The Last Undercover (10 page)
But I still couldn’t figure out, as I climbed the stairs that day, if I was in for a commendation or a butt chewing. The Boss, as we called him, was equally skilled in both.
I walked into his office, he greeted me, and asked me to sit down. “I was having lunch with the chief of police today, Bob, and do you know what we talked about?”
I admitted I had no idea what he and Daryl Gates discussed over salad.
“He wants to attack the gang problem in South Central the same way we go after organized crime—like the LCN [La Cosa Nostra] case we just tied up.”
Our office had recently successfully concluded an investigation of the L.A. Mafia crime family. I was the undercover agent, and fifteen members of the L.A. family were convicted under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO) and various other federal statutes. The investigation generated a great deal of positive publicity for the Los Angeles office and obviously caught the attention and accolades of HQ. Even the attorney general recognized our success in a press conference.
“Is that so?”
The Boss nodded. Always one to encourage cooperation among different branches of law enforcement, he told me he and Chief Gates discussed the possibility of a joint operation in South Central. “How do you feel about that, Bob?”
“Sounds like a good idea, I guess.”
“Wonderful. Because I told Chief Gates I’d send him a couple of agents to help get things going, and I want you to lead the effort.”
“No kidding?”
The Boss proceeded to tell me how much he needed someone with my qualities on this new joint operation: someone with innovative ideas, a self-starter, highly motivated —
“And dumb enough to think working gangs in South Central would be fun?”
“Something like that, yeah. And I’ll let you choose your own partner.”
“Sold,” I said.
I make light of it now, but I was actually honored to be selected for the opportunity. I came away from the meeting very excited about the possibilities . . . but a little worried about how I was going to explain it to my wife. Sure enough, I spent most of that evening convincing her that a white man cruising around Watts consorting with black gangbangers wasn’t all that much more at risk than an undercover agent in Hollywood or Beverly Hills hanging out with big-time drug dealers and known members of La Cosa Nostra. She didn’t readily buy my argument, but eventually accepted my taking the assignment.
At the top of my list for partners was Tom, a new agent, only a few months out of the FBI Academy. He was a Naval Academy graduate, a former Navy officer, and an explosives expert. He had everything I was looking for in a partner: he was enthusiastic, willing, and just goofy enough to buy the same sales pitch the SAC laid on me the day before.
Within a few weeks, Tom and I reported to the LAPD South Bureau’s CRASH (Community Resources Against Street Hoodlums) unit. Although the program would later come under political fire, the South Bureau was manned by some of the finest police officers with whom I ever worked. My partner and I joined a team of plainclothes detectives whose offices were above a supermarket in South Central Los Angeles. We answered to a sergeant and his lieutenant and for the next several months played real-life cops and robbers.
For both Tom and me, it was a side of police work we had never seen. No longer federal agents wearing suits and ties, knocking on doors, and interviewing witnesses, we got down and dirty. We kicked in doors and braced gang members on the street. We rode side by side with the detectives; we joined them in foot pursuits and a few high-speed chases. At least two or three times a week, we assisted with search warrants issued for gang members’ residences and hangouts. It was not unusual to round up several dozen gang members in a single evening.
Tom and I worked alongside our LAPD team members but spent each evening on the commute home figuring out ways to make a federal impact.
The general public perceives Los Angeles–based black street gangs as being two distinct organizations, the Crips and the Bloods. In fact, those two terms represent over a hundred separate entities. Within the broad umbrella of the Crips or the Bloods are individual gangs or, as they are known on the street, sets. Often the gangs are designated by a geographical or territorial marker. The Five-Deuce Hoover Crips are in the general neighborhood of Fifty-second Street and Hoover Avenue. The Seven-Four Hoovers are located near Seventy-forth Street and Hoover. The Compton Pirus and the West Side Pirus, Blood sets, hail from Piru Street in Compton.
Although I heard from a number of OGs (Original Gangsters or senior members of the gangs) a variety of stories as to the origin of the Crips, most credit Raymond Washington with founding the gang in 1969. They were initially called the Baby Avenues, but when a Los Angeles paper reported that crime victims described their attackers as youths with canes, the term “crips”—short for “cripples”—was adopted. The gang grew, and other neighborhood gangs began to adopt “Crip” as part of their identity. The loose confederation of Crips soon became the most powerful street gang in South Central.
Other gangs, known as the Pirus, from the city of Compton, refused to align themselves with the Crips and responded by uniting under the general heading of Bloods. The two gangs were fierce rivals. The knives and chains of a
West Side Story
–style street battle gave way to guns. Killing became a way of life and gang-related murders dominated the homicide landscape. The Crips far outnumbered the Bloods, but for a reason no one could ever adequately explain, the Crips often fought among themselves, even killing each other; the Bloods usually managed to maintain a united front.
In the 1980s, with the rising popularity of crack, or rock cocaine, a simpler alternative to freebasing, the gangs moved into drug trafficking, marketing the cheap high in the lower-income neighborhoods. Rocks could go for as little as two or three dollars and the gangs profited from their semisophisticated distribution networks.
Compared to La Cosa Nostra, the street gangs of South Central had a somewhat looser organizational structure. No single person ran a set. There was no formal hierarchy within each gang, nor was there any sort of interset commission of representatives from the various sets. The leaders in each set were known as “shot callers.” More often than not, the shot callers were those with the money, the drugs, and the women. The ranking was fluid: today’s “pu-butt,” or novice member, might be tomorrow’s shot caller, if he developed a lucrative source for cocaine or performed a necessary criminal deed that advanced the gang’s stature.
When Congress became convinced of the highly addictive nature of rock cocaine, they responded with what many defense counsels believed to be draconian criminal provisions. Distribution of five grams of rock was equal in punishment to the sale of five hundred grams of powder cocaine: a minimum mandatory five years in prison. Fifty grams of rock, an amount which could easily fit in the palm of your hand, was equivalent to five kilograms of powder, roughly the size of five large Tom Clancy hardback novels. Conviction carried a minimum mandatory ten-year sentence. If the distributor had a previous felony drug conviction, it was a “double-up,” the punishment was doubled. Although I have heard sociologists attribute declining crime rates to such liberalized practices as legalized abortion, I am more inclined to believe that the federal sentencing statutes played a major role. The thirty-three gang members I eventually convicted under federal drug statutes, most of whom were responsible for at least a felony a day, were unable to commit their criminal deeds on the street while tucked away in federal prison for many, many years. And I was just one agent. Multiply my successes by the many other federal agents working gangs and you begin to understand the basis for my belief.
Tom and I began working closely with two of the best detectives I ever met—Rick and Mike. Rick was a stocky, street-smart white cop and Mike was a rail-thin African American with the fortitude of a Samurai warrior. On many a slow night, Tom, Rick, and I would station ourselves at the far end of a gang-infested housing complex. Mike would begin running through the complex, scattering drug-dealing gang members, who often ran into our waiting arms at the opposite end of the complex.
Rather than take a shotgun approach to the South Central Los Angeles gang problem, we initially narrowed our investigation to two Crip sets, the Seven-Four Hoovers and the Backstreet. We began to develop as much intelligence as possible on the most notorious members of these two gangs and identified the shot callers within each set. We also discovered who had prior felony drug convictions and who was currently believed to be distributing.
Concentrating on the drug distribution made sense. The sentencing statutes proved a tremendous incentive for cooperation with anyone we caught dealing. A strong network of informants working off beefs from a federal drug arrest would allow us to solve many crimes and possibly gain freedom for a neighborhood presently in the stranglehold of street gangs.
We created our target list and sought funds from the FBI to make a series of drug buys. Once we had our money in place, we were ready to begin. Our only problem was finding an entry into the gangs. Tom and I were white and Rick and Mike were well known as CRASH detectives.
Rick and Mike introduced us to an informant who was willing to make buys from those members we targeted. The informant, however, had a criminal record and his credibility could be attacked if called upon to testify. If we hoped to be successful and convict those members we targeted, we were going to need an undercover agent.
Although the FBI had talented black agents, many were lawyers and accountants who came from middle-class backgrounds. They were no more anxious to work undercover in South Central than anybody else. Our first attempts at using FBI agents proved disastrous: the first two agents we attempted to introduce lacked the experience to successfully pull off the assignment. In our third attempt, the informant could not get along with the agent. Finally, one Friday evening, the black informant looked at me in desperation and said—and I quote—“Leave the niggers at home. I’d rather take you in.” When I asked if he could sell it, he offered a huge smile. Thus began my undercover experiences in South Central.
The cover I developed was simple. I knew that most of the gang members we targeted stayed within the boundaries of their own gang territory and few, if any, would ever travel to “Boystown,” in West Hollywood. My story was that I worked in a tire store on Santa Monica Boulevard and sold rock to the gays. “They eat that stuff up” was my standard line. Actually, to sell my act in the tough streets of South Cental L.A., I used slightly stronger language, but you get the idea. We had an old pickup truck as our undercover vehicle. My daily attire was already pretty grubby and I rubbed grease on my hands and clothes, making sure my fingernails were filthy. I looked like I’d been changing tires all day.
The informant made the initial introduction and after that the sales came rather easily. Typically, once I entered a neighborhood, I turned away youngsters who ran up to my car, hoping to sell me rock. I’d ask for the person we had identified as being a viable target and within a few minutes he would appear. After consummating a sale, I’d leave the area. Within a half hour or so, police units would arrive in the neighborhood, not an infrequent occurrence, and conduct an FI (field identification) of the gang members congregating on the street. Our target was often milling about with the others. Rick and Mike would take photos of the gang members and maybe even pat them down, discovering the marked bills used to purchase the rock. No arrests were made, but the evidence began to mount.
PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE
S
ome nights in South Central proved more nerve-wracking than others. Late one evening while making a purchase, a drive-by shooting occurred up the block from where I was parked. The recorder I was wearing picked up the distinct
pop, pop, pop
of the firearms.
A community source identified Eligh as a prominent shot caller. He had an extensive criminal record with multiple narcotics convictions and was a major street-level distributor. He became a prime target.
Accompanying the informant late one Friday evening, we drove through the hood seeking Eligh. We came upon him and the informant introduced me. We made a quick buy and the stage was set for further business. Several nights later I returned alone and made a quick purchase. When I returned to the office to review the evidence, I realized the sale took place so quickly and with such ease there was almost no audio of any evidentiary value. The sole evidence was my testimony; the U.S. Attorney’s office would require more if we were hoping for a federal prosecution.
I decided the next purchase would have to involve more conversation. The problem was, Eligh wasn’t much of a talker. He wanted buyers and wasn’t looking to make a white man his best friend. Although the purchase prices were minimal, often just a few hundred dollars, I decided that rather than pay him in hundreds, fifties, and twenties, I’d use small bills. I planned to purchase an ounce and a half of rock, at a total cost of nine hundred dollars. I would make the payment in tens and fives, figuring I could capture Eligh counting the money on tape.
Late that evening I drove down into the heart of South Central, only a few blocks from the famous Watts Towers. I always made my purchases while remaining in the truck and had no plans of ever leaving the sanctum of the well-worn vehicle. I also kept my .38 on the front seat between my legs, available for quick access should it be necessary. As I slowly rounded the corner and made my way down the street, a young boy who had not yet reached puberty rushed the vehicle and offered to sell me drugs. I told him to get me Eligh and then get his tail home. Or maybe I didn’t say “tail.” South Central, remember?
Within moments Eligh and an associate approached the truck. I told Eligh I wanted an ounce and half and he instructed me to wait in the truck, an order I had no problem following. When he returned he demanded to see the money. I handed him seven hundred dollars in fives and tens. He handed me two clear plastic sandwich bags, each containing chunks of rock cocaine, each rock the approximate size of a baby’s tooth.