White Death (5 page)

Washington, D.C., June 1969

Some officers asked for midnights; most of us hated them. When the bars close at 2:00 a.m., and the drunks are home by 3:00 a.m., either nothing or everything happens. No calls are routine until the city begins to awaken about 5:30 a.m. It was 3:30 a.m., and I slumped against the window trying hard to stay awake.

“Scouts 65 and 66, a shooting at 4921 Georgia Avenue, complainant refused; respond code one, 0332.”

Sitting only a block away, I acknowledged, turned the corner and looked at one of the most infamous slum buildings in the city. As I hurried around to the trunk for the first-aid kit, past images of visits here darted across my mind. There was no elevator; just an empty shaft filled with rotting garbage overrun by well-fed rats. Many rooms had no doors to the hallways, where junkies dozed and men gambled. I raced past the debris and stench, carrying a gun in one hand and a kit to save lives in the other.

Screaming from two women told me where to go. My appearance in the hallway intensified their hysteria. The victim lay on his back in front of me. He had been shot in the chest, head, left shoulder, and arm. I could get no information from the women. Working feverishly, I ripped open his shirt to close off the air gurgling through a large caliber entry wound in his chest. A request to apply pressure to slow the arterial bleeding in his left arm produced more hysteria and no help. The wailing of Scout 66 was still in the distance. I had to control that bleeding. Sweat poured down my face as I improvised a tourniquet from his torn shirt and a broken curtain rod. His pupils were of
unequal size; blood flowed from one ear.

I was losing him, and I knew it.

“Who wasted you, man?”

His breathing changed along with a slight body movement; he heard the question.

“Come on; you got to tell me who wasted you.”

Down on my knees just off his right side, I bent forward to hear any sound or word he might utter. Nothing, but another slight change in his breathing. He couldn’t talk. It was all over.

As I rocked back on my heels, the fingers of his right hand tugged at my right hand. Instinctively, I held his hand for about a minute and watched him die. His last friend was a cop who hated midnights.

The sounds of sirens and footsteps began to fill the air as I wiped a tear from my eyes. Cops don’t cry about bums wasted on a contract. I vowed to check his criminal history, just to verify he was a menace to society. Then I thought better of it and accepted the humanity of his dying. The record didn’t matter.

Johnny Yates arrived from Homicide, a friend from other such encounters and a good country boy. We sometimes frequented the same watering holes after work.

“Johnny,” I said. “You must love fresh stiffs. Good to see you, I guess. I don’t have any witness information or anything other than what you’re looking at. He pissed off somebody. Do you know him?”

“No,” he replied. “Did you notice the track marks on his arms? You could run Amtrak service on them.”

I smiled at the well-worn joke.

“Hey, you seem a little down,” said Johnny. “I’ve got just the right medicine to cheer you up. After you get some rest in the morning, can you meet me at the morgue at 6:00 p.m. sharp? Go into the side entrance on Eighteenth Street, off Massachusetts Avenue. I’ll wait for you there.”

“And how is the morgue going to cheer me up?”

“Let’s just say we’re having a special event for a new Homicide detective.”

I looked at my friend who was wearing a smug grin.

“Okay, Johnny. I’ll meet you at 6:00 p.m. for your event.”

The next afternoon I arrived a little early, parked, and saw Johnny smoking a cigarette by the entrance.

“Here’s the deal,” he began. “A few other Homicide dicks will be inside pretending to review cases, looking for something, and so on. We just walk in and do the same, ask the Medical Examiner something about this case. He’ll be lecturing the new detective on how the morgue functions, as well as some pointers about on-scene observations. Our real job is to watch.”

A large rat scurried past us as we entered. The paint on the walls appeared to be old, and the dirty institutional green clashed with the bright, stainless-steel tables. Four detectives sat at a cheap table surrounded by folding chairs, with case folders strewn in front of them. Numerous file cabinets sat with open drawers. There was no sense of organization, but I suppose the dead don’t complain.

Unknown to me, a veteran Homicide detective had stripped and climbed into an empty chamber before the newbie arrived. As the ME droned on for a while about the process, including a catalogue to track which corpses he placed in the long, refrigerated chambers, he mentioned that a new John Doe had arrived. So new, in fact, that the ME was waiting for the rigor to pass to do the autopsy. He told the rookie detective, however, that this was a formality since the decedent had been shot in the forehead at point-blank range, leaving gun-shot residue clearly visible around the small-caliber entry wound.

Make-up, of course, had been applied carefully to the detective beforehand, to simulate both the entry wound and the GSR. Becoming more enthusiastic, the ME declared this a teaching moment and directed the new detective to bend over the
corpse to look for the GSR. At that moment, the corpse became alive and, with a feral scream, reached up with both arms to pull the detective’s head down to him.

At first I gasped, then joined the others howling with laughter. The detective almost fainted and ran toward the door, cursing everybody.

The next day PT was off, and I had pulled his usual 1 and 2 beats at the lower end of Georgia Avenue, stone ghetto. Black officers generally got the beats and cruisers there because they could “relate well with the community.” The truth was that, not only did we see each other as blue; so did the community. In fact, some citizens viewed black officers as traitors in the racially charged atmosphere after James Ray assassinated Martin Luther King in 1968.

A foot beat can provide a break from the constant demands of the radio. It’s not possible to notice and appreciate small details such as interesting shops from a car. The Kennedy Street beat, for example, featured an African restaurant serving unusual and authentic foods; some were quite good. The owner liked to complain about kids running in to demand a “monkey sandwich.”

But it was 1:30 a.m., and nothing much was open except a few bars slowly beginning to empty before closing at 2:00 a.m. The beat covered sixteen blocks, and I had decided to complete two four-hour circuits. After pulling the bottom box, I turned to walk north, suffused by an intangible unease. Pilots who don’t trust their instincts don’t live as long as those who do. I stopped and looked around slowly.

Leaning against a street lamp with three of his groupie admirers was Big Red. I suppressed a momentary flash of panic. He was giant, ugly, and menacing. A shock of dirty, dull red hair was parted on one side by a scar left from a grazing bullet. The right side of his neck bore multiple scars from an earlier fight to
the death with beer bottles. Now, he was on parole for robbery and almost killing a cop with his own stick.

“You lost down here, Honky?”

“This is my beat tonight,” I replied in a measured voice.

“That means you got to take care of trouble when you find it – don’t it?”

“That’s what I’m paid to do.”

“Well, Honky,” as a single nod to his friends closed off the sidewalk. “Looks like you can’t even finish walkin’ your beat without me sayin’ it’s okay.”

Smiles and glances among the groupies confirmed the smell of fresh blood. The game continued.

“That’s fine,” I responded evenly. “You say it’s okay, and I’m sure your friends will step aside.”

“It ain’t okay, you pig motherfucker!” screamed Big Red. “Take off your badge and gun and fight me like a man.”

“Not a chance. I’m paid to wear this uniform – all of it.”

Red came off the streetlight and headed right at me. I pulled out my revolver, cocked it, and pointed it at his massive chest. He stopped just in front of me. He stunk worse than an alley dog with sewer breath.

“You wouldn’t dare shoot an unarmed man.”

“You don’t give me any choice. Besides, I have a throwaway gun in my left pocket. Everybody knows about you, Red. Nothing your friends might say later will amount to shit – and you know it. Either way, you’ll be dead with a bullet through your heart.”

“You’re bluffin’.”

“Cops have a saying you ought to know about.”

“What?”

“It’s always better to be tried by twelve than carried by six. Are you getting my message? I know for a fact that I’m goin’ home tonight. You got to decide if you’re goin’ home or to the city morgue.”

Red stared hard at me and the revolver. I watched his eyes and never moved. If he intended to lunge at me, his pupils would dilate slightly and his eyelashes would rise, signaling an attack. The longest minute of silence in the world finally passed.

Red stepped back and laughed.

“Let him pass; this Honky motherfucker ain’t worth any blood from a soul brother.”

I was bluffing about the throwaway. I was not bluffing about what I needed to do. I was going home that night.

Barranquilla, Colombia, April 1969

The lab had been operational for three months now. Through the hard work by Sterling and Gonzalez, two steady streams of base had been arriving for processing into pure cocaine hydrochloride. If one stream became a little weak, enough was available to keep operations at, or near, full capacity. Gonzales had paid the local police to keep the lab under 24-hour protection. Located in the eastern part of the city, slum dwellings—seemingly crushed against each other—surrounded the lab. Amidst the squalor, beauty existed in a few hardy weeds and flowers that needed no care. Some worked at the lab; most knew about it; all kept their mouths shut.

From the lab, a short drive west on
Avenida Centenario
, then south on
Avenida Boyaca
, took you to
Aeropuerto Ernesto Cortissos
, a modest international airfield at the southern edge of the city.

On the south side of the airport, Maria, a young woman in her twenties waited for a black van to pick her up. They drove her to a far end of the parking area where she undressed from the waist up. Handlers placed body packs of cocaine around her front in an artful simulation of late-term pregnancy, even the artistic touch of a slightly protruding belly button. Next, they taped a special bra securely to the undersides of her breasts, and all around the back. Only women with small breasts were selected. The handlers filled the front of the bra with slightly damp cocaine and molded it to produce normal-appearing, large breasts. Then, Maria was vacuumed, given a new maternity outfit, and groomed to look like a middle-class traveler going to Miami to visit relatives for a few days. Her fee was two-hundred dollars, with
the promise of three-hundred more after a successful flight – a princely sum in east Barranquilla.

In Miami, two of Marcus Sterling’s men greeted her as a “relative.” From the airport, she was whisked off to his packaging facility. There, the process was reversed. Removing the damp cocaine from her bra and breasts was done with a brush and finally with a special vacuum while she stood on a large black sheet. Maria remained in the facility as a “guest” for a few days, until it was time for her to leave. On the return trip, an armed escort “helped” her with the suitcase, normally containing about a half-million dollars.

If the cash were all hundreds, then the added weight would be only eleven pounds. Sterling and Jones, however, could never convert that much cash into all large bills, so the suitcase was heavy. Bribes in Miami ensured that the suitcase was processed just like all others, with the important exception that it was not somehow lost. All understood that a body floating in the Miami River was the price for betrayal.

Business was good. Tyrone Jones used only a handful of distributors who operated under a no-adulteration rule. He wanted to build a solid base of satisfied consumers and secondary distributors. Although he couldn’t enforce the rule down the line, everybody knew that Jones’ people had the best product. He had not underestimated the demand. Cocaine went out the door as fast as flights to Miami arrived.

Then the flights to Miami stopped coming in.

Zoila was being prepared in the usual way in a corner of the parking lot at
Aeropuerto Ernesto Cortissos
. A little younger than most, twenty at best, she had long pretty hair, a comely face, and was of indigenous ancestry. She had very small breasts and dark skin, a
morenita
. The lighter-skinned handlers teased her about her skin color and breast size. As in many countries in Latin America, skin color is a proxy for social class. Nervous from the
start, she did not take the teasing well. She was a good Catholic girl who had two children to care for, and a husband who dumped her for another woman. She needed the money.

After landing in Miami, her apprehension soared. She began to sweat. The U.S. Customs line seemed so long to a girl who had never traveled more than twenty kilometers from her home. Finally, she presented her passport and visa to the Customs agent, who was a Latina. At first, she was relieved. The few phrases in English that she had been taught were long forgotten.

“What’s the purpose of your trip?”

“To visit relatives in Miami.” The agent paused and looked up at her. Her accent was uneducated, and yet she had money for new clothes and an expensive outing of only a few days.

“When is your baby due?”

“About six weeks.”

“The father must be proud. What type of work does he do in Barranquilla?”

“He’s looking for a job.” Zoila knew immediately that it was the wrong answer; she was not working.

“So, you’re relatives here paid for the trip?”

“Yes, my uncle; he’s Cuban.”

“What business is he in?”

“I’m not sure.”

“So, your Cuban father married an Indian in Colombia. What tribe?”

“Wayuu.”

“How did your parents meet? Here in Miami or in Colombia? And what business was your father in to take him to the northern jungles?”

Zoila, sweating profusely and scarcely able to answer, felt paralyzed. The agent picked up the phone, speaking in English, said, “I’ve got one for a secondary inspection. She’s pregnant, very young, beyond nervous, and her background, clothes, and reason for coming, don’t seem to add up. Thanks.”

The agent told Zoila to go with the two men who came out of a side door, which she hadn’t noticed. They were big Americans with short hair and grim appearances. The handlers could only watch from behind the line. The raw fear made her knees buckle.

“Are you all right?” one of them asked. His Spanish was excellent. “I’ll have a nurse check you over before we ask a few questions.”

After walking inside, Zoila unleashed a torrent of remorse.

“I didn’t want to do this. I have no husband and two children to feed. They gave me two-hundred dollars, and said I would get three hundred more when I returned. I hate this stuff; it’s ruining lives in my neighborhood.” She tore open her blouse and packs of shaped cocaine fell to the floor. She ripped off her bra and yelled, “Take it!” spilling more unpackaged cocaine.

The stunned agents sat back in their chairs and watched Zoila sob. They were not about to touch her. Fortunately, the nurse arrived and took in the situation.

She led Zoila to a bathroom, cleaned her up a little, and found a blouse for her.

As she calmed down, it became apparent that she was only a classic mule. She did not know the men at the Colombian airport; she supplied one first name heard in conversation – useless. She knew nothing about what would happen to her here, only her return ticket date. The U.S. Customs Service, however, had uncovered some extremely useful information: a method. This discovery explained how nearly pure cocaine was entering east coast cities, especially Baltimore and Washington. Zoila was carrying about 3.3 kilos of cocaine. A retrospective check of records showed similar flights and passengers for about three months – which corresponded with coke’s appearance on the streets. This new information was cabled to all U.S. ports of entry in the southeastern United States.