Criminals & Presidents

Donnie and I tested all the recording equipment and the transmitter. I grabbed my Smith and Wesson Model 60, off-duty revolver and stuck it in my left cowboy boot. I had the tape recorder taped to my right ankle, with the microphone wire running up my leg. We taped the microphone to my chest and I secured the UHF transmitter to my lower stomach, that no-man’s-land between your belt line and your pecker, the UHF transmitter’s microphone was taped under my beltline. I felt like a frickin’ walking sound studio; but Donnie looked me over and did a quick pat down and said he couldn’t see or feel the wires or equipment. Off I went in my IROC-Z to meet Paul. Donnie and the second ATF agent headed over to the apartment complex and set up where Donnie could see the front door of the apartment, while Beaver watched the back.

Paul met me at the door and let me in. The apartment was rank and smelled of old socks and urine. There was a girl sitting in the kitchen, she looked early twenties. She was fiddling with something on the small kitchen table, but I couldn’t quite see what she was up to and she barely acknowledged me. Paul had me follow him down the hallway to a bedroom. My gut tightened up a little, as I was fearful a pat down was coming. I was talking up a storm, being as accurate as to my location in the apartment and what we were doing so Donnie and the “cavalry” would know exactly where I was and who was in there in case I needed help.

I’m not a tall guy by any means, I’m just shy of six foot, but this guy was short. His head came up to my sternum. He wore thick glasses, had slicked-back jet-black hair with dandruff flakes, a dingy white tank-top T-shirt, and black trousers. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a 1950s gangster movie. Plus, he had an East Coast tough-guy accent, with a deep voice. A hand-rolled cigarette dangled from his lips. He squinted to keep the smoke out of his eyes. And skinny; I could see the outline of his ribs through the worn fabric of his T-shirt. His bare biceps…well, he didn’t have any bicep muscles that I could see. I started to relax; if this guy starts any shit with me, I’ll kill him if I blow too hard on him!

The bedroom really stunk; I was trying not to breathe too deeply. He was standing way too close for comfort so I stepped back a little. “What’s a matter,” he growled.

“I’m tryin’ to quit smoking, man!”

He laughed, “Yeah, me too!” That broke the ice and he asked me in that deep, smoky Jersey gangster accent, “Watcha got?”

I pulled the Treasury check out of my back pocket and held it up for him. “Nice,” he said. “A Ben Franklin up front and a Ben Franklin when we cash it. That’s the deal. Let me see the license.” I handed him my undercover Nevada driver’s license. He took a big, deep drag of the cigarette, “This’ll work just fine. And I’m going with you to cash the check. You don’t leave my sight.”

“Hey sure,” I told him, “No problem.” I followed Paul back into his living room. Paul sat down at a desk against the wall and opened the top right side drawer. From my angle I couldn’t see into the desk drawer, but he fished around and pulled out an X-Acto knife. He had a bright desk lamp attached to the desk with a clamp and he put half sleeves on his arms, the ones like an accountant wore in an old movie. I was half expecting him to pull out a green shaded visor to put on his head to finish the ensemble.

Paul had a typewriter, colored pens, stencils, and all kinds of shit on that desk. Plus, he liked to talk while he worked, so I let him go on and on about how skilled he was at making counterfeit driver’s licenses. I walked over and stood by his desk and watched him work. I made a half-assed attempt at a narration of what he was doing, for the amusement of Donnie out in the car and, more importantly, the tape a jury might hear someday down the road, if this case went to trial.

Paul was very accommodating, answering my inquisitive questions about the finer points of altering a driver’s license. All of a sudden it seemed like we were best buddies; he’d completely let his guard down and wasn’t questioning me about anything. He was focused on altering that driver’s license. “First, I gotta pull back the lamination so I can change the name,” he told me, “Then the hard part is getting the lamination stuck back on the front so it doesn’t look like it’s been fucked with.” Keep talking, Paul, just keep talking…and pull that jail door shut behind you.

Paul scraped the name off my undercover driver’s license and put it in the typewriter. He looked at the name on the check, “Pat Thomas,” he looked puzzled. “Pat,” he said again, “That’s a girl’s name.”

“Patrick,” I quickly said. “Put Patrick Thomas on the license.”

“Oh yeah,” he mumbled, “Oh yeah, oh yeah…perfect, perfect, perfect.”

While I was getting as much incriminating evidence out of Paul’s mouth as he would provide, I glanced over at the girl in the kitchen. She was shooting a syringe full of heroin in between her toes on her left foot. Wonderful. Come on, Paul; let’s get this done so I can get out of here.

Suddenly, the front door opened and I felt like I’d stopped breathing. Roland walked in with two young ladies. Two rough-looking young ladies; two very drugged up young ladies.

Roland didn’t say shit to Paul. Paul didn’t say shit to Roland. I didn’t know what to say to anybody. Come on, Paul, finish up, buddy…Let’s go!

Roland and his girls plopped down on the old, smelly couch. Finally, Paul says to Roland, “Today is payday,” and he chuckles. Roland got up and walked over toward the desk. He stood behind Paul and put his hands on Paul’s shoulders, as he peeked over to look at Paul’s work.

I looked over at the couch and one of the girls was setting up a laboratory on the coffee table. Great, more dope. Roland asked Paul “What’s the take?”

Paul said, “Two hundred bucks, baby.” Roland gave me a high five. No shit! I made a mental note to take a hot soapy shower after this deal.

Roland rejoined the drug party on the couch and casually asked if I wanted a hit.

“No, thanks, pal, my probation officer frowns on that stuff.”

Finally, Paul pushed his chair back from the desk and held up the shittiest-looking altered driver’s license I had ever seen. The font he used to change my undercover name from “Henry Detmer” to the “Patrick Thomas” was obviously way off and the ink was darker than the original. It was a piece of shit, but hey, Title 18 United States Code Section 1028 doesn’t say it has to be a good counterfeit identification document; it just has to be counterfeit. “Perfect!” I exclaimed, as I stuck the driver’s license in my pocket, “Let’s go get paid! I’m going to Acapulco!”

Paul looked up at me as the smoke from his cigarette stung his squinty eyes, “Don’t ya owe me something?”

“Oh yeah,” I said and I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill from my front jeans pocket and gave it to him, “Here you go, Paul, one hundred dollars.”

Paul walked over to an easy chair and started putting on his shoes, I walked over to the door and cracked it open just a hair. I could see Donnie, Beaver, and the ATF agents on the stoop. Paul jumped up and walked toward the door to follow me out. As I opened the door, Donnie and the guys burst in. I slipped outside and reached down to turn off the tape recorder. The Beaver stepped out of the apartment and handcuffed me. He took me off to one side and acted like he was reading me my Miranda Warning. Donnie and one of the ATF agents led the handcuffed Roland out of the apartment and put him in the back of Donnie’s car. The other ATF agent followed behind with a handcuffed Paul. Two LVMPD officers, who Donnie had called when he heard the conversation about the heroin, walked in and arrested the three girls for possession. All in all, it was a good day.