Chapter 2: Into the Lions Den
June 24, 2006...
To the better part of Maitland and Orlando
this was just the day after the first day of summer, hot, humid and muggy. As
the locals went about their daily routines, I can assure you they were
oblivious to the “The White Power Movement” which almost took up residence
in their backyards. Their prejudiced, evil, sick minds hid behind the rhetoric
of their beliefs. However, for us this evening could possibly
contain just the right mix to become a landmark occurrence. We were exhausted; the struggle of portraying
a character that grated against everything we believed in depleted every other
part of our lives.
Tom Martin, who is now a convicted felon
because of our work and serving time for robbing drug dealers at gunpoint
dressed as law enforcement officers, was not behind bars in June of 2006. He was
a key figure in the movement and someone we were trying to get close to. When he invited me to his home for a party,
it was climatic because of that fact and served as a stepping stone in our
mission. Here was what Joe and I had been working for and the adrenaline rush
was almost more than we could handle.
We
girded ourselves for the milestone event and confirmation of our three year Metamorphosis,
transforming ourselves into the personifications that would pass muster with
this group. After all, this was the life we had chosen
and despite how draining the challenge…as an undercover operative for the FBI, durability
is a prerequisite of the role. For the past few years we had worked
these White Power groups from Michigan to Florida, Georgia, Alabama,
Mississippi and over to Texas. Our game plan was to forge a connection, to become
skilled at the lingo, while establishing a presence. The dynamics of our transition effectively
gained their trust as it encouraged friendships and opened the door to multiple
key extremist groups across the United States.
It
never ceases to amaze me that there is such hostility and hate still in our
country, and although the Declaration of Independence states “All Men Are
Created Equal,” to these words this group is stone deaf. Despite my contempt of everything the Confederate
Hammerskins stood for, they are the most racially violent group in the south
and several of them would be at the party tonight, I had to contend with the
superficial person I became. Every day I faced the battle between doing my
job as the make believe racist that I had become and suppressing my true
feelings as a law abiding moral citizen and that part of me that had to remain
quiet and dormant, while longing to be free.
I chose to use my real name for a dual
purpose, I always use my real name because my cover had never been blown to
this point and it was safe to do so. First, I must admit it was the only part
of me that I could hold on to, and I also considered it a protective measure. My concern of exposure from not responding quickly
enough to an alias was my second reason. I created and became the person that
was needed, putting true relationships on hold, alienating family and lifelong friends
as the “Gator Gletty” they all knew and faded into a racist and
anti-Semite.
As hard as it was to not let my true self interfere with my job I would have to fight it and would have to remain quiet that night because partying with the skinheads was where the FBI wanted us. We had hit the bull’s eye... this was no longer a dress rehearsal.
Joe
and I had better win an Emmy because we were literally “stepping into the
lion’s den.”As hard as it was to not let my true self interfere with my job I would have to fight it and would have to remain quiet that night because partying with the skinheads was where the FBI wanted us. We had hit the bull’s eye... this was no longer a dress rehearsal.
The skinheads always traveled in a group and
it was common knowledge and fact that safety was in numbers. It took almost two
years to build my crew in the movement, we had to build a crew of skinheads
that would travel with us to parties and around the country, and the miraculous
part was the skinheads in our crew had no idea we were undercover operatives. We carefully chose them one by one. Despite
the fact they believed in an Aryan America and the White Power movement, they were
all law abiding citizens for the most part, just convinced in their beliefs and
willing to take a stand for them.
The majority of the skinheads and Nazi's that we infiltrated were not only hatemongers and racist, but alot of them thought nothing of subjecting others to great violence, even their own members. That is why it was important to travel with a crew because other crews would want to try and show you their dominance and could snap at any given moment with actions of violence.
The majority of the skinheads and Nazi's that we infiltrated were not only hatemongers and racist, but alot of them thought nothing of subjecting others to great violence, even their own members. That is why it was important to travel with a crew because other crews would want to try and show you their dominance and could snap at any given moment with actions of violence.
We were a crew of five:
Little Joe;
my F.B.I partner and best friend, is all of 150 pounds, 5’6" Italian and a
plumber by trade. He has a heart of gold combined with enough fight to take down
an army. I always knew he had my back while I went in head first. Oh, we had
our fights, but they never lasted more than five minutes as one of us always gave
into loyalty, rather than winning the battle.
Fred;
the Phone Man, was also an F.B.I. operative, a skilled communications and
computer expert, small aircraft pilot and a master of all watercraft. He was definitely
a valued and important part of the team.
Thule Krieg;
(Kevin K.) our Handyman, had no knowledge of our affiliation with the F.B.I.
He assumed that Joe, Fred and I all shared his loyalty to the movement and their
beliefs. He was 230 pounds of sheer brute, like a pit bull, with a large head,
shoulders and chest and a smaller butt and legs and exactly what we needed. I often
paid him to accompany us, he needed
the extra cash, while I found
comfort in the extra muscle.
Ragnaar, the Educator;
(Chris W.) Ragnaar is a Florida school teacher and is
entrusted with the education of our children. He is a real intelligent person,
but it makes one wonder if he teaches his racist beliefs in the classroom on
occasion. He is about 155 pounds, medium build and I have found that he can be
trusted. Thule Krieg and Ragnaar both proved valuable, they understood the
skinhead’s mindset and beliefs. Fred, Joe, and I lacked the history and
philosophies behind the White Power movement and found comfort with the two of
them in our back pockets.
As Joe and I readied for the party we spoke
about how we were exhausted from having to hang out with these guys night after
night after night, it seemed like one never ending party. Joe and I were over
these jerks. There was nothing about this group of lowlifes that anyone would
like. They were low class and lived like pigs. Their homes crawled with roaches, while their
babies crawled on floors where spilled beer had turned to filth and slush. The
remains of cocaine on table surfaces could be found in any room. Not all of the
people’s homes that we had been in over the years were like this, but the ones
that we were trying to get close to always seemed to be in this condition.
Sometimes we would have to hang out with good law abiding and clean people that
had racist views just to build our character and credibility in the movement so
that we could get in with the criminals in the movement. Just the thought of walking through the door
of a private home that smelled like a filthy bar and a restroom that reeked
with urine was debilitating. The anticipation of listening to their demented
small talk about issues that were disgusting and larger than life added to the
mix.
We were sure this evening would be no
different and possibly even more unfavorable than most of the numerous events that we attended before. We
had bad vibes, the tension between the Nazis and the skinheads had been
escalating, and despite the fact that I was never a Nazi, they didn’t know it.
Joe and I had to hang out with the Nazi groups before we made it in with the Skinheads
and at the time we first infiltrated these groups they were both fighting
amongst each other. They fight because the skinheads have
different beliefs than the Nazi’s, but they have similar lifestyles.
Worn from listening to this crap every day,
we questioned if we had the heart to keep faking the personas of disloyal Americans. Still, we could not ignore the fact that we
were exactly where the FBI wanted us and if we played our cards right this
could be a curtain call. We knew attitude was everything and could put
a spin to any difficult situation. Tom’s party was the opportunity we had been
waiting for and the skinheads had to feel we were fully involved.
I heard a number of key players would be
attending and this was definitely an opening to impress and prove our value to
the organization. Joe and I were all fired up by our passion
and its potential. Once again we transformed back into hate mongers through
self-discipline. Our minds were infused with optimism and we also knew not to go
too far in either direction, as everything had to fall into place the first
time around. Approach was the forerunner and would set the
stage for the end result. Our loyalty for the Constitution and civil liberties
of all Americans was the silent force behind us that night.
Joe and I found solace in our unspoken
concern for each other’s safety. By the time we left the house, crossed the
driveway and climbed into my Ford Expedition, we were focused and under fire as we put our game
faces on, and we were ready for battle. We boarded the Bat Mobile and motored on to
gather our crew and head over to the party. My guys were all riled up and, as
each one boarded, the level of noise elevated. Of course Thule Krieg and
Ragnaar did not have any of the emotional baggage we carried, and their anticipation
was centered on having a good time.
We entered “five deep” to a party fully
stocked, with most of its attendees feeling no pain. I knew Joe had to be thinking
the same as me: “Thank God, it looks like the pool has recently been cleaned.” I quickly scanned a good part of the crowd
with my internal camera hoping to capture the faces of key figures from the mix
of approximately 40 faces.
Tom Martin, not to our surprise, was already
drunk and showing signs of inappropriate behavior. He was the kind of drunk
that was prone to violence and everyone who knew him tended to keep their
distance. Despite the fact that it was Tom’s party, his
behavior was secondary, I was concentrating on the copious leaders of the
skinhead movement. I took immediate notice that the main leader, Richie Myers,
was here from Orlando, Casey Woods from Ocala and Cobie Stonecypher and his buddies
from Christmas, and the Daytona crew, Brian, Jim, and Sara. Those were the most
recognizable faces present. It was definitely starting to look useful.
Then from the corner of my eye I noticed Mike
Lawrence. This was significant, Mike is one of the leaders of a misplaced
Christian identity group that associates with Hammerskins. They are definitely a core part of the
skinheads and feared because of a reputation for unpredictable and explosively
violent behavior. Mike was your average looking 170-pound man with tattoos and
glasses, but he certainly wasn’t boilerplate. After serving seven and a half
years in the federal penitentiary for bank robbery and assault, he honored the name
Hammerskins with his dangerous and violent actions.
The moment was surreal. All the key players in Central Florida’s White Power movement were here and, at this juncture, my level of confidence was high. But don’t think for one minute that I was going to let my guard down. Despite the feeling of sitting on a pedestal, I knew at any moment I might have to get back down…and, boy, was I right!
In a matter of minutes the party took on a
change of face. From cutting up around the pool and bar-b-que grills, to voices
heating up and rapidly increasing in decibels. From where we were standing it looked like
Tom Martin and Ray Perkins were not in a good place. Tom is 26 years old,
6’1" and built like a well rounded Male Hog. He had Ray, who was
half his size by the neck, had pulled a 25 caliber handgun from the crack of
his sweaty lower back, and shoved it into the pit of Ray’s stomach.
Despite the fact that everyone else had their
eyes glued on Tom and Ray, mine were watching the leaders. Most of them had served time in federal
prison for crimes of violence, manslaughter and drugs, with seven to eight
years behind them. Why was this so important? Because they were still at the
top, although they had incorporated a younger group to do their dirty work while
trying to keep their hands clean. I was sure if things escalated they wouldn’t
hold themselves back. We could be in double jeopardy and contending
with a double-edged sword. Joe and I had our hands on our weapons while everyone
was holding their breath. The next few seconds seem like an eternity and my
mind raced through thoughts like one of those flip books I made when I was a
kid. We could possibly have to shoot this creep or bring them both down.
I am a survivor and not easily defeated, but
neither the pros nor cons of this happening would be good. I couldn’t care less
if either one of these scumbags died. In fact, we would have had two less racists
on earth and that was a good thing. But, it also would have meant we’d have to
face the cops, and that was a bad thing. We would be exposed. We can’t win if we don’t continue the game
and if the investigation is over, we could be losers all the way around. Three years
of a perpetual physical and mental trial, and now here we were at a crossroad.
The scenario was not good.
This arena could have turned into a
battleground and we might have had to drop these two scum-bags and their
buddies. This situation could have a tri-fold spin. Either the Hammerskins
could attack us and rip us apart or we could have taken out the top 15
adversaries of the movement, but would the FBI have considered us heroes or
would we be arrested for multiple murders because the FBI did not back us up! We were in a quagmire, and whatever was coming, we had better be spontaneous.
With our hands on our weapons and ready for whatever
comes into play, one of the leaders breaks up the fight. A minute later, they
are shaking hands and drinking a beer and Tom Martin’s roommate, John, takes the
weapon away from Tom, and signals that the party has resumed. In
a way, I wanted to take out as many of these guys as possible. The crimes they
commit, the torture they inflict on others, and their sick racist minds do not
deserve to “Live in the Land of The Free.”
I am empowered again with the advantage of
the turnabout, and thankful that my true make-up believes in the virtue of fair
play. Unlike the skinheads who seem to thrive on violence.
Although this was what Joe and I had been preparing
for, and despite the fact that we knew their mindset, this was our first really
“uncivilized” party. It had been a wild one and was presumed to be almost over.
It wasn’t expected that anyone would do anything about this incident or begin a
fight with the leaders of the Confederate Hammerskins. The Hammerskins are like a pack of
meat-eating hyenas. Compared to my crew of Thoroughbred Horses, I realized that
we were out of our element, and we had better keep our eyes open and adapt very
quickly.
Before I could clear my head of that thought,
Tom went at it again. He approached Casey, one of the local leaders, and
unloaded a right, then left, into his face. It registered very quickly that the
violence was not over as the group yelled, “Assassination!” All together they
unloaded on Tom. Thank God, my main character strength is the ability
to mimic instantly and adapt on my feet. With a demented grin on my face, I
yelled “Assassination!” in sync with others and tackled Tom and threw him in the
pool. I knew if we were going to get through this night unharmed, I would have
to follow the pack.
Everyone stripped down to his underwear and
Richie Myers screamed, “I’m going to kick his ass.” I followed suit,
dropped my shorts down to my athletic spandex underwear and, as always, knew
Joe would have me covered. My power was to keep the upper hand. I knew I could
outwit most of them. If I chose my battles wisely and kept cautiously in the
middle, hopefully I would remain in one piece. So I jumped in, dodging the heads and fists
of the twenty men already in the pool, and started kicking Tom’s ass. We held
him under and only pulled him out when he was on the brink of drowning. Richie
then bounced him around the pool deck like a punching bag.
What actually happened next was so disgusting
that I almost omitted it from the manuscript, but I hoped that whoever reads
these words would understand the importance of taking these animals down. Standing over Tom’s nude body, they rubbed
their anuses over his face and put their testicles in his mouth while taking
pictures. I remember thinking, “If this is what they do to their own, I
couldn’t imagine what they would do to someone who is not a member of the White Race, or disagreed with their
views.” Then in Cave Man style they dragged him into an ant bed. This Big 300-pound
Bad Ass Skinhead was
crying like a baby.
Ironically, about two months prior to this,
Tom Martin was arrested by the FBI for mercilessly beating a black bathroom
attendant. He was charged as a racial hate crime suspect because of the racist
tattoos on his body. He has a large tattoo of Adolf Hitler on his chest and
various others including KKK is the way, a black man hanging from a cross and
several that are popular among the white power followers. Agent Kevin Farrington, my handler in the
FBI, visited him while he was in the holding cell and offered a deal if he
became an informer for the FBI. In the back of Agent Kevin’s mind, he knew that
I was close to these guys or at least about to infiltrate them. Tom responded
“Oh, fuck you, and I ain’t doing shit .”
Now, there are probably a couple of things
you should not do in this situation and the most important is not to tell an
FBI agent to “fuck off” when he is trying to give you help. So
Kevin responded, “Okay, I’ll see ya,” and walked out. Kevin arranged for Tom’s
charges to be dropped because he was sure that I was going to take these guys
down very soon and possibly get Tom on even greater charges. FBI Agents are very proud and egotistical
when it comes to their jobs, so it becomes an ego trip when they offer you help
and you deny it. Then down the road you meet again, after being arrested, and
they tell you “No, thanks.”
To
them, that is Priceless!!!!!
As we were beating him down, he cried out, “I
don’t want to go to jail.” He had no idea the charges had been dropped, but I
did and I loved watching him suffer as he cried. Finally the group backed off
when he was almost unconscious.
Neighbors looked from afar and, by their pallid faces, you would think that
they had never seen this before. Of course, Joe and I were only acting and the
voice of responsibility kept us strong. We may have been successful at
sidestepping a difficult issue, because avoidance was not a viable strategy,
and this proved to be
a test of our skills. Forced to act like we were used to violence, we made a
smooth transition back to the party, as if nothing strange had just occurred.
We jumped back in the pool. Everyone was swimming
and having a good time. This hot summer night we took a physical and emotional
ride. We had been on an adrenaline rollercoaster and wanted more.
Going with our instincts and spontaneity
proved to be a safety net…until some of the girls started yelling, “The cops
are here, six deep; the cops are here, six deep!”
End of chapter 2. Contact us if you would like chapter 3 and 4.
