The Last Undercover (39 page)
With the CIA passing and the FBI in a hiring freeze, I knew I needed to find a job. I would be out of the Marine Corps on August 15 and the summer was quickly coming to an end. I finally accepted a position in Los Angeles with a small broadcasting company. The exact job description was never completely spelled out, but my enthusiasm for the position was still less than what the employer deserved.
My parents came out to California the second week of August for vacation and stayed in our tiny three-bedroom home. During the job search, I was frustrated with my wife. I really didn’t want to take the L.A. job and wanted her to understand. She enjoyed being the wife of a Marine and secretly wanted me to stay in. She was frustrated with me because after six years of marriage—two while I was in law school and four while I was an attorney in the Corps—I was now making an about-face on the job front. Although I wouldn’t characterize our talk that evening as an argument, it is fair to say we each expressed our frustrations with the other.
We were letting my parents stay in our bedroom. My wife slept with our one-year-old daughter in the spare bedroom and I slept on the couch. That night, before going to bed, I gave it all up to God: “Okay, God, I really don’t want to take this job in L.A. The pay’s good, so your 10 percent will be more than if I got the CIA job or the Bureau hired me, but I really don’t want to do this. I’ll leave it in your hands, but I sure wish the FBI or the Agency would call.”
The next morning, I was—how can I put it?—seated in the place where I do most of my best reading, when the phone rang. My wife answered, then hollered into the bathroom that it was for me. We were selling our VW van to another Marine at the time, and I assumed that was what the call was about. I yelled, “It’s Larry; tell him it’s five thousand dollars.” She then cracked open the door and said, “It’s the FBI.”
As quickly as possible I ran to the phone. I was told a spot had just opened in the September academy class and was asked if I could report by September 17. There was no hesitation in my response.
God truly answered my prayer with that phone call. I reflected often on that evening in those frustrating days when the legal and administrative hurdles seemed overwhelming. I am convinced God had a purpose in putting me in the FBI. Maybe it was to expose the boy lover agenda—or just to get a few bad guys off the street.
W
hen I next spoke with David Mayer, I had to raise an issue that concerned me. Going into the conversation, I felt as if I were walking on eggshells. Sam Lindblad committed to the trip, and he was one of several persons David did not want me to invite, fearing Sam’s three-time-loser status and recent release from prison might put him and everyone with him on the law enforcement radar screen. Knowing what I knew about his activities since his release, I wanted Sam arrested. I was concerned, however, that David or Todd would learn from one of the others Sam was coming and react badly, jeopardizing the cohesiveness of my group of targets. It made more sense for them to hear it from me rather than through the back door, which would likely arouse even more suspicion.
I presented it to David Mayer and the others as “good news, bad news.” The good news was we had ten travelers; the bad news was I invited Sam and he accepted. David was not thrilled with the news, even if it meant our group was at ten and it included Dick Stutsman. David said, “My heart bleeds for him. . . . There, but for the grace of God, goes each of us.” Nevertheless, David’s knowledge of the law and experience counseling registered sex offenders made him very uncomfortable with Sam accompanying us. Had I gone too far? Would David back out and take Todd with him? Would my greed destroy the investigation? I quickly went into my reassuring sales pitch, and even though the topic would reemerge, David seemed to be somewhat at ease by the end of our conversation.
Despite his misgivings about Sam, David was pleased so many would be joining us, referring to the trip as a mini-convention, minus “Peter, Tim, and the insane.” David even questioned whether he was still in NAMBLA. He had not heard from Peter or the organization, nor had he received a
Bulletin
since the conference. He thought Peter might have kicked him out.
We spoke more about his sexual travel adventures. In the Thailand “boy bars” he saw a five-year-old working, and in Mexico, he told me, he did not tip for specific sexual favors. Instead, he would pay for meals in exchange for sex and tip fifty to seventy-five dollars for several days and nights of nonstop company. He described some of his adventures as “one-night stands” and others as “one-hour stands.”
As was typical of all our conversations, the criminal admissions rolled off his tongue. It just seemed too easy. Was I the subject of some study by the Department of Health and Human Resources or maybe David’s doctoral dissertation?
I was still struggling with health issues including a nagging cough, sore throat, and insomnia. At this point, even two or three hours of uninterrupted sleep was a lot. I would wake thinking of the dozens of individuals we were targeting and the particular issues surrounding each of the three undercover investigations. Keeping it “real” in my undercover role, I mentioned the sore throat to Todd and David in an e-mail, using it as an excuse to beg off scheduled three-way phone calls. This provided a convenient dodge, because at this point in the investigation, each contact meant one more opportunity to lose the case rather than win it. The evidence was there; the only nail left for the coffin was the pedophiles’ arrival on the West Coast, confirming their intent. A slip in a phone conversation or e-mail could mean our whole house of cards tumbled. I wanted to avoid that if possible—especially given my deteriorating health.
Just to keep the channels of communication alive and not arouse suspicion, on February 1, I sent an e-mail to Todd and David detailing a dream that never occurred.
I have to tell you about a funny dream I had last night. I dreamed we bought the B and B in Mexico. David was working the front counter and Todd was practicing dentistry in one of the rooms. I said to Todd, “You don’t have a license,” and he said he was licensed in Texas. I said, “This is Mexico.” Todd said that Texas used to be part of Mexico so he could still practice. We decided to have our fall conference at the B and B but didn’t invite Peter. Then I woke up. By the way, I got my voice back. Sorry, guys, but it looks like I’m gonna live . . . Daddy
Later that day, David responded.
Daddy Dearest,
I would have written sooner, however, I was so distraught at the thought of your terminal, er, sore throat, that I went out and started buying lots of black ensembles—in cashmere, along with a few trinkets from Tiffany’s. Just in case I needed to wear something to a memorial service, & for the probate reading (you do have the correct spelling of my last name? Do you need a Social Security #?) . . . however, with your full recovery . . . which of course, I cannot begin to tell you how thrilled I am about that . . . I will have to return all my items . . . including the new BMW. . . .
I will try and call Paul tonight and see how he is doing. Remember, all of this is very overwhelming for him . . . this is someone who has never been on an airplane! Anything new with “David” . . . has he heard from the future first lady?
Got to run—talk to you this week.
David
Todd also replied.
I would love to own a B and B. I’ll leave my dental equipment behind in Dallas this trip, but next time I could bring my stuff and you guys could be my assistants. This could augment the modest income the boys would bring in. . . . I could sing on the side and . . .
I spoke briefly to Greg Nusca, aka David R. Busby, one more time before the February 12 trip. On January 30, he called to say the travel agency received the application. He again expressed his excitement and appreciation for being invited.
The chickens were all coming to roost. Now, if I could just keep it together long enough to close the door to the chicken coop. . . .
KEEP THOSE PLATES SPINNING
O
n February 1, I experienced one of those moments that can happen to an undercover agent while participating in multiple operations. In addition to posing as a NAMBLA member and an international arms merchant targeting Chinese, Russian, and Iraqi organized crime figures, I was the undercover agent in a San Diego investigation of Vietnamese drug traffickers. That afternoon, I was negotiating a crystal methamphetamine transaction with the Vietnamese. I was between meetings, sitting in a parking lot with my San Diego case agents, when the phone rang. I assumed it was my Vietnamese target and prepared to record the call.
To my surprise, it was Dick Stutsman from South Carolina. The call was pure dynamite, erasing any defense he might even hope to mount during a trial.
Dick was a talker and I let him talk. Maybe my ego should have been bruised, but he didn’t remember me from the Miami conference. With only seventeen members present and me having actually talked with him on several occasions, you would have thought I would have made an impression. Apparently not.
Dick was going on the “fishing trip,” he said, but he was scared. “I can’t resist temptation, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Back in the mid-eighties, I was the target of a sting operation. So I’m a little bit hypersensitive to the possibility that this is a sting operation. . . . Even if there is a one chance in a thousand that it is, it really wouldn’t be worth the risk.”
When I responded by telling him I wasn’t sure I would back out knowing the odds were that much in my favor, Dick said, “If you do something this risky a thousand times in your life, you’re gonna get caught. . . . I don’t want to lose my freedom. . . . I’m almost sixty and something like this could just ruin the whole rest of my life.”
I expressed my appreciation for his caution and said that if I did not completely trust my friend, “Sean,” I would not be going on the trip either.
Dick continued to express his concern. As part of the NAMBLA pen-pal and holiday card program, he corresponded with twenty prisoners, many of whom were incarcerated through various sting operations. In a conversation that was almost unbelievable, Dick said,
You know that Bush passed a law that modified and made stronger the law that Clinton passed in ’94. Bush signed a law in 2003 that further criminalizes people going overseas to do stuff illegal that might even be legal there. . . . Apparently, though, the way sting operations work, you don’t actually have to commit the crime. You only have to have exhibited intent. So now, here’s a scenario. Somebody is going to offer a . . . let’s say a sex tour. And you send them a deposit check with your signature on it. And they get on the phone with you, and they ask what kind of person would you like to have sex with? You specify, “Well I’d like . . . a fourteen-year-old kid, maybe.” Now, you’ve expressed intent to commit a crime. I think that might be all that’s necessary in a sting operation. So then, we all gather at, say, some meeting place, where other people have [sic] similarly have been invited and have the same kind of thing, and we all write checks for the rest of the amount. And while we’re all there, a paddy wagon drives up, and we all get on it. We’re all under arrest. I can see that . . . that’s why I’m scared. . . . If I were a member of the Justice Department who wanted to catch people like this, this is how I would do it . . . ten people at a time. That’s still gonna make the news, and it’s gonna get votes for the administration.
Dick Stutsman had just written our operation order! Amazing! He laid out the entire undercover proposal. Would he still succumb to temptation?
I needed to get going, because I had to return to my Vietnamese drug dealers. I told Dick I was in the middle of a real estate transaction and had to go to the bank to sign escrow papers, but I promised to call him back that evening.
He said he had one more horror story he would tell me when we spoke later in the evening, but before he hung up he wanted to read me an article he found on the Internet while researching this subject. The article was entitled “U.S. Law Enforcement Targets Child Sex Tourism.”
Dick began,
On April 30, 2003, President Bush signed into law the Protect Act aimed at strengthening U.S. law enforcement’s ability to prevent, investigate, prosecute, and punish violent crimes committed against children. Many of the provisions of the Protect Act focus on protecting children within the United States, but the new law also reaches well beyond U.S. borders to protect young people and combat child sex tourism. Since the law was enacted, eight U.S. residents have been placed in federal custody on charges of child sex tourism. U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), the largest investigative arm of the Department of Home-land Security, conducted the investigations leading to these arrests. In addition to the indictments brought under the new provisions there are many more investigations in the works, ICE spokesman Dean Boyd told the blah, blah, blah . . .
Dick didn’t finish reading the article to me, but he made his point. We said our good-byes with a promise to speak later in the evening.
Undercover agents love the thrill, the chase, and the confrontation. Dick’s call made the endgame of this investigation even more exciting. Entrapment wasn’t an issue, but successfully convincing him to join me on the “fishing expedition” was a challenge—and I love a challenge.
I rushed to my meeting with the Vietnamese, refocusing and putting on my drug dealer game face. My target spoke in detail about his involvement in a previous drug deal I did with one of his associates. From surveillance, we knew of his participation, but his admissions on tape insured his indictment when the investigation was complete.
Returning to the office, I completed my paperwork on the drug negotiation and prepared for my second call with Dick. I retreated to a large conference room in the San Diego office and closed the doors. Most of the agents had gone home for the evening, but I shut off the overhead paging system and made the call. Once again, the call produced more than any prosecutor could hope for. For an hour and ten minutes, Dick continued to paint himself into the corner, just as he had begun in the earlier call.