Undercover operators are trained to know when to say “when,” but it’s not always that easy. Going in and out of role too often can blur the lines. Imagine being in a room full of Hells Angels, with women flashing their tits all night. Cussing, drinking, shooting off guns just for the hell of it. Then, after a couple hours sleep, you get up at home to make your kids breakfast. While you are having your first cup of coffee and chatting it up with your kids, your pager goes off, and you have to shoot a quick call to one of the violators.
You step away from your children to make the call, which goes something like this:
UC: Hey, motherfucker, it’s 7 AM. What’s your fuckin’ problem?
VIOLATOR: Bitch, you said call as soon as I got your speed, and I got your speed. Meet me in an hour.
The violator hangs up, and you walk back to the breakfast table to finish getting your kids ready for school. Your wife walks into the kitchen.
WIFE: I need you to take the kids to school.
UC: Can’t do it, babe.
WIFE: Why not?
UC: I got a deal to do in an hour.
And so, it goes. Day after day, week after week. Never knowing for sure where you belong and what really matters.
The RatSnakes really do put the funk in dysfunctional. I look back and wonder, how did this group even happen? I never have been closer to any group of people with the possible exception of my Marines. If one of my ex-wives said it, they all said it: “You love them more than me.” I have no comment. What I will say is that when my mom and then my dad died within seven months of each other, each and every RatSnake offered to come help me and attend their funerals. Jay came to my dad’s funeral—out of respect and because my dad loved Bird. I often thought my dad loved him more than me.
Earlier, when Mom passed, Bird was the first one there. The morning of her funeral was sort of a zoo, trying to get the kids and stepkids ready and all. I also was taking care of my ailing dad, so I appreciated the help. Well, most of the help.
My dad had a stout daily regimen of medicines he had to take. I kept them in one of those containers marked “Sunday–Saturday, Day and Night,” so he could help keep up with it. First thing in the morning, I gave Dad his medicines, so I wouldn’t forget. Being the ever-helpful sort of adopted son, Bird also gave Dad his medicines right before we went out the door. Unfortunately, they were his fucking nighttime medicines, which included Ambien to help him sleep. We got out of the funeral and walked over to the hall for the reception. I remember thinking, “Man, Dad isn’t taking this very well.” It wasn’t until later that I figured out what happened.
Over those couple days, we had sat up fairly late with Darren and his wife, Deanna, and numerous other members of the Core, drinking and telling Mom stories. Her trust paperwork happened to be lying on the table, and Bird absentmindedly leafed through it. Suddenly, he busted out laughing uncontrollably. My dad asked, “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Unbeknownst to me, Bird was named alternate executor if I had predeceased my mom. Really, Mom? Bird?
Then again, I shouldn’t have been surprised. In the early days we didn’t have cell phones, but the government office had the Federal Telecommunications System (FTS) that allowed us to make toll-free calls anywhere in the country. Early one Sunday morning, Bird and I decided to sneak into the Macon ATF office to call home and talk to our wives and kids and drop off some paperwork. When I say early, I mean 0500 early. This was a risky endeavor while working UC. The last thing we needed was to try to talk our way out of being seen walking into an ATF office or a police department.
Bird and I were sitting about ten feet apart, facing each other as we talked to our respective spouses on the phone. Unknown to Bird, I had hung up with my wife and called my mom in California. When Bird hung up his phone, he signaled to let him say hi. I waved him off, but he persisted. I put the call on hold and said, “Go ahead, motherfucker.”
Bird picked up the phone, intending to flirt with my then wife, and said, “You know how bad I want to lick your thighs? I’ve always thought you were hot.”
In a nanosecond, he started spitting out apology after apology to my mom. He was red as a fire truck.
On that same day every year thereafter, my mother would call Jay’s cell phone and say, “What are you wearing, Bird?”
It never got old. Ever.
Our families adapted to our chosen profession, or they didn’t. Not all of the parents and spouses enjoyed or participated in our foolishness on all levels. Many of my peers never discussed their cases with their spouses. They didn’t want them to worry, or it was just that one touchy subject that kept the UC away from home. Some of our spouses assimilated to our core group; others tolerated our group but were just as happy not to engage socially. They were never looked down upon; we knew how fucked up we were. Ours was a quirky group that stood out in a crowd socially, which made some spouses uncomfortable.* Many RatSnakes kept their professional and private live completely separate. That was not me. What you saw was what you got. Everybody in my personal circle knew exactly what I was about.
That’s a long intro to make the point that our family members didn’t pick this life; we did. My first wife married a clean-cut police officer who wore a crisp uniform and a shiny badge. She ended up with a husband who looked like a thug, and it was challenging just to go out to dinner. Operators leave parents, wives, husbands, and children every day, sometimes for extended undercover operations. I once had to leave my dad after he traveled three thousand miles to see me and his grandkids. When the UCs don their capes and go off to save the world, somebody has to stay at home to bathe the children, pay the mortgage, get to work, and spend long nights alone.
While I was living a very unconventional life, I insisted that my wife and kids continue with a traditional family environment. I was blind to the fact that my high-octane, chaotic life consumed theirs. I overcompensated because I wanted a different life for my family. As a result, I was unrealistic in demanding perfection from them.
That fact is that UCs missed their baby’s first words, children’s sporting events, recitals, birthdays—all the valued things that supposedly we were fighting to protect. On more occasions than I like to remember, I had to tell my kids, “I can’t be there. Please take pictures.” I missed wedding anniversaries. I missed my son’s very last high school football game. We UCs carried a special kind of guilt, knowing that these sacrifices by our families sometimes caused resentment, loneliness, and could tank a marriage. Imagine time after time, looking at your spouse and saying, “I gotta go.” They know you don’t gotta go. You choose to go.
The payoff for the family? No glory, no shiny uniform and badge. No police car parked in the driveway. No bragging at the neighborhood get-together. They couldn’t discuss their husband or wife’s cases or heroic accomplishments. Instead, they made excuses for their spouse’s appearance and demeanor.
One time in particular stood out for me. On one long-term undercover, Jay and I were able to cut away for a few days and go home. Jay couldn’t fly home, so he came home with me. At the time, I lived in a cliquish, suburban neighborhood with a country club. Jay and I left our area of operation and rode our motorcycles to my house. It was early on a Sunday morning. We looked like we had just left a biker clubhouse, because we had. The Harleys we were using for the case were loud.
We rolled up, and several of my neighbors were outside in their yards. We stepped off our bikes, took off our helmets, and waved and greeted my neighbors. Everyone ignored our greeting and rapidly went back into their houses. Jay looked at me and asked, “What the fuck?” I didn’t know what to say. My wife and kids came out and greeted us, but then my wife said, “Could you guys hide the bikes in the garage and come inside?”
There was no doubt that being an undercover, having the walk and having the talk, could blow up in your face, because not everybody knew you were a good guy. Joe Stafford and Larry Williams stopped at a tavern on the way home in San Rafael, California. After a couple hours, another group of hard-looking guys came in. Over the years, I’ve been told about seven different versions from all who were involved. Here is the best I can glean.
Drunken words were exchanged, it spilled out into the street, and a knockdown, drag-out brawl ensued. It got bloody, guns were produced on both sides, and a shot was fired, which luckily didn’t hit its target. Then the badges came out, on both fucking sides. Turned out, a group of narcs from up north had picked the same watering hole. Imagine looking like any of us and trying to de-escalate a situation while trying to convince anybody you were a cop.
Joe found Larry the next morning at his house, in his bathtub, missing several teeth. That night would be a tough one to explain all around.
I’ve mentioned the phenomenon of the lines blurring and what we UCs described as personality fragmentation. Bottom line, UC men and women often blew off steam at a far more elevated rate than might be considered normal. Can you imagine one of the ladies in your neighborhood flashing her tits at a gathering? I can. Would you smash your husband’s head with a frying pan if he and his friends whipped out their dicks to compare sizes because of a dare?
I have said all along that everything about my world from day one has been dysfunctional. That is not an excuse but hopefully some sort of explanation for some of what I’ve shared. I cannot just blame the cop business or undercover work for my personal dysfunctions. I got them honestly. Hell, when my first marriage was faltering, my mother called Bird and tried to blame it on him leading me astray. That might be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Before Bird met me, he barely drank and never smoked or cussed.
His response to my mom when she confronted him—I think she was attempting to ground us from hanging out anymore: “Fuck that, Mrs. Cefalu. He was already fucked up when I met him.”
Case in point. I had gotten a Honda 90 when I was eleven or twelve years old. One day, I was outside playing, and my mom was taking a nap. My dad was bored and decided that he would go have a few cocktails at the bowling alley where he bartended. He thought riding my street-legal enduro motorcycle might be a good idea. I don’t believe before that very moment that my father had ever ridden a motorcycle, so it probably was a really bad idea.
Mom woke up and started cooking dinner. She asked where Dad was, but neither of us noticed that my bike was gone. When Dad was late for dinner, her first call was to the bar at the bowling alley. It was only ten minutes away on the back roads, and they said he had just left. (They always said he had just left.) Within about fifteen minutes, Mom and I heard the sounds of a motorcycle engine, spitting and sputtering like it was about to die. We ran out to the driveway to see my dad, bloody from head to toe.
One of the handlebars was broken, and the bike was barely running. Mom asked, “What the hell happened to you?” He said, “You’re not going to believe it, honey, but I was jumped by a bunch of Hells Angels.” Mom turned and stomped away. My dad laughed and said to me, “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll get it fixed.”
The true story was that while coming back from the bar, shit-faced, he hit a gravel patch and went down hard. So, Bird was probably right about not being the sole bad influence in my life. As a kid, I already was used to it. Hell, half the days while Mom worked, I went to my dad’s bar, and that’s where I did my homework.
Operators weren’t the sole source of dysfunction in the bureau. The agency itself had some idiosyncratic and outdated perspectives and practices. It has been said that back in our early days, ATF was a “good ol’ boy” network, meaning the highest-level positions within the agency were held by old white guys. That was true to a large extent. Keep in mind that the bureau was formed as a standalone agency less than ten years after President Lyndon B. Johnson signed significant civil rights legislation. As I’ve said, the agency originally was manned by former Treasury special agents. At that time, there weren’t a lot of black Treasury agents. Hiring quotas were just starting to be enforced, and the vast majority of our agents were from or assigned to the South, so we’ll just leave it that ATF was not the most diverse agency in its early days.
With new firearms jurisdiction and overlapping narcotics responsibilities, it made sense to recruit agents who were African American, Latino, Asian, et cetera. The original Treasury Enforcement Agent (TEA) test was so math-intensive that it was difficult to get enough qualified applicants, black, white, or otherwise. Shit, I made 70.2 on the test, which required a score of 70 to pass. I had graduated college just a year before I got hired. You’d think my math skills would have been better than that.
The government’s Schedule A hiring authority allowed some applicants to initially forego the TEA test. If you had a special skill the bureau needed, ATF could waive the TEA test for up to three years. Foreign-language skills, technology skills, and such were covered under Schedule A hiring. Schedule A also was interpreted as relevant to the ability of black applicants to perform undercover work in environments where white agents traditionally could not. This was lowering the bar and a basically impotent waiver. Remember that ATF could not and would not require agents to work undercover. But the hiring practice accomplished getting an abundance of minority new hires, which was the true goal.
Just like our country was slow to adjust to the civil rights movement and the changing of discriminatory policies across the land, so was ATF slow to embrace change. When he was my group supervisor in Atlanta, “Uncle” Ron Mitchell used to tell me stories. Once while assigned to the Macon, Georgia, field office in the early 1970s, he had a new-hire trainee who was black and who had not yet been to the academy. One day the boss walked in and said, “Mitchell, the big boss called down from Atlanta and said he needs a nigger for an undercover.”*
Ron reminded the boss that the young black agent hadn’t been to the academy yet, and by policy he couldn’t do undercover work. The boss said something like, “I was talkin’ about you, Mitchell. Get your ass up to Atlanta, ASAP.
In fact, that young agent rose to be one of the first black supervisors in ATF.
Fast-forward to when I was in the bureau, in the 1980s, and sitting in Uncle Ron’s office one day. Ron got a call from his former trainee, now a supervisor. Ron put him on speakerphone and introduced me over the telephone. The supervisor was just making a social call and started off by saying, “Can you believe they made me the head nigger in charge up here?” Ron said, “How long you been the head nigger in charge?” The supervisor said, “I been a nigger my whole life, but I only been the boss for a month.”
We all cracked the hell up. This was a far contrast to the ATF that I and others first walked into.
The Schedule A hiring process had created a lingering rift. Some white agents who had to pass the TEA test were resentful. Some early minority hires clearly suffered abuse. Tensions rose to a boiling point. As I’ve mentioned, ATF was embroiled in litigation when I signed on, and the racial division was palpable in the workplace. There were several individual discrimination suits pending. Those early lawsuits resulted in a class-action lawsuit against the bureau that wouldn’t be settled for years.
Because undercover wasn’t a required duty, some involved in the lawsuit argued that they were tasked to carry an inordinate amount of UC work, which I thought was total bullshit. Nonetheless, it became a rallying cry, and some of the senior and supervisory agents poisoned the new hires against “being slaves to the Man.” Many black agents didn’t buy into that narrative and loved UC work. Some of the black agents worked circles around the white guys doing UC.
Unfortunately, the Schedule A situation resulted in some agents using this absolute defense for not doing a UC operation: “I don’t feel comfortable in that role.” That was a legitimate out for black, white, female, and any other agents. But when some of the black agents noticeably would not accommodate a white agent’s request to do a UC, it was pretty obvious what was occurring. What made all of this so destructive was that, for the most part, we were friends and comrades. Those were hard times, and we got through them. All the while, I don’t believe I ever denied another agent my skills or support for an investigation. I adhered to the Marine Corps’ philosophy regarding race: We all were Marine Green. When I joined the bureau, the only color I cared about was ATF Blue.
Our agents were the brightest and most straightforward in the government, bar none. That personality coupled with this job could foster a certain complacency or callousness toward danger. One day in Sacramento, such a mindset led to an unexpected tragedy that cost two of our agents their lives. Mark* was one of the best operators and one of the coolest, most calm and collected agents in the bureau. I thought very highly of him. Some of the facts of what happened remain in dispute to this day.
Mark shared an office with his trainee. The trainee was struggling with the entry-level pay and not being able to reunite with his young wife. This was a common complaint for new agents in the California offices. We actually had several quit and return to their old jobs back home. The new agent was constantly lamenting his circumstances, and Mark apparently was tired of his whining.
Mark took out his pistol and made some comment, clearly mocking and out of frustration, to the effect of, “Well, why don’t you just kill yourself?”
At some point during this exchange, the gun went off accidentally and killed the young agent. I know Mark, and I trusted him many times with my life. I believe his version of the story. He has a family and is as low-key as anyone I know.
During the ensuing investigation, there were conflicts in the story regarding exactly how the gun had fired. The trainee’s family insisted on a prosecution. Mark was convicted and served a few years in a work camp.
Like I said, two lives were lost that day. It happened in an instant, and but for the grace of God, that could have been any one of us.
One night I got a phone call. Anthony had killed himself, in the office. Another good friend of mine had been present at the time. I remember liking Anthony from day one. He had been assigned to attend advanced undercover school, coincidentally the one I was teaching. He took the job seriously. He had a very easy-going personality and a great smile and attitude. He wanted to excel at UC work, and he did. He worked out of the Los Angeles field division, which had a large group of seasoned UC operators. He was obviously trained well in the field.
I hung up the phone with tears in my eyes. I didn’t need to be told the details to know why Anthony had pulled the trigger on himself. He was one of the several undercovers who worked the Waco Branch Davidian investigation. He had posed as a UPS delivery driver after it was reported by UPS that a box had broken open on a previous delivery and was found to contain hand grenade bodies. As with most significant undercover operations, the strategy involving Anthony had been round tabled by agents, bosses, and trainers alike. It was agreed upon as a reasonable attempt to get close to David Koresh, who later would share that he’d been suspicious of the ponytailed UPS driver. As mentioned, after the standoff, the subsequent independent Treasury report—or the Blue Book report, as we called it—hadn’t faulted the undercover operators but rather some of the assumptions in the overall strategy. Anthony, however, took this as an assignment of guilt and in his mind took responsibility for the failed raid and the subsequent deaths of our agents. Rather than seeing himself as a courageous hero, he took the blame.
I wish I could say Anthony was my only friend damaged that rainy day in Waco.
Every agent who walks into an undercover operation starts out excited. They know all the bad shit that can happen, but most of us block it out and hope it doesn’t happen. I’m certain that is the way my friend Robert Rodriguez approached his involvement when agreeing to be an undercover during the David Koresh/Branch Davidian investigation. He did everything right, but his life would end up in turmoil for years to come.
Part of the plan was for Robert to take on the role of a student at the local technical college. As such, he and several other ATF UCs rented a house directly across the road from the Branch Davidian compound. This allowed ATF to have real-time surveillance and collect intelligence on the comings and goings of the cult members. It also allowed Robert to approach the Davidians in a neighborly fashion with hopes that he could infiltrate the group and get eyes on their firearms and explosive violations. So far, so good. Robert was able to ingratiate himself with Koresh and got valuable intelligence from inside the Mount Carmel compound. He later told me that he despised Koresh and could barely stand being around him. Robert was a seasoned guy, so he was able to control his personal feelings.
The Blue Book report later called into question using Robert in lieu of an agent who was younger and closer to college age. I’ll just call bullshit. Appearance is a very small part of undercover if you have game. The report went on to disclose that Koresh had shown some indicators that he didn’t completely trust Robert. Let’s be clear here. When a madman is planning an apocalypse with a mass murder/suicide ending, he probably is fairly paranoid. If it sounds like I am defending Robert, it is because I am. Although Koresh may have had some suspicions, it did not stop him from allowing Robert to come around and interact with the group. Robert did his job and provided extremely useful evidence and intelligence related to the activities of the Branch Davidians.
On February 28, 1993, with hundreds of ATF agents (staged out of public view) prepared to serve the largest search warrant in American law enforcement history, Robert was asked to do the unthinkable. The senior bosses, who were going to give the “execute” command to initiate the raid, wanted Robert to go back into the Davidian house one more time to get one last look inside. This was barely an hour before ATF would launch the raid. Robert had concerns about whether he could get out in time. I have my personal opinion about why that shouldn’t have been asked of Robert, but I wasn’t there. I wouldn’t arrive for twenty-two more days. Being a good agent and wanting to do all he could do to ensure the safety of his fellow agents, Robert agreed. As has been reported publicly, including testimony before the US Congress, things were about to go to shit for Robert and everybody involved in the investigation.
After entering the compound, as he had dozens of times before, Robert engaged Koresh, who was holding a Bible. A Branch Davidian member, who was also a mail carrier, came in and called David aside. Koresh returned, shaking and visibly anxious, and made some cryptic comments to Robert. The gist was: “ATF is coming.”
Koresh had been warned by the mail carrier, who was loyal to Koresh. Minutes earlier, a reporter had unwittingly tipped off the mail carrier by asking where the compound was. Robert nervously excused himself, wanting to warn his fellow agents that they had been compromised. He later told how the walk outside to his truck and the drive back to the UC house, a mere two hundred yards away, felt like the longest trip of his life. He fully expected to be shot in the back.
Upon entering the UC house, he immediately and aggressively relayed the compromise to the agents and senior bosses, who were in the house waiting to give the go-ahead for the raid. Robert adamantly insisted that the operation be aborted. This fact later would be disputed by the bosses present. After the tragic deadly raid, the highest bureau officials denied that Robert had made it clear that the ATF plan was compromised. Other field agents validated Robert’s story, but that did not stop ATF upper management from claiming that they “didn’t know we were compromised.” The falsehood enraged the field agents, and dozens stepped up and spoke to the media. This was when I as well as many others lost faith and trust in our leadership. None of the shot callers really were held accountable for what ensued, and some were later promoted.
The Waco raid drew virtually every SRT team into the fray. Three teams were involved in the initial raid, and those of us on the other teams were called upon during the standoff and subsequent trials. Since the standoff was continuing, and we did not know how long we would be in Waco and on the perimeter, I cut all my hair off and morphed into tactical operator mode. My team remained on the ground through the fire and initial crime scene investigation. When I returned to Atlanta, I was burned out. I stepped away from undercover work and just worked cases for the next year or so, trying to process what I had just been involved in. I wondered if Waco would be the straw that broke ATF’s back.
* At one of our reunions, Fitz thought he was going to be funny. He walked around the houseboat naked, day and night, against our collective objections. Somebody’s wife was sleeping on a couch, and Fitz tried to take a picture of himself standing right next to her, still naked. She opened her eyes, sat up, and kicked him square in the balls. She made her point, and he gave her a wide berth from then on.
* Before you start running me personally up the racist flagpole, these stories are shared to give an unvarnished look behind the scenes. In 1972, I was thirteen years old.
* Not the flashily dressed Mark of the marijuana fields.