The Last Undercover (43 page)

I never quite understood Paul. He denied ever having a sexual relationship with a boy as young as the boys he was describing, but his “grooming” technique and his words appeared to be describing a slow, methodical seduction through trust. Whether he knew it or not, he was following the same strategy espoused by many pedophiles—the grooming method employed by Sam Lindblad and others.

Paul said, “But [the boy] knew what this was kind of all about. . . . I don’t know if he was certain in his own mind that I was gay, because I haven’t really approached him that way. But he knew there was something going on. So I don’t know if he was afraid to try to bring things up like that. And it ended before it got to that point. It was like a period of six weeks.”

David brought the conversation back to the imminent trip with a question about the boys. “Who selects who, for whom?” When I said I thought the boys had already been matched, based upon the age of preference each had stated, it allowed me to review that element of the offense. I could make it clear for the evidentiary cameras that each of my traveling companions knew this was an opportunity to have sex with juveniles.

David joked that his age preference was “twenty-seven.” I looked at Todd and he said, “Ten to twelve.” I then looked at David and said, “Ten to twelve?” David agreed: “Right.” And, as they both had previously requested, I added, “And anal sex, if they’ll do it.” Both Todd and David concurred and were pleased the boys were willing to provide anal sex.

David was surprised when Todd requested boys that young. Todd explained, “I started out twelve to fourteen, then it was eleven to thirteen.”

Paul answered the question: “Eleven to thirteen—eleven, twelve, thirteen.”

When pressed as to what the others desired, I said “Sean” wanted twelve to fourteen, but that I was uncertain about the others’ tastes.

We joked about David R. Busby, and I explained to Paul the entire story behind Greg Nusca’s alias, repeating our encounter at Johnny Rockets in Coconut Grove. We also used this opportunity to review for Paul how David had arrived at his monikers for the various members who attended the Miami conference. David mentioned how Steve Irvin, the special education teacher from Pittsburgh, who would arrive later that evening in Los Angeles, was “sooo funny, he just literally—we were out having breakfast. . . . Truly like the CIA, he slips me a note [about wanting to go on a trip]. . . . He’s cute.”

I told Paul how we had trouble with his mother screening his calls, preventing Todd and David from getting through. David pointed out that I was the only one who was able to get past her. David told Paul if I had not gotten through, Paul “wouldn’t be sitting here.” In words I hoped he would soon have cause to regret, Paul said, “Yeah, I’m glad you guys are persistent. . . . I wonder how she knows, how she can have a sixth sense of that stuff?”

David said, “Well, I probably should not have asked her if you were out on a date with a six-year-old boy. . . . You know, ‘Is he in that park with that six-year-old again? Exposing himself. When he’s done, can you have him call me?’ I have no idea if that upset her or not.”

The subject turned to Sam Lindblad, and I became wary. I was in no condition to joust with Todd or David and knew that it was still possible for them to withdraw from the conspiracy. I needed to reassure everyone that Sam’s attendance on the boat would not be a problem. I told them he was not on probation or parole, nor was he under state-imposed monitoring of any kind. I also said that under New Mexico law, he was not required to report that he was leaving the state, especially for such a short period of time.

Although David assured me he liked Sam, he repeated why he and James, “the future first lady,” voted against him as a steering committee member: “The future first lady and I were the only two that didn’t want him elevated, because we didn’t want the notoriety. We were both concerned that as a sex offender . . . that this was just not gonna look real good for us.”

A true sense of satisfaction ran through me and I had to conceal a smile when David said, “You know, obviously, I mean on a serious note, there should be some sort of . . . background check on us . . . make sure that we’re not, you know, the FBI or police or something.”

Growling stomachs prevailed over more discussion of NAMBLA politics, interfering law enforcement, or trysts with underage boys. David led the parade to the door as I unplugged the heating pad that so conveniently kept them on camera. Their luggage remained in my room and we headed to lunch.

The rain subsided long enough for us to get to my car, but “America’s Finest City” was experiencing one of its wettest winters in history, and I feared that each raindrop was hollering to my travelers, “Cancel the boat trip.” I knew the forecast called for continued showers well into the week but maintained an optimistic façade, claiming the weathermen had difficulty predicting the weather more than a day in advance because of ever-changing offshore conditions.

I excused myself when we reached our table in the restaurant, and when I returned from the restroom, Todd and David told me the three of them decided to exchange boys each night and asked if I wanted to participate. They reasoned that it would enhance the experience if, over the four-night stay, they had four different boys, offering a variety not available from spending the entire trip with the assigned boy. I agreed to participate in the exchange and complimented them on their ingenuity. One more nail for the coffin.

During lunch, Paul excused himself several times to go to the restroom and complained of not feeling well. He blamed the long trip and the nutritional supplements he had taken without sufficient food in his stomach. At the time, we thought little of his complaints, and David suggested it was probably an accumulation of stress and excitement over the upcoming experience.

We finished lunch and I suggested a short trip by car through the downtown area prior to returning to the hotel so I could resume my warm compress treatment on my arm. The damage from the IV was real; the massive bruising on my arm and nearly rock-solid veins at the injection sites had an authenticity that could not have been recreated by a Hollywood makeup artist. My need for resuming the compresses was authentic, but convenient as well.

We drove past the convention center and Petco Park, the home of the San Diego Padres. As we drove through the historic Gas Lamp District, Paul interrupted our conversation, saying he had to go to the restroom immediately. I pulled in front of the Marriott, and he raced in. The three of us remained in the car. Todd and David commiserated over Paul’s health. In my mind, I was questioning the legal consequences should he be too sick to board the boat in the morning.

Paul eventually returned to the car, and we headed back to the hotel, where he could rest and I could resume my compresses. As the rain continued to fall, I wondered if all of my traveling companions might not back out of the trip. Would a combination of inclement weather and upset bowels undermine the case I had so carefully built over the last several years?

44

SPRINGING THE TRAP

A
t last, Paul’s and Todd’s rooms were ready. Paul rushed to his with a look that said he would be hugging the porcelain throne for most of the afternoon. David and Todd joined me in my room as our videotaped conversation continued.

David returned to his discussion about his travels to Thailand. He went into more detail about the boy bars, where, he said, the boys “were just strolling . . . like a runway type of thing. ‘I’ll take one of those, I’ll have one of those. . . .’”

In response to a question from Todd, David said, “Variety is the spice of life,” and indicated that he had had more than one boy simultaneously “a couple of times.”

In an exchange that sickened me, David complained of the ever-present cigarette smoke he encountered overseas. David said, “I really despise cigarettes. I hate the smell of them. . . . Even the kids were smoking at ten or eleven. . . . Well, it was a turnoff and . . . I’m sitting there . . . lecturing him about smoking at ten or eleven, but I’m [having sex with] him also.”

When I said, “Well, but smoking will kill you,” Todd replied, “The other one just gives you hemorrhoids.”

“A little surgery, you’ll be fine,” David responded.

Todd said, “Just rectal incontinent later on, but —”

“Don’t worry about it,” David interrupted, “you’re young.”

Todd: “You’ll shit in your pants when you’re twenty-two, but that’s all right.”

David: “We’ve got diapers. There’s people we put into adult diapers. . . . We’ll ship some over from the States. Yeah, it’s really not that big a deal.”

It was a conversation that would almost guarantee conviction, if played before a jury.

The rest of the afternoon’s topics ranged from deep to light. At one point, I tried to lead the discussion toward whether boy lovers could be cured. David never responded directly, but did say, “Life certainly would be a lot easier if I was heterosexual. . . . Life would be a piece of cake . . . but that’s not the case.”

Todd asked about favorite TV stars, asserting that David’s was Haley Joel Osment. I went with my standby—“Ricky Schroder,
Silver Spoons
” —and Todd responded with a breathy, “Oh, yeah. Mm-mm!” Then Todd talked about a commercial he saw on TV before his flight left: “This morning, I saw a Sylvan Learning Center commercial while I was eating breakfast, and I just about fell out of my chair. This boy on, I guess a national commercial—you have to see it! I replayed the thing, slowed it down, and froze it.”

In one final admission of guilt, Todd responded to my comment that I didn’t think what we were about to do in Mexico should even be considered criminal. Todd said, “Well, by society’s standards, about as criminal as it gets. But, we still feel good about it. Sadly enough, if you go to prison for doing what we’re about to do, you’re viewed as being just about as despicable as it can get. You know, in prison, [among] the prison population, you’re lucky to come out alive.”

The rain continued, making even a drive to a restaurant for dinner a fool’s mission. We decided to dine downstairs and remain close in case Paul needed us. We had a leisurely dinner with little, if any, criminal conversation and headed back to our respective rooms preparing for tomorrow’s “life-changing experience.”

That evening I contacted my Los Angeles case agent and learned that Sam Lindblad, Dick Stutsman, Steve Irvin, and Greg Nusca, aka David R. Busby, had arrived in L.A. and had met with other undercover agents posing as fellow travelers and travel agency personnel. In fewer than twelve hours, we would learn the success of the undercover operation.

I
t was another restless night. I never got more than one or two hours of sleep at a stretch. I kept replaying the investigation over and over in my mind—how it all began, where it led, and what insights I gained. I also rehearsed what would happen in the morning. The Los Angeles arrests were scheduled for 6:00
AM
, when the travelers there boarded the boat. I had to wait until 10:00
AM
, the four-hour difference supposedly being the time it would take the boat to travel from L.A. to San Diego. I was worried that those four hours just allowed that much longer for David, Todd, or Paul to withdraw from the conspiracy.

It rained throughout the night, at times pounding on the sliding glass door that connected my room to the balcony. No person in his right mind would board a boat for a casual cruise to Ensenada in this weather! There was nothing I could do but perhaps have a suitable alternative available, should they balk at taking the boat.

I decided to make a preemptive strike and offer to drive everyone across the border in a rental car. My reasoning would be that it would be more difficult for the authorities to trace us in a rental car, and as long as we remained calm while being questioned—if in fact we were questioned—we would merely be tourists. It seemed like a plausible solution and possibly the only one I had. I also believed it would still circumstantially demonstrate the firm desire these men had to travel to Mexico in order to engage in sex with minors. Of course, getting on a boat in inclement weather might also make the same point to a jury.

I spoke with my Los Angeles case agent early Saturday morning and learned that all four L.A. travelers had been taken into custody without incident as they were about to board the boat. Jeff Devore would be arrested later in the day, on the charge of distributing child pornography.

Before parting ways with Todd and David Mayer the night before, the three of us set a time to meet for breakfast. As I made my way into the dining room, which also held numerous FBI surveillance agents, I was pleased to see David, Todd, and Paul, who was back among the living and ready to join us on the journey. I was wearing a bright, multicolored shirt given to me by a friend from Africa. It seemed festive and made me easily identifiable should the arrest scene turn into chaos. David, however, had outdone me in the selection of his ensemble for the day: his pink short-sleeve shirt and lime green pants were over the top. Together, we made quite the fashion statement.

We engaged in light conversation throughout breakfast, joking about being part of next year’s NAMBLA Christmas card project and naming our favorite prison songs. Todd was absolutely giddy, like a schoolgirl preparing for her first prom. I told the group that I had spoken to Sean, and he was on the boat heading south for San Diego with the other travelers; in other words, all was right with the world, even as the rains continued. When I offered to drive the group across the border, everyone balked, suggesting it was too dangerous. They were clearly ready to board the boat, regardless of the weather.

We agreed to meet in the lobby, check out, and head over to the boat ramp for the 10:00
AM
pick up. As we were waiting for everyone to complete the checkout process, I took a prearranged call from my “friend,” a final piece of stage business. I relayed his “message” to the others: the boat was nearing the dock. David remarked that it was right on time, and I headed to my car.