Damian Garcia: PhD Drug Smuggler

When we first met Damian Garcia, he was a street-wise man from New York City, both in spirit and attitude. Damian wore his hair long with sideburns and a mustache. He always carried a pocket watch like the railroad conductors favored, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his clothing was mostly jeans or dark pants, a shirt, and a sports coat. His body was built lean and hungry, and he walked briskly like a man on a mission.

Damian’s draft number was 69, which meant he was front line Vietnam War fodder. Damian was a peace-loving vegetarian, and dropping napalm bombs on innocent people in a foreign land that just happened to produce the finest marijuana was not on his agenda.

Damian was a fast learner and survived by instincts. Hard experience taught him to read the streets and be alert for signs of trouble. He could sense by the hairs on the back of his neck if he was being cased for a hit.

Once when Damian was walking home alone in the dark, four punks, two on each side, blocked his path. Damian kept his eyeglass case on a clip on the left side of his belt, partially hidden under his sports coat. As the punks approached, Damian casually reached his right hand across his belt, towards the left side, and put his hand on the eyeglass case.

Damian observed one punk on his right side had a six-inch, double-sided switchblade knife in his right hand. One blade had a serrated edge, and the other blade was sharp as a razor.

The punk on Damian’s left side was holding a .38-caliber revolver police special in his left hand, blued in color so it would not reflect light. This was the issued weapon that detectives and patrol officers for the New York City Police Department carried.

Damian processed this information in a microsecond, and he acted.

As Damian passed by the four punks, two who were visibly armed, he tipped his hat with his left hand, while resting his right hand across his belt on the left side.

Damian said in a tone of authority, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

He borrowed this demeanor from a popular television police show. Obviously, the four punks were not smart enough to separate fact from fiction.

The punks stopped, thought about it for a second or two, and allowed Damian to pass. Damian kept his normal pace and slightly nodded to the four punks. He had a look on his face that said, you do not want to piss me off tonight, punk!

The left-handed dude could have shot Damian in the back as he passed the punks. The right-handed switchblade punk could have stabbed Damian in the chest or back of the neck.

Damian was lucky this time.

The lessons learned were that the outside world sees only what you show them. Damian showed the four punks that he was either a wise guy or an undercover cop, and it was in their best interests to leave him alone.

With training, Damian reasoned, you could become anybody you wish the world to see you as. Your inner soul may stay the same, but you can determine your own external image. Public image can translate to strong passive security, in that who would suspect a graduate student of being an international drug smuggler and money launderer?

By flying below the radar, one avoids observation.

He lived his life in the shadows. It was safer that way...