with all of this prison crap, make friends with a thug, fly drugs from Colombia through the Bahamas into the U.S. using airplanes with no maintenance records, over open seas notorious for severe storms, learn who the bad guys are without being able to speak Spanish, and not get killed in the process? Is there anything else?”
Inspector Schmidt spoke, “When you put it like that, it sounds…”
“Don’t patronize me! It is crazy.”
An awkward silence hung in the air. Nobody moved or talked, and heads dropped imperceptibly so eyes would not meet.
Captain Roy Wilson broke the silence. “The odds in warfare are often poor. You have faced extreme danger, but only for short periods. All of your points are well-taken. This assignment will be extremely dangerous. You will be under and alone except for contact with your FBI housemate.”
“Why,” I asked, “isn’t BNDD doing this?”
“It’s my turn to speak candidly,” said the inspector. “They are a new agency, poorly resourced, and have little credibility within the brand-name federal law enforcement community. They have a few pilots who are quite visible in their jobs. They would be made and executed trying to go undercover. Also, we have information that their intelligence side has been penetrated by at least some of the drug cartels.”
“The FBI,” I offered, looking at SAC Floyd Wainwright.
He responded, “The authors of the Harrison Narcotic Act were unsure if an outright ban on heroin and cocaine would be constitutional, thus it is a tax code provision. Accordingly, the FBI’s view is this is a problem for local police and Treasury agents, who seem more concerned with moonshine. We are willing to help, but not take the lead. Because of the scope and international dimensions of this case, however, we will make our resources available to you. Before you ask, the CIA is working with us on this regarding information gathering. Of course, they are prohibited from leading any domestic law enforcement initiative.”
“Your willingness to consider this assignment is deeply appreciated,” said the inspector. “You may not need the money, but you will receive a special hazardous pay rate, a substantial bonus at the end, and an automatic promotion to sergeant. We ask that you give us an answer within two days. Unfortunately, you cannot discuss this offer with anyone. You can call Captain Wilson or me with any further questions.”
Inspector Schmidt rose to stand, signaling an end to the meeting.
“No need to wait,” I said. “I’ll do the job. How do we begin?”
Everyone got out of their chairs, smiled, and pumped my hand in what seemed a spontaneous gesture of both relief and good will. A tense meeting suddenly had become more cordial.
“I’ll be your primary point of contact in the Division,” said Captain Wilson. “We have an arrangement with the Justice Department and the U.S. Marshals Service, under which they will swear you in as a Special Deputy U.S. Marshal. In short, a federal agent, not a D.C. cop freelancing. Your undercover identity is James Sixkiller, a traditional Cherokee name. We thought you would enjoy that. We checked, and no Oklahoma Cherokees are in Coleman. With the help of FBI and CIA experts, we constructed Sixkiller’s life. Where you were born. What happened to your parents, everything. Coordinating with the Bureau of Prisons, we will insert this identity into BOP’s record system. Come back tomorrow, and we have prepared a complete, tabbed notebook: biographical section; juvenile and adult rap sheets; Admission and Orientation Handbooks for El Reno and Coleman; selected articles from former prisoners on prison survival; a summary about Jesus Ramirez; a more complete intelligence overview covering much of what we’ve discussed today; information about Jamie Hudson, your FBI housemate; and a list of critical phone numbers, including ours. The notebook carries a ‘Secret’ classification, but is paragraph marked. Before each paragraph a code will appear in parenthesis as (U), (C), or (S) or unclassified, confidential, or secret. Even though it includes unclassified material, keep in mind all of this is sensitive and for your protection. We cannot allow you to carry the notebook out of the Division. One of the secretaries will set up a desk to study and make phone calls. How long do you need to become familiar with the notebook?”
“Three or four days,” I guessed. “Also, my captain made it clear to me he would like to know what’s happening.”
“I’ll take care of the problem,” replied Inspector Schmidt. “I have known him for years and can smooth things over a little. We are detailing you to Internal Affairs (IA) for one year. That is your story to co-workers. Everyone understands that cops from IA don’t talk about what they’re doing or where. The re-assignment will help insulate you from pressure by the curious or pushy about your whereabouts or work. As of tomorrow, however, you begin here. After one week here, you meet the famous trainer we call Jerry for a few days of counseling and role-playing. Jerry is a former prison guard who has received special training in helping to place federal agents undercover. For you, Jerry has no last name, and he can be very intense to work with. Meanwhile, we will make the necessary changes to insert you into Coleman. Come in late tomorrow if necessary.”
A few more handshakes, and the meeting ended. I couldn’t help but make mental notes of these three people. To some extent, my life would depend upon their diligence and honesty with me. I was pleased the inspector named Captain Wilson as my primary point of contact. His penetrating blue eyes conveyed directness and integrity. They told me he understood what I had committed to do. He would be an ally if things unraveled. The inspector had a job to do. Although he was a politician-bureaucrat responding to pressure from the Chief, and indirectly from the President, he needed me to succeed. His motives were a bit different, but he was also in my corner. Roberts was likable and a little inscrutable. I believe that cops who work narcotics too long become cynical. They believe no real victory is possible. The best outcome is “to make a difference.” I was more wary of him.
I thought about why I accepted this assignment. Partly it was the right thing to do. Maybe my work can help alleviate the pain on the streets. Personally, the mission appealed to the darker side of me drawn to danger, fear, and conflict. I complained about the seduction, but saw it coming. I didn’t know what “it” was going to be. The edge is normal for me. My worst fear was getting too old to enjoy the fear.
Gordy’s
“Mike!” I gestured across the locker room for him to come over. My area was empty, and the next shift had headed up for roll call.
“I got stuck on a run,” said Mike. “What are you doing still loitering around here? Time to saddle up and go home. By the way, I didn’t hear you on the air until this afternoon.”
“Yeah. That’s why we need to talk. How about Gordy’s in ten minutes?”
Mike regarded me somberly and said, “Sure.”
We found the same corner booth as before. It was my dime. We ordered beers, and Mike sat back to contemplate me, a friend of many years.
“I passed most of the morning with some new acquaintances from headquarters. They’d also invited an FBI SAC from a major city to join the discussion. I’ve accepted an assignment lasting from four to five months. It’s dangerous and will take me far from this area.”
Mike continued to sit back, look out the window, and drink his beer.
“Why? Don’t you get enough adrenalin with people trying to kill you here?”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“That’s so lame, especially because you always understate danger. You couldn’t resist, could you? Well, you are who you are. I’m going to miss you – you stupid son of a bitch. Can you call?”
“I think so. I have a favor to ask.”
“You need a will? Ask a lawyer.”
“Would you call and visit with Karen occasionally? She’s not going to handle this well. Maybe take her to dinner and a movie; she likes you. I’m trying to think of ways to decrease her sense of isolation.”
“Sure. But, I wonder if having me around will make it better or worse.”
“I see your point. Try it and notice how she reacts. If it doesn’t seem like a good idea, just ease back to her comfort zone.”
“Jake, remind me of why we became friends.”
“You found somebody crazier than you to hang out with.”
“Good luck, and please return.”
“Thanks. I will. Remember, while I’m gone, you are the thin blue line.”
Smiles, another beer, and lighter conversation concluded the evening.
Karen
Karen’s reaction could have been worse – maybe. There is no way to dress up a bombshell, so I did not try. I told her the Chief of Police had handpicked me for a lengthy and somewhat dangerous assignment. I added that the purpose of the FBI re-investigation was to give me a national security clearance of secret because of the importance and nature of the work. I told her the job involved a lot of travel, and I might be out of contact with her for long periods. I emphasized that I would call, but could not disclose my location. Watching her trying to keep a stiff upper lip almost killed me.
“How long?” she finally asked.
“About four to five months.”
The stiff upper lip gave way to some sniffling as I held her tightly. I told her I loved her and reminded myself this scene has been played out so many times before in other houses, for other reasons. The expectations, however, were different. She married a cop, not a soldier. Accepting this was asking a lot of her, and I hoped she would not pull away from me emotionally to save herself. I worked a dangerous job, but at least I returned home every day.
“How dangerous is it? Tell me the truth.”
“The Chief picked me because I have the talents to achieve our goal. My ability to read and remember almost everything will be important. They have created a new identity for me, and I become this different person based on the details of his fictional life. All of these efforts are in cooperation with other relevant governmental agencies to ensure that this ends successfully.”
She was studying my eyes and body language for additional information.
“I’ll tell them no tomorrow if this might ruin our marriage. That’s more important than anything.”
“Would you do that?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
“No. You will always be my husband. On the one hand, I’m proud they picked you for this. On the other hand, I’m afraid. I can tell you’re downplaying the danger involved. This is your nature, a man who loves living on the edge. I knew that when I married you. This is a big one, however, long and dangerous. I guess I’ll learn how tough I am.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I held her again.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “I read about a new position I want to try. We need to make the most of our remaining time.”
And she led me upstairs by the hand.
The Intelligence Division had booked a suite with two twin beds for prison training in a local hotel. Jerry and I arrived about 4:00 p.m. on Tuesday. He was a taciturn, fit, black man around 50. The door had barely closed when he said, “What’s your name?”
“Jake Stone,” I said.
“Wrong! It’s James Sixkiller – you never heard of this guy Stone.”
“Where and when were you born?”
“Stilwell, Oklahoma in 1944.”
“Why are you inside?”
“I got caught after I landed in Tulsa with a planeload of Mexican marijuana.”
“What kind of work did you do in El Reno?”
“I made furniture for government offices.” He grilled me until we broke for dinner, where he continued to call me Sixkiller. A common saying exists about prison guards with twenty years of experience. They have one year of experience, repeated twenty times. Jerry was an exception. With his sharp intellect, he had memorized my new identity to ensure that I didn’t trip up.
Over the next three days, we covered a dizzying array of information and slang known to all experienced cons during daily conversation. What are the basic prison types and charac-teristics: minimum or Federal Prison Camp (FPC); low security or a Federal Correctional Institution (FCI) with a double fence perimeter; medium security could be an upgraded FCI or part of a high security U.S. Penitentiary with double or triple fences with electronic detection systems. Some penitentiaries have high walls, and all have the highest staff to inmate ratio. In addition, about five other administrative facilities exist for special purposes, such as medical or temporary detention.
Jerry emphasized knowledge needed for daily life. Know that a call out is an appointment; get used to being counted five or six times a day and night. Become familiar with the staffing in your unit, this determines where you live and who your team members are. Each unit has an overall manager, a case manager, a counselor, and a secretary who manages inmate schedules. Understand the role of a basic correctional officer, or guard, also known as screws, hacks, and other uncomplimentary titles.
The overview covered the use of phones by inmates; dining etiquette; regulations; prohibited acts and the disciplinary process; money and the commissary; pat downs and searches; visitors (Karen can’t come); health care; cell and job assignments; permitted and standard work clothing, including approved colors; emergencies; authorized personal property by category, and more.
Even though this was only a transfer from another federal lockup, they still need to decide where to put me and what assignments to give me. This process takes about five days while I stay in administrative segregation or the hole. Jerry told me to bring two soft-cover books, as hard covers are not permitted; practice deep breathing for stress relief; do whatever exercises are possible in the confines of the hole; such as pushups, squats, and jogging in place. Accept the offer of one hour of recreation five times a week. Do not talk to other people unless spoken to; respond with minimal, polite answers. Although designed for two, this small space houses three or even four. The pecking order of who gets which bunk bed or uses the toilet first is based on length of time there.
I ended up with a list of Basic Dos and Don’ts:
• Do not lock eyes or stare at another prisoner. He may perceive it as sexual interest or a physical challenge.
• Do seek out other Indians. Because of an old law,9 a disproportionate number of Indians are doing federal time. So, I shouldn’t have any trouble finding them. Jerry emphasized that race is everything in prison. It dictates gang composition, your friends, and who might help you if necessary. Jerry explained most prisoners will consider a few Indians irrelevant to a gang scene dominated by Blacks, Latinos, and white supremacists.
• Do carry yourself well and with confidence, but keep a low profile.
• Do protect your personal space, while respecting the space of others.
• Do not be seen as friendly with guards. People will suspect you of being a snitch.
• Do be careful with everything you say. It can be miscon-strued.
• Do not get sucked into a debate about anything.
• Do watch the hands of the persons around you, especially in unsupervised areas such as a corridor, bathroom, or even in general population. Shanks are everywhere. A rapid hand movement will signal an attack.
• Do not allow anyone to call you a “punk” or “bitch” in front of others. These are special words in prison and require an immediate physical response. The guards understand and will not bring disciplinary charges. This response marks you as someone not to be taken lightly, an important asset.
“Well,” said Jerry after three days with a cheerful smile on his face. “Are you ready to be a successful inmate?”
“I prefer to go home,” I replied dourly.
“Think of the time as shock treatment to prevent you from slipping into a life of dissipation and crime.”
I smiled at his calculated cynicism.