Tales of a Tall Mexican,
a US Special Agent memoir
by Mark Supple/Marcos Sucre
Prologue
Using my undercover name as my pseudonym, I chronicle how a number-crunching, cubicle-dwelling, Spanish-speaking guy with no law enforcement experience, changed careers to work as a US Treasury Special Agent in Baltimore, then transferred agencies to have a variety of investigations worldwide, ending up in Islamabad, Pakistan.
The name “Tall Mexicans” came about when three Mexican American Special Agents, one from the FBI at 6’5”, another from the US Secret Service at 6’3”, and I at 6’0”, were chatting in a hallway during a conference. Another agent walked by and remarked, “Damn, you’re tall Mexicans.” The name stuck.
Some names have been changed to protect the innocent and placate the guilty. I have also taken some literary liberty in some details. For the sake of brevity and simplicity, some of the persons mentioned are composites of several individuals. But all the investigations and events described in my memoir happened. Enjoy!
Chapter 1 – FNG
“Alpha 939, get up here, NOW!” my supervisor’s voice crackled through my undercover car radio summoning me. Three days fresh out of training, in my first search warrant of a drug smuggling investigation, my Mexican Catholic upbringing reared its ugly head, as my heart sank.
“I must be guilty of something,” I assumed as that could be the only reason my boss, would call for me. “Why else would I be called? After all, I was the FNG, (Fucking New Guy).”
As I walked dejectedly across the building complex towards the apartment where Vince, my boss, summoned me, my mind went back a couple of days. That Monday, I reported at the historic, white granite Beaux-Arts style US Customshouse building, located one block from the inner Harbor in Baltimore, Maryland. It was my first day at the US Customs Service Special Agent in Charge (SAC) office after returning from Special Agent/Criminal Investigator training at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center or FLETC (pronounced ‘phlet-see.’)
Vince was about 5’9”, of Italian heritage, with black hair and a mustache. He was my supervisor for the US Customs Service Office of Investigations in Baltimore and was the first to welcome me back to the office from training,
"Good job on getting the academic achievement and sharpshooter awards at FLETC. The SAC (boss) always likes that. Makes him look good. But remember, FLETC is all pretend." Vince counseled, "You're starting the on-the-job training part, working in the mean streets of Baltimore. So be safe, keep your head about you, and learn from the other agents."
“Yes sir,” I replied.
Vince then added, "We are conducting a controlled delivery of 19 kilos of cocaine on Wednesday. Bob is the case agent. I want you to be in the search warrant operation. Your job will be to keep your eyes and ears open…and your mouth shut,’ He asked me in Italian, “Capice?”
I nodded understanding.
Vince went on, “Your radio call sign is ‘Alpha 939’. You were issued your weapon with magazines and ammo at FLETC, right?” Vince asked.
“Yes,” I answered as I continued nodding my head.
“Good, get with Bob and help him, but first get your G-ride (undercover car) and supplies from the front office.” Vince pointed to a blue bulletproof vest in a corner of his office and slid a property document across his desk for me to sign, “Your Kevlar vest got here while you were gone. Sign here…and welcome back.”
“Thanks!” I said as I left Vince’s office with my new equipment and headed to the front office.
After signing out for my car and other issued equipment, I headed downstairs to the building’s fenced parking lot and found my assigned G-ride. A beige, four-door, 1986 Ford Taurus, was the oldest car in the office fleet, but it looked like a brand-new car to me. It even had an undercover radio transmitter inside the glove compartment! I placed the vest in the back seat before heading back upstairs to the office.
I already knew Bob from before FLTEC, after helping him on a couple of cases, because of my native fluency in Spanish. A fluency I developed after being raised in Mexico City, where I lived until I was 16 years old when I returned to the US.
Bob was about my age and height, mid 30’s and 6 feet tall. He was fit, with dark blond hair, and a beach-type look, with a quick smile. When I walked into the conference room, Bob looked up and said, "Welcome back Mark! How was flea-tech?”
I looked at Bob, not quite understanding.
“FLETC,” he explained.
“Good” I replied.
“Glad to hear you didn’t get kicked out! “Bob joked and continued, “Vince wants you in the controlled delivery of the 19 kilos of cocaine. I have a special place just for you.”
Smiling, Bob showed me a hand-drawn map of a large apartment complex that showed the location of the controlled delivery. The map had a rather large notation with a big arrow. Bob pointed at the letters “FNG.”. I noticed that the letters were at the furthest point in the apartment complex, two buildings away from where the operation would be happening. Bob said, “That’s your location for the warrant.”
“What’s FNG?” I asked.
“Don’t they teach you anything at FLETC?” Bob rhetorically asked, “It’s not what…it’s who. You’re so new that you don’t even know what an FNG is.” He went on, looking exasperated, “It stands for Fucking New Guy and that’s you!”
“Ah,” I slowly pulled my head back as I realized what Bob was saying. However, just back from FLETC, it did not bother me as I did not expect anything else. After all, I was new to the law enforcement world, and I was expecting some razzing. My feelings were not going to get hurt.
Bob cautioned me, “Remember this is real life and not FLETC,”
I nodded.
He added, “And don’t touch anything!”
The next day, Bob briefed me and about 20 agents from a joint task force including the US Customs Service, the Drug Enforcement Administration, and the US Postal Inspection Service at the office meeting. Bob summarized his investigation, "Miami Customs mail facility found a package with 19 kilos of cocaine coming in from Panama. It's addressed to an apartment in Oxon Hill, Maryland. A woman lives in the apartment, last name "Smith." Her son, who just flew in from Panama City, Panama, is staying with her." Bob went on to describe the two individuals and showed some pictures.
Bob then described the operation, "They live in a large apartment complex, where we'll stand out doing any surveillance, so we will use a postal van for the entry team to get close in without attracting too much attention. It’s going to be simple. A Postal Inspector will drive a postal van and deliver the package with the cocaine to the apartment. Once the package is open in the apartment, it will set off the trip wire transmitter. When we get that signal, I’ll give the word for the entry team to come out of the van and go into the apartment and arrest the occupants. Once the apartment is secured, the search can start. We want to find any information that will help us nail the source and the destination of the cocaine. I suspect that mom and son are just the mules, someone else will be the ultimate destination. Any questions?” Bob looked around. “None, OK. Good luck,”
I was about to get up from my seat when I heard Bob’s voice and sat back down.
“By the way, we have an FNG just back from FLETC. This is Mark’s first time,” Bob smiled as he added, “…so be gentle with him.”
The fun began as one of the senior agents warned, me "You are not to even think about drawing your weapon from your holster unless you first verify with the paramedics on-scene that the rest of the team is dead."
Another agent wondered out loud, “Should FNGs be issued only one bullet?”
“Yeah,” A third agent added, “And that bullet must be in their shirt pocket!”
Everyone laughed.
I was mortified, but excited at the same time. On my third day back from basic special agent training and I was about to go in a real-life controlled delivery of 19 kilograms of cocaine!
But now, climbing up the stairs of the apartment building where Vince had called me and where the raid happened, everything seemed a long distance from my feeling at the top of the world on my first day back from FLETC. I had it in my mind I was about to get fired not knowing why. Trying to figure out how I screwed up, a thought occurred to me, “I was at the wrong location!”
While going up another flight of stairs to the apartment, I searched for the map showing my assigned location to no avail. I had left it in the car. Picturing in my mind Bob’s map with the FNG notation, I thought, “I was at the wrong place. That’s why Vince called me! I’m going to be the example to all future FNGs not to screw up on their first assignment.”
I climbed up the last flight of stairs to the apartment, where the door was open. I walked into the apartment looking like a puppy with his tail between his legs. This was where the end of my very brief career in law enforcement loomed. I noticed a lot of commotion. Another agent, who was waiting for me, told me to stand by.
Standing by the door, I began to ponder about my future job prospects and how I was going to tell my family that I was fired at the start of my new career.
My family had not been happy with my decision to change careers. I was still too dumb to realize that when your wife says, “OK, do what you want,” after a discussion, she doesn’t mean that.
As for my parents…
“You’re doing what?” My dad asked when I first told him.
“I’m changing careers” I replied.
“But why? You’ve gone from airport ‘ramp rat’ to airline management. Why give that up? And what about the flight benefits? Your brothers are in California, you’re in DC and we’re in Florida. We can’t afford to fly all over!” Dad’s guilt trip was beginning to rear its head. “How will we visit you and your family? Did you tell your wife yet?”
“Yes, I have,” I replied.
"And what did she say to your cockamamie idea," Dad asked,
“She first said I needed to grow up” I confessed,
“Didn’t she try to talk you out of it?”
“She tried, but she knows it’s something that I always wanted to do” I answered.
“So, what did she say? Did she agree to this?” Dad pressed.
“Well, she wasn’t happy that I was taking a pay cut. But she finally relented,”
“Wait! You’re taking a pay cut? How much?” Dad interrupted,
“Forty percent…” I said in a low voice.
“You’re taking a forty percent pay cut! Plus losing the chance to fly all over the world for free, all for a government job? You need your head examined!” Dad fumed.
"Well…too late, I start in three weeks at the Baltimore SAC office," I said, "About one month later I go down to FLETC for 18 weeks of training."
“My God, you’ve already started government speak…what the hell is SAC or FLETC?” Dad asked,
“SAC stands for Special Agent in Charge, that’s the big boss at the office of Investigations…FLETC is the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center where they train US Treasury Special Agents.” I proudly answered,
“Special agents…what’s so special about taking a forty percent pay cut?? No wonder the US Treasury is so messed up!” Dad then asked, “And you’re going away for 18 weeks and this FLETC training…isn’t that like Basic training?”
“Something like that” I agreed.
“You’ve never fired a weapon in your life! And you’re what…thirty-three years old? Isn’t that too old?”
“I’m still under the age maximum…besides I’m in pretty good shape. I’m still running the Marine Corps Marathon in four hours.” I bragged.
“That’s all well and dandy, but you and I both know they want you for one reason…your Spanish. There’s a drug war going on.” He pointed out.
“And?” I asked Dad.
“When I was in the Korean War, I was also in good shape and the only thing I wanted from the US Army was myself. No missing pieces and no extra parts.” He mused, “I was hoping Uncle Sam was done with our family.”
“It’s not like I’m going to war” I replied.
"It's worse! At least in a regular war, you know who the other side is.” Dad then counseled, “Don't volunteer for anything."
“Got it. I plan to get into other types of investigations.” I explained.
Dad said knowingly, “I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I was you. You speak Spanish, that’s all the Government wants from you. They can get someone else to do the other stuff. They can’t get everyone to speak Spanish.”
“I’m sure it will work out.” I hopefully replied.
“Yeah…right,” Dad huffed. “Well, keep your head down and your gunpowder dry.”
“Will do,” I agreed.
"I'll tell Mom when she gets back from the store," Dad said. He then ended the call mirthfully saying, "So, I must tell her in Spanish that we've failed as parents because we now have a son who is a gun-toting government agent making less money than he was before…and we have no more airline flight benefits.” He then asked, “By the way, how do you say gun in Spanish?"
“Pistola” I translated. I went on, “look at it this way, I get to leave the corporate rat race and do something fun.”
Giving up, Dad sighed and said, “Well, good luck. Be safe and we are proud of you…love you.”
“Thanks, Dad, I love you too,” the phone call ended as I said to myself, “Two down… next step, tell my USAir boss.”
TEA
Since I was a kid, I always thought about being a pilot or a special agent. I watched too many movies and tv shows. I started working as soon as I moved to the US. I know I was a slightly odd kid in high school. I did not date or go out much as I could not afford it and I was also very self-conscious of my accent. But I saved my money and took flying lessons when I was a freshman at Broward Community College. I enjoyed flying and managed to solo in 8.5 hours. I was thinking of joining the military to become a hurricane hunter pilot when I found out I had to have 20/20 uncorrected vision. I did not have 20/20 vision. Eye surgery was disqualifying at the time, so that ended my dreams of a career in flying. I went to my other dream. After graduating from Florida State University, I took the Federal Bureau of Investigation's entrance exam. I passed both the FBI’s entrance exam and their Spanish language test. But just before my interview in the FBI Jacksonville, I was asked by the recruiting agent if I ever smoked marijuana.
Anticipating that question would come up, I confessed, “I smoked marijuana when I was in high school and a couple of times in college.”
“How much,” he asked
“Maybe about 20-25 times, but I never bought it or any type of illegal drugs. It’s been over three years since I last smoked.”
The recruiting agent told me, “Smoking marijuana more than 10 times disqualifies you from becoming an FBI Special Agent. Thanks for coming in,” And with that he sent me away disappointed about my life choices.
I then went to work for the airlines as that was as close to flying, as I would do. A few years later, while working with USAir, I found out that the US Treasury’s use of drug policies was more relaxed than the FBI's. I had no idea about US Treasury Special Agents, as I always thought Special Agents were only FBI. I still had the desire to be an agent, so I took the Treasury Enforcement Agent (TEA) Exam.
I was told that less than 1/3 of college graduates who took the TEA obtained a passing score of 70% or higher. I managed to get an 87.6, a high score, and a few months later I was interviewed by the US Customs Service in Baltimore, Maryland. I was hired and after a couple of months in the office, I was sent off to special agent basic training at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.
