March,2009
SFC HEADQUARTERS DOCTRINE
"Read by Thousands Round' the World!"
30 March 2009: Investigating Private Investigation | Part 7: Final Thoughts
A few final words on being self-employed in these fields - I believe that if you track line-by-line the essays here on body guarding, private investigation and even bounty hunting, you'll find one common thread. Successful people that have done one or more of these professions have all been military and/or police veterans. To be even more specific, these prior jobs in police work and the military included themes that related to the aspects of private employment. Oh, there might be a rare and even lucky exception. A general precursor to these private jobs is time and grade in some prior service. People like to see the resumes of the experts they hire. In the related subject of security contractors, one trainer from a large successful company told me,
“We send everyone to at very least, a two-week course of training before we ship them overseas. Part involves firearms. The firearms portion is really meant to be a weapon's familiarization course, not an introduction-to-guns course! That's the litmus test. If you are not already quite familiar with these weapons, then maybe you
shouldn't be here at all.”
A telling observation. Anyway, to the consistent throng I get of people asking me how to become this or that professional. The most common, successful way is simply to enlist. Join up. Join for or work your way into special branches of the military or policing. Yup, it's hard. It's supposed to be. See ya' next month!
Adios, amigos
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
26 March 2009: Investigating Private Investigation | Part 6: Fear and Darkness All Around You People have often asked me, "Have you worked with Dog the Bounty the Hunter?" "Did you know The Big, Bad Dog?" "Have you been a bounty hunter?" In a word, no to all. In fact I can't think of a time when I ever worked with any so-called, full-time "bounty hunters." Some clean it up a bit and call it “fugitive recovery,” or a “bail enforcement agent.”
Least of all, I have never worked with one as colorful likes of the Dog. The reason citizens know about the Dog is he and his pack are so utterly, unusual and over-the-top they became great fodder for reality TV. I like the show and watch it myself when its on. It's a perfect little recipe for just what it is - from the bad-ass, Ozzy Ozbourne theme song to the group prayer at the end. Perfect.
Nationally, some 20 percent of felony defendants on bail fail to appear in court. Most are eventually caught, and people usually think it was by some kind of bounty hunter. But regular law enforcement factor into this posse. While I have arrested a few hundred fugitives or so as a patrolman and detective, which is not uncommon for any career, street police officer in a mid-sized city, as a private investigator I have ever been hired to just find someone who jumped bond. PIs do this, its just I haven't. There are no handy stats on misdemeanor suspects who fail to appear. How can this be so confusing? Why are so many arrested people set loose? And who or what are bounty hunters? Most normal citizens don't even understand the bonding-out process. For the layman or the foreigner, in the USA when someone is arrested, they may be released from this custody by promising to appear in court on a later date. This promise is bolstered and underwritten by money. As we know, the denero makes the world go round. Setting up this monetary promise to re-appear is a complicated process, like a business contract, and that is why God made the licensed, approved, bail bondsman. The court system cannot be bogged down with doing this and running a side, "human banking or pawn shop, style business." Plus, we don't have the space in jail to keep all these people for the pending months involved in prosecuting them. The arrested party calls a bondsman day or night to get out of jail.
The bondsman meets with the subject at the jail and conducts an extensive interview. Lots of paperwork. What does the arrested party own to offer up and promise to return to court or lose? Cash? A car? A jet ski? Jewelry? A house? Sometimes, momma puts up the house. (Sometimes momma looses the whole house. I can think of several lawyers who also wrote bonds and have a small, real estate empire from collecting "momma's houses" through the years). For a fee and a possible loss of worldly goods later, the subject signs a contract and promises to appear later in court. The Bondsman is also gambling and playing a percentage game too and stands to loose a lot should the subject disappear.
Each jurisdiction has its own rules on bonding, usually set by a local committee/board of the jurisdiction, governed by the state in basic standards. Ordinarily, the board consists of a local judge or two, bail bondsmen, the local Sheriff, politicians and some others. Some boards are very forgiving if the subject "jumps," as in flees or fails to appear. Some other jurisdictions will set a deadline and demand the full bond amount from the bond company. This could be a lot of money. Either way, should a suspect fail to appear? A warrant is issued for the subject. The real power of the hunt, comes from this "failure to appear" style, arrest warrant from a judge. Any so-called “bounty hunter” should first ensure that this warrant gets listed on the NCIC police computer system before their hunt begins.
Most bondsmen slowly evolved into the business. They rarely show up in town with a suitcase, a smile and a new license. They are usually already entangled in the local, legal business in some way. Worked with a local bondsman. Family member of a local. Ex-cop. And, very, very few show up in town as a “bounty hunter.”
Most states have strict laws about bounty hunting. In Texas a bounty hunter must be a private investigator, but on the other extreme, in some states like Michigan, there are no rules at all. Zip. Zero. In Michigan, no rules means a growing wave of inexperienced wannabes.
In unregulated states like Michigan, today's bondsman know where this new wave in bounty hunting comes from. “Its the Dog, following the Duane "Dog" Chapman. Duane Chapman ruined the industry," said Aaron Carr, 36, a Sterling Heights, a Michigan bounty hunter who also must also work a Sears stock orderer. "Dog's a convicted felon. He has no business being in the industry," Carr complained to a Detroit News reporter in March, 2009. "Many people entering the field do it part time and don't hang around for long." Reporter Francis X. Donnelly conducted a survey of 20 of the 65 names listed on a Web directory of officially advertised “bounty hunters” in Michigan. Most of them were out of business and quickly. “The ones that remained had other jobs like cooks, teachers, computer repairmen, cable TV installers, social service counselors, and the bail bondsman. They earn 10 percent of the bail paid by the bondsmen, which usually nets them a few hundred dollars per fugitive. Something like that.”
Only by being a combination of both bail bondsman and bounty hunter, can most hunters survive full-time. People like TV’s Dog. They wrote the original bond. They clean up the mess. In a way bail-bondsmen are like human pawn brokers. In many USA states they even look and dress like pawn-brokers and have a tendency to own and sell vast amounts of odd things through the years, seized from bonds and jumpers. Also, attorneys have been bail bondsmen.
When an arrested suspect calls a bondsman for help, the bondsman takes advantage of the request. A good bondsman collects extensive identity information well beyond the common police arrest report for their civil paperwork. The authority stems from a 136-year-old, U.S. Supreme Court decision ruling that people waived their civil rights when they signed a contract with a bondsman. All the contacts, friends, phone numbers, addresses, jobs, all things the bondsman knows from experience he might need later in a hunt.
It is always good for detectives to know and have a give-and-take working relationship with area bondsmen. I tell you this as a police tip because we use to ask bondsmen for this inside info when hunting a suspect for a new crime. We would research or recall the prior arrests of our suspect and see who bonded him out in the past. Their files would often contain more people, places, phone numbers, etc. that we needed to troll around and find our guy. They needed us frequently. They would come to us hat-in-hand for help - facing a huge court payment for a jumped client. If we had the time we'd hunt for their bad guys. Many times they were career criminals. We'd use that "failure to appear" warrant as a power base to help out when and where we could. An arrest warrant is an arrest warrant. We like serving arrest warrants. Its what we do. Warrants R’ Us!
So, it is hard to find a so-called, full-time bounty hunter who is not first and foremost a bail bondsman (so is the TV Dog clan in case you hadn't noticed). If a client skips, these very common bail folk, minus all the black leather pants and gloves, giant pepper spray cans, tats and hair extensions, usually try to find the person themselves. Once found, they usually call the police and the police do the actual, arrest, dirty work because the warrant is on NCIC.
Its another loophole in most private investigation state laws and bounty hunting laws. The bail bondsman can investigate and locate/hunt his skipped clients as matter of regular bond business. he doesn't need a PI license. But, If he pays someone else to do this, say in Texas, this other person must be a licensed private investigator. In Arizona, the law requires bounty hunters just get written authorization from a bail bondsman before trying to capture a fugitive. In Kentucky, bounty hunting is generally not allowed at all because the state does not have a system of bail bondsmen, and it releases bailed suspects through the state's Pretrial Services division of the courts. So, there is no bondsman with the right to apprehend the fugitive. The police do it like they would any other warrant.
You know one time years back, we arrested an international drug smuggler here on a visa. Can you imagine this guy even getting a bond set by any judge! But a judge did and the bond was very high. Once in the hoosegow, our man looked over the bail bondsmen ads in a phone book by the wall of pay phones. He picked up the phone and contacted a local bail bonds woman. Nice gal. We all knew her. But different leagues, huh? Ya’ think? She took the bond! She was quickly wired the required, substantial, down payment money from international ports unknown. All the paperwork boxes were checked. The DA protested, but the guy was set free.
As next imagined, he was never seen again! The local woman went into a tailspin as the court, deadline date loomed, freaking out over the total bail money she and he’d promised the court. Desperate, she begged our detective division for help. Sgt. Howard Kelly and I went to her modest, small office where she sat with her Dolly Parton hairdo, in her jeans, boots and a country, plaid shirt. Meanwhile, we knew the real folks behind all this were in a Thailand palace of sorts, tripping over machine guns and giant stacks of cash. On her desk was the file. Thick in paper, but shallow in content. It was thick enough to do a little hunting with.
Oh, we all found the fugitive alright. His corpse. He was killed by a hired hitman. Not sure how all that promise-to-appear money worked out in court for the our nice, bonding lady, but sometimes these things are not as simple as a weekly Duane Chapman episode. Different leagues. Imagine a Sears clerk tossed in the middle of all that. Like Ozzy Ozbourne said,
“There's fear and darkness all around you...”
Coming very soon, some closing observations on the business of PIs.
Adios, amigos
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
8th Annual Capitol Ride for the Fallen Police
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Ride starts at Cowboy Harley-Davidson/Buell of Austin
10917 South IH-35, Austin, TX 78747
www.RideForTheFallen.com
Adios, amigos
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
22 March 2009: Investigating Private Investigation | Part 5: My Last Official Case
The attorney ushered me into the conference room. At the table sat a large man in his 30s.
“This is “Willie Wilson,” you might recognize him. Former quarterback for ______ _______ university.”
“Hi Willie,” I said and sat at the table. He was wearing his oversized, bowl championship ring. I don't pay any attention to college football. Too rah-rah, for me and to me - it's a junior prep school for the pros. I couldn't recognize the face. Willie introduced me to someone else with him at the table, but as of today, I cannot remember the name or if it was even a man or a woman. Just someone he knew. And Willie needed the moral support. Willie was soon to appear in court for a murder charge. And the story, as many of them are, was a strange one.
“Go ahead and tell Hock what happened,” the lawyer kick-started the conversation because he knew I was not there to chitchat and the meter was running.
“I met this woman in Texas,” he started. “She was wild. Crazy. I never should have picked up with her. I had business here and when I would come to and from here, I would see here. Date her. She was trouble from the start. Over emotional. Snorted coke…”
“That helps the craziness.” I added. A lot of guys like that sort of “temporary bad girl” in their lives. And, I say that from experience. Bet she had a navel ring.
“She had all kinds of health problems. From booze and drugs. We were out on the lake in a boat. It was a weekend about when I was about to call this thing off. We did some coke and drank on the boat. I mean, I did it too. She wanted to swim. Okay. I stopped the boat and she jumped right into the water. She swam around out there. I didn't jump in right away. You know, doing stuff on the boat. Next thing I know, it started to look like she was swimming or “floating” pretty far from the boat. It was windy out there. There were some tides and some chop. I shouted to her, and…something wasn't right. She looked sick or something. Like…mentally out of it. She started to look like she was drowning or something.”
I nodded, “…or something.”
“I jumped in the water and swam to her and she was not right! Sick, or like she was going to faint and she babbled. She made no sense. Mumbling. I grabbed her and started to swim back to the boat. But the boat was floating further away with the wind. The more I swam, the further it seemed to get.”
“Was she fighting you like a drowning person,” I asked.
“No. She did not. But moving around. I decided to turn and swim for the shore. I was about in the middle at this point between the boat and the shore and at least the shore wouldn't move away from me like the boat was bobbing away from me. It was like a nightmare.”
“How were you holding her?” I asked.
He stood up. “Like this. I had one arm free to swim and the other wrapped around her. It was hard.”
“You ever take any life-saving lessons? Ever been a lifeguard at a pool? “
“No, sir.”
“The arm you had wrapped around this woman…wrapped around what exactly?”
“Her arm and body, then her neck. She was slipping free and I was changing the grip to get to the shore. When I got to the shore, I pulled her on land and she was limp. I started some kind of CPR. I mean, I didn't know how to do it. I just did my best…” his eyes wandered all over the table top before. He put both hands on the table. “She was dead.”
He looked at all our faces, and continued, “there were people walking around the shore. I called to them for help, as I had got closer, so they were there. When we got on the beech, I asked for an ambulance."
“They called? They waited around? You have their names?”
“Yes, sir. The police came first before the ambulance. They took the names of everyone. The ambulance got there and it was just too late.”
“And you eventually got arrested for murder? When did they get an arrest warrant?”
“Right then. That afternoon. I mean I was arrested right there. We went to the hospital and I was in handcuffs. For drowning and killing her.”
“Right then? Who arrested you?”
“Well, the police did!”
“I mean, did a detective, an investigator show up, look around, question you and then arrest you?”
“No sir. The uniformed officers there? One of them arrested me for murder.”
I drummed my fingers on this big table. This was all out whack. Out of sync. No protocol. Sounds like the 50s, 60s, or 70s. Not the 1990s. For a quick civilian translation - this was a questionable death at best with strong signs of a simple drowning, or a botched rescue. It required more investigation before an arrest.
I turned to the attorney, “no warrant? Autopsy?” He slid me a file. I looked it over. Standard report, like the many I'd has seen from this very Medical Examiner's office through the years. Water was found in the lungs. There was a toxicology report. Significant cocaine found.
“Ever get your boat back? I asked Willie.
“Yes, the police asked for help and some people there with boats got my boat and brought it to a dock."
“Impounded?”
“Taken? No. But they looked it over. Took some Polaroids.”
“Polaroids. And what are in this Polaroids?
The attorney slid over some very bad photocopies of these pictures to me.
“Beer cans. Whiskey. Towels. Some food.” Willie said.
“No coke?”
“They…didn't find the coke. They really didn't search the boat too well. Just took these photos. Moved stuff around and took pictures.”
“You're really lucky they didn't find the cocaine, “ I muttered to him. “You'd probably be plea-bargained into some kind of hand-slapped, manslaughter charge, Willie. A sweet deal with possession and manslaughter tied up like a box. One you simply could not refuse, to wash all this mess away.”
“I know I'm lucky, but that girl died of drugs or something. Drowning. I did not kill her. I tried to rescue her.”
“What kind of health problems did this woman have that you mentioned. Exactly.”
“She'd been to a heart doctor. Heart problems. She's been in rehab twice for drugs. When went to the hospital, I called her brother right away. He and his wife, or girlfriend, I don't know, showed up at the hospital and he told the ER doctor all about her bad health and bad heart. From drugs. I heard it. Then accused me of wanting to break up with her and even killing her.”
“We've tried to talk with them and they will not cooperate,” the lawyer said. “I think they want to see Willie in jail for murder and maybe even sue Willie. I think the police officers recognized they had a dead body and a famous football player and they thought they'd caught a big fish for murder.” The lawyer declared. Lawyers like to make such declarations, but stranger things have happened.
“You got any idea, any possible idea that someone would think you'd have a motive to kill this girl?” I asked Willie.
“I few people knew I wanted to break up with here. She knew. She must have told her brother. He was angry at me.”
“You married at home? Engaged?” I asked.
“I was engaged.”
“Was she going to interfere with that?” I asked
“She said she might. The drugs talking.”
That's sticky. I'd have to talk to the brother.
“Okay, “ I said. "We need a subpoena for the hospital records and any medical records for the woman. A bad heart and cocaine makes for easy positional asphyxia argument”
“What's that?” Willie asked. The blank expression on the lawyer's face told me he needed an explanation also. The term was a bit unpopular in the 1990s, but police and martial arts ground fighters were familiar with it. PA means semi-containing and/or squeezing the torso and/or neck of a person enough to restrict breathing. Well, here's an official definition:
Positional asphyxia (PA) is a form of asphyxia which occurs when someone's position prevents them from breathing adequately. A small but significant number of people die suddenly and without apparent reason during restraint by police, prison (corrections) officers and health care staff. Positional asphyxia may be a factor in some of these deaths. Positional asphyxia is a potential danger of some physical restraint techniques,. People may die from positional asphyxia by simply getting themselves into a breathing-restricted position they cannot get out of, either through carelessness or as a consequence of another accident.
The careless rescue in the water – all the neck pulling - combined with a drugs and a heart condition could be easily explained by PA and a very believable defense.
“I will get the girl's background. I will find an expert on this subject. And, it will cost you more for the medical expert.”
He flipped his hand over and smirked, signaling money was no problem at this point.
“My guess is,” I continued, “if this case actually goes any further, because it is a lame case on many points, you'll have to take the stand and explain what happened. We usually hate that. But you might have to.”
The lawyer nodded. I asked a few more questions that I cannot discuss here. I stood. The lawyer directed Willie to write me check. It was hefty, for thousands of dollars. Goodbyes to all.
And then goodbyes…to my job! Yup. On the parking lot, walking to my car, I decided to finish this job and quit the PI business then and there. I got in my truck and drove away. We already had a home in Georgia and an apartment in Dallas at the time, full of cardboard boxes ready to move east. As I drove to the apartment I looked at my watch. I hadn't been in that law office for longer than 30 minutes and I had just sliced and diced a murder case.
At that time in my life I could effectively game plan any case laid before me. It was like an instinct then. I tell you I was damn good at it. No brag. Just fact. Just ask anyone I worked with or against. But I tell you something else. That very day something happened? I didn't like to do it anymore. I just didn't want to do it anymore.
Within 48 hours I'd found and interviewed the best expert on positional asphyxia in the country, a doctor (coincidently in Georgia also), and we shipped him all the medical reports and the case file. he assured me that this had all the signs of a medically enchanced, drug-enhanced asphyxia case, beyond a reasonable doubt.
Barring no other surprise circumstances, that is! So, I met the brother at a restaurant under the friendly guise of "getting to the bottom of all this" - which I was - and suggested that maybe I'd be seeking a quick lawsuit settlement for him of some kind. He had no claim, and no testimony that would affect the case either way.
Within a month, the prosecution knew we had this renown expert ready and chomping at the bit to testify. The entire case against the football player was suddenly dropped.
I let my Texas PI license expire. I was effectively, officially done after this case! Shingle down. Off to Georgia. Since then, I have been seduced out just a few, rare times to do some things, but very reluctantly mind you, and working under these other titles I'd mentioned here before like “event manager,” or “consultant.” They all start out as paid favors to help someone do something. I have consulted on several murder cases in other states, ones usually involving knives. I protected some big name politicians. Once, I was hired as a “temporary, contract paralegal” by one law firm to “collect information in the field” on a particular case, thereby dodging that state's private investigation, licensing rules. Another title, another state, but really same type of job.
Mostly now, I just train people. BUT, if you have something you'd like to talk about? Or a problem with someone, somewhere or something? I might reluctantly listen. Might. I would rather not, actually, but probably will. Don't expect much if I do. Might pass you on to someone else, less reluctant. I am really, really tired of people's problems. Decades and decades of problems of problems. And inside all of that is some heartache and tragedy.
Coming very soon, some talk about bounty hunting... Adios, amigos
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
17 March 2009: Investigating Private Investigation | Part 4: Will the Real Dr. Winston Clancy Please Stand Up?
Before we continue with “the last case” story, I recalled another sort of interesting and strange case I once worked…
Through the years I'd met an architect from the Miami area I'll call Phillip here for the purposes of protecting the so-called innocent. But, ol' Phillip was not so innocent. He was long-time married in Florida, but when his national business often took him through the Dallas/Ft Worth area he would often appear at various functions with a knocked-out Dallas cougar, usually blonde, hanging off a muscular arm. Back then a “cougar” meant the animal, not an over 40 loose babe that it means today. Loosely.
Hey, I liked Phillip. He was skin diver and a skydiver and an adventurer. Carefree. Careless. But one year he corralled me at a Dallas party with a pleading eye and told me he'd lost about a million dollars. He was not alone. Several of his east coast friends and associates slipped about the same amount. He and others had invested millions in a Texas oilman, driller named Dr. Winston Clancy and his latest oil well drilling project. Let me be more specific. That is an oil well…scam. And it was all Phillip's fault!
Clancy claimed he had an amazing success rate in finding oil in the ground. Over some scotch and sodas, Phillip told me the tale - that a Winston Clancy looked the total oilman package, big Texican white hat, western clothes and expensive, western jewelry. He bragged to Phillip that he'd earned a doctorate in geology at SMU in Dallas and had a plush office downtown full of leather furniture, statues and paintings of cowboys and cattle and a giant ornate dark, wooden desk. The walls were full of oil well pictures. Problem was, he was - as we say in Texas - “all hat and no cattle.” Problem was, it was as realistic as a cardboard set of J.R. Ewing's office from the old TV show Dallas. Scam.
Phillip got some of his Florida friends involved with this “sure thing.” Clancy even flew to Orlando and met them all in a dinner party. Winston had the schematics, maps, geology reports and what-all to convince people that his next well was sure to be a gusher. A gusher! Glasses were raised in toast. Riches to all! In the end, Clancy walked away with millions in investment money in his far west Texas oil well project.
But soon the monthly progress reports dwindled away to bi-monthly then tri-monthly. Then none. Then phone calls unanswered. Sir, Lord Winston…gone.
“Hock, I have no idea where this schmuck went. My friends are losing their patience.”
“Oils wells are risky,” I said.
“I'll bet this guy never once broke ground.”
“Could be.”
“I have contacts. Friends,” Phillip told me. “Friends in the Mafia. I want this guy. I want my money back. We all need our money back. We need to find him.”
I nodded. “Mafia! Well, the Mob can be real stupid, Phillip. Throw their weight around. Old school. Broken bones. Messy. Could get you in trouble. Send me everything you got on this guy. Every slip of paper. I'll see what I can do.”
Within one week, I had a box in the mail from Florida. I poured over the contents. I had to call Phil for more info, like -where exactly was this Dallas office he'd visited? Things like that.
I first drove out to west Texas and sure enough – no ground had been broken for an oil well at the prescribed location. Nothing. Nothing but scorpions and snakes out there. I had a county land man confirm it. No well. No permit. No Dr. Clancy. Nothing.
A visit to the admin building of SMU disclosed there NEVER was any Dr. Winston Clancy graduate from SMU for any degree. I heard from Phil about the Dallas office visit. I went to the office building that once housed the “Ewing” oil office. Note the word “once.” It was not an oil baron's office now, but some insurance company. Clancy was gone. I visited building management with the sob story. They had old rental documents. Buried in these rental documents was a handwritten, contact phone number scribbled in some last minute set-up emergency for occupation inspection. Through some old Dallas police friends, this phone number opened up into a slew of traceable, track-able information that I will not repeat here. But, it led to a name.
The name belonged to a con man, on parole, with mucho prior arrests for swindle and fraud. This was the real Dr. Winston Clancy. Texas state parole is usually a good operation, and an old friend in parole got me the very latest info on this conman. Quite an updated file. The parole officer had zero idea that his man was playing J.R. Ewing to naïve Floridians.
Within a week, I called Phillip with this news. Phillip seemed totally disinterested in the state of Texas courts, or with the federal judicial system remedies. He knew that filing a case would mean great time and effort; would mean the risk of a legal screw up in trial: would mean that our Dr. Clancy, once convicted would violate parole and go to jail. He knew that court decreed restitution could mean a mere $50 a week for decades. He knew all this because I explained the law system to him. He simply wanted me to fax him my notes on this case thus far, which was his right as a client. I did ship it all off. I expected to hear about him filing a federal, Florida or Texas criminal case. Nothing. And within the next week, I received a check for…well a lot of money. It was way, WAY more than I quoted.
And, that was that! Until about two or so years later. I was at a gathering in Dallas and one of these so-called blonde cougars that Phillip knew was there. I recognized her and asked about him. She filled me on the latest scoop on Phillip. She'd been tight with him and at one point Phillip wanted to leave his wife and take up with her full time, but in the end, he never could. Never would. Too many entanglements. Too many kids. Too many marital investments. And then our conversation got around to the bogus oilman deal.
Get this. She also told me Phil did indeed involve his aforementioned “contacts” in the crime business after I sent him the information. Story goes his "contacts" picked up our devious Dr. Clancy since I identified him, and drove him, all duct-taped to the Gulf Coast, whereupon they put him on helicopter and flew out over the coast. They threw open a side door and were fully ready to toss this scumbag…OUT! Out over the Gulf of Mexico! Unless. Unless, he returned all the money to the Florida group. And, like really fast. Death or repayment. He selected the repayment option. Dr. Clancy was not tossed out of the chopper and he did indeed return the money. I can assume the negotiators got their “taste,” their cut, from the mess.
At least that is what the blond cougar told me. I had nothing to do with all that illegal stuff. Justice does come in all forms. Sometimes it comes in the the cold midnight wind off the Gulf, boosted by helicopter blades at about 300 feet above sea level.
Oh and P.S…I heard years later this particular blonde? She moved to Florida. I don't know if that's a happy ending or not.
Next part coming soon...
Adios, amigos
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
13 March 2009: Investigating Private Investigation | Part 3: Grab Bag Case File
The big grab bag. Other than working with lawyers on crimes? I will skim over some of the general grab bag of cases, or rather odd-jobs, duties, and "things," I performed in those private investigation years, without mentioning specifics, dates and times for obvious reasons.
Grab bag samples: * An apartment dweller thought a janitor was entering into her apartment in daylight hours and stealing her underwear from her bedroom (caught him on a video tape we planted.)
* A son worried that his father's new, younger girl friend was a con-woman.
* A lesbian distrusted her new girlfriend and wanted a thorough background on her before they bought a house together.
* A Jewelry store chain owner wanted armed, escorts of larger shipments as well as wanted security on the purchases and movement of other jewelry stores going out of business. At times this meant out-of-state travel. Conjuring up an image of me in a suit driving a Mercedes with a velvet bag of gems in the trunk, are you? Nope. This often meant a complete, clean out of a closed store, glass counters, carpet, registers, safes, desks. All but the bathroom sink. I oversaw and escorted moving companies with vans. No black tie. No Mercedes. More like a Mike Rowe's Dirty Job tv episode.
* A factory owner was tipped off that his college-age, son and friends were planning to burglarize his business for money and he wanted me to stakeout the plant, catch/”arrest,” scare and lecture the young men without the police being told in the end. The dad insisted on being there too.
* A few new husbands were checked out before marriages.
* A lost brother or missing relative. No foul play. Just…gone.
* Some security evaluations of businesses.
* Several nursing homes and hospitals needed consistent background checks on new employees. (This petered out with the easy advent of Internet computer checks.)
* Celebrity book and record promotional tours. For a period of years it seemed every new book author and CD artist made a tour through north Texas. I had connections with the major book chains and a promotional company. This kind of thing kept me the most busy. I could not name all of these “celebs” off the top of my head. Big and small. Mostly small. There is another complete essay on the so-called bodyguard subject, elsewhere here.
* Political event security such as my stint with Rudy
Giuliani.
* Escorts of divorcees to divorce court, paid for by the family afraid of the soon-to-be ex-husband and at times even the ex-family. They feared for their cars on the parking lots, their stays in area hotels. Their trips to lunch. Their waits in lawyer's offices. The elevators and hallways of court. They just wanted a big guy with short hair in a dark suit standing around with them. Someone who would not smile. Lawyers set me up with those situations too.
* Organized security for a few businesses being fought over by co-owners while in bankruptcy court.
* Stuff I can't and won't talk about. Even though the statute of limitations are up. I really do not want to sound mysterious, and the stuff wasn't cool at all when you actually hear the details. I just can't talk about it at all.
Any of that sound exciting? Try…Nope. Try…very boring. I actually turned down as many cases and jobs as I took. I never took divorce cases that required following spouses around. I have turned down some big money, semi-famous people wanting photo and film evidence of cuckolding for pending divorces. I recall one hotshot telling me:
“My wife is fooling around on me! She is fooling around with
some guy with his name on his shirt. Imagine that!”
I had to let that remark sink in for a second. A guy with his name on his shirt - meaning some low-paid, guy wearing a uniform? Beneath his ritzy, social class? Bubba! I wore my name on my shirt for many a year. Some of my best friends still wear their names on their shirts! Adios. I dodged anything that didn't interest me, but still sometimes took jobs I cringed at but the money was too good. My biggest problem was my schedule. I had to pick jobs that I could work around my burgeoning training company business. As my seminar schedule increased, another anomaly occurred. A certain depression fell over me. I started not liking the work. I grew weary of people and their never-ending stream of problems.
We suddenly had our own big problem. We had to leave Texas, as my wife's mother grew gravely ill. We started moving ourselves to the south Tennessee, north Georgia border. I sorted out the last few jobs as a dual residency drifted off into a full-time Georgian residency. I decided not to keep paying all those Texas licensing fees, and would not start up as a total stranger in the State of Georgia, paying them more fees.
I found the state-by-state licensing thing very quirky anyway. How did I get to go to any other state and work security and investigate crimes and these other states never bothered me about not being licensed in their jurisdictions? How did these people come into Texas from other states and do the same? How did I work protection with traveling FOX TV security men? They were not licensed in 50 states? The state PI and guard laws required licensing! I discovered a lot of it was name game. What did you call yourself? A consultant? An event manager? A paralegal temp? An assistant? A road manger? Aide? Call yourself a private investigator, a bodyguard, a guard or a security agent? You are committing a Class A misdemeanor in most places.
My last official Texican case concerned a somewhat famous, former college football player arrested for murder. A law office I worked against for years when a police detective, called on me for help. I shook off my depression, put down my suitcases and took one more call to duty…
Part 4 coming soon. The last call
Adios, amigos
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
9 March 2009: Investigating Private Investigation | Part 2: Me No Tarzan. Me Cheetah
Not what I expected? The job had a few surprises. One was re-working "push-power."
But first, how did I get these jobs? Always a good question from fledglings wondering about or wanting to be PIs. At the time, it seemed there was state money available to appoint investigators. If a defense attorney needs an investigator, or just a lackey to do a bunch of mundane tasks in case prep, serve papers, or really does need some intense, investigative help, many defense attorneys will file a motion for the state to pay for an investigator. Usually the judges agree to this. Technically failing to make such an appointment might eventually help the defense in an eventual appeal, if the criminal case is big enough. So, the judges agreed. That meant the state paid me. Lawyers are court-appointed in the same manner, which is another state-by-state process and a bit off the point to get to here. Other times, clients paid me. I knew lots of lawyers back then. They needed investigations. They thought of me. But this appointment process also gave me a little more power to push my way around the jungle. If you are coinsidering a P.I. license? Do you know a lot of lawyers? Do they trust you? If not, you might try selling Italian shoes. Getting an expensive license is no guarentee you'll get work.
Push-power? Push my way around? Power? Well, I discovered that as a P.I. I was essentially powerless to do so many of the things I did routinely as a police detective. This was a gap I instantly noticed. Let's face it; no one really had to cooperate with me! Flash a P.I. badge? When push really to comes to shove, its a skinny piece of tin. It's a bit of a bluff. I was spoiled by officially manipulating people around when I once had the ugly monster of “police law/force” in a cage behind me. Suddenly the cage was gone and the bluff was lame. It was a culture shock for me and I had to invent new ways to get things done.
At least when I was officially court-appointed to a criminal case, one new way to influence and "win-over" people was my introduction to all involved:
“I have been court appointed by Judge Johnson of the 380 th District
Court to help in this investigation.”
Now, that sounded like I had a district judge standing behind me. In fact, if one were to read the paperwork, those very words are in there in a fashion and this was technically true! It helped a little, but I did become increasingly clever and seductive about getting this new job done with a skinnier badge.
In the end, the appointing judge would indeed stand behind me. On one murder case, a retired detective from the city of Flower Mound, TX dodged me for about week. He knew I needed to serve him papers to testify and also question him on an old murder case. He flagrantly dodged and ignored me. One night I rang his doorbell, subpoena in hand. The door had a window in it. He walked up to the window just 8 inches from my face, looked me eye-to-eye, turned and walked away, ignoring my door pounding. I really had to contain my inner gorilla and the inch in my size 12 boot. My boot, as in - through his door and up his ass.
After a few more days of his evasions and dodging, I reported all this dodging to the defense attorney. Within 12 hours, I was on the stand in the judge's court in a special session, prosecuter present also, and I testified to these events. The Judge was mortified and sent a law enforcement team from Flower Mound, via the DA's office to ‘seize” this guy and haul him straight into his court, whereupon the dodger was read the riot act by said judge. It would appear in the end, the judge did stand behind me. But, this took much legal wrangling and time, about a week of stakeouts. I was use to just "kicking the door" in the first night. Mission accomplished, but no question now though, my once 300-pound, inner-gorilla was now a small Cheetah without Tarzan in the legal jungle of life.
(Just a tip, known by insiders. Catch these kinds of people at work in groups when serving them. They often won't act up or pull stunts when surrounded by others. On the flip side? Catch real bad guys alone so they WON"T act up in the eyes of their peers to appear macho and cool. Take a tip from Cheetah!)
One prosecutor in another murder case complained to the judge that I introduced myself that way to his state's witness and questions a state's witness. How dare I represent myself this way and then question his witnesses? I was on the stand at the time and I told the prosecutor to read the verbiage in the appointments. The judge sat there stone silent on the issue.
Attorneys - prosecution or defense, have never intimidated me. Well, just one, but that is anther story, And some judges have flat scared the snot out of me. But most attorneys? Nahh. I knew them well and could play slick-willy, poker games with them all day long in court. In the end, the truth usually wins out. Usually. Mostly. No matter their reps, they are always tampered and hampered by the truth.
This truth thing - which is another power point of this section. No sooner did I get my P.I. license, did some patrol officers and detectives with lesser IQs begin to mumble back at my old police agency and surrounding agencies. Even some at the DAs office. “Hock's gone to the other side. Stay away from him.”
There was an immediate sense among some that I was now a traitor and a turncoat. Revealing secrets of the good guys. It didn't help when word got around that a judge appointed me to a death penalty, appeals case.
“Traitor for hire.”
"Gone to the devil."
"Hock's drinking expensive coffee and back-slapping defense
attorneys in their high-flaluten' offices.”
Well sir, their coffee usually sucked and my mission was still exactly the same as when I was a police detective. It's all about the truth. It's the truth-thing. The case was the case and the truth was the truth. As a police officer I tried my best to deliver the truth, and I did the same as a PI. I often delivered very bad news to my private clients to defense attorneys. That death penalty case? He as a gang-banger and a gun-runner. I re-proved the state's case. He now...be dead. Good news, bad news, or otherwise, the truth is the truth. Police detective or private detective. That motto keep me going and kept my head held up high as I intermingled with the same good and bad people I always had, but now with less power, less kick, a thinner badge and a severe case of Tarzan-envy.
But remember half the time I was not court-appointed by any judge. Cheetah here worked on private investigations, problem-solving and security with almost no mojo in comparison to what I was used to...
Part 3 Coming Soon...
Adios, amigos
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
6 March 2009: Investigating Private Investigations | Part One: The P.I. Shingle
“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” We're all familiar with that line. To turn that phrase a bit, “what happens in private investigation stays in private investigation.” And, as a result, I will publicly discuss only the barest bones of my years as a P.I. as a service to enquiring and ambitious minds. After all, the public is fascinated with private investigators from books, movies and TV. Lots of people think they want to be one, or think they have what it takes to be one.
Right after I left the Texas police work, I figured I would get “licensed-up” as a P.I. and work some cases betwixt my martial teaching gigs. I'd developed a knack for investigation through the years. I was not Sherlock Holmes mind you! I just had a certain - knack. Each of the 50 USA states have their own state boards controlling the rules and regs of private investigation as well as related security and bodyguard work. Even the new craze of bounty hunting. (Thanks Dog!) In Texas, back in the 1990s such a wannabe, P. I. applicant had to have minimum two years experience in law enforcement or some years working under and vouched for by an established licensed, Texas investigator. So, I qualified instantly. I had those years - plus!
I applied for all the test books and required reading from the Texas state licensing board, which translates to dishing out money to Uncle Sam, or more precisely, Uncle Sam Houston in Austin, Texas – a.k.a. the government. One studies the required material, which covers a multitude of security-related subjects, even how often to feed to your K-9 dogs and how clean the kennels, both of which I never planned on possessing, though I thought of securing a miniscule camera on the back of roach, someday. I guess the state will soon over-charge for a book on the Care and Feeding of the Video Cockroach.
Once studied, possible test dates were posted on-line. About one month later I drove to the state capital and with a handful of other applicants, paid the government the additional testing fee, plopped down and took the test. I drove back to Dallas and within a few days was notified I passed the test. I could hang out a shingle as a licensed private investigator.
But, wait now. Wait just a minute. The shingle cost more money than a piece of wood with lettering. There was a fee to own a private investigation company. Ka-ching $$$$. There was another fee to be a private investigator inside that company. Ka-ching again$$$. If memory serves, there was another fee for something else. Triple Ka-cling-aling for the state. If you carried a gun there was a special, week long gun course and written test fee and license. Training ka-ching and license ka-ching. If you did personal protection there was another course and even more dolleros. Then, there were mandatory insurance fees. The "hang-the-shingle" bill starts looking like a highway billboard worth of expenses.
So, before the shingle was hung by the doorframe with care, you were already out a steady stream of dollars, all raining into the coffers of Texas. And, these fees were annual, but spread out in such a manner that it seemed you were constantly sending Austin money! Imagine! Imagine a government like that!
I never actually hung an actual, physical shingle out, or even enrolled in the telephone book (remember them?). I simply told a handful of north Texas lawyers I was available for duty by mailing them a letter. I had worked with, or rather against many of them as a detective for almost two decades and developed a decent reputation. Some people hate lawyers but I always liked hanging out with lawyers. If law school does anything, it does teach people to think and analyze. I learned a ton of things from lawyers. Begging my old analogy:
"The best street cop is an ex-detective. The best detective is an ex-prosecutor."
(If you are curious, here is what a state P.I. license looks like, minus my "blood type," etc.)
Working with military JAG prosecutors and Texas prosecutors early on like Jerry Cobb and Alan Levy, and of course others through time, helped me become a better thinker and better investigator, far more than any investigation school. And through the years I have probably prepared thousands of cases for state courts and worked on a number for federal courts, all under the worried eyes of prosecutors trying to win cases.
Within a few short weeks of this lawyer alert letter, I was suddenly working for a variety of defense attorneys in one way or another. Not just court cases. Attorneys are also often asked to help in matters only a private investigator could handle, and my old contacts would steer some clients my way. So, without a visible shingle, no office, no webpage – a fairly new idea in the 90s - no phone book ad, I was up and running as a private investigator.
It was all still not quite what I expected. Because you see - the ugly truth is a private investigator is little more than just another citizen who is paying a lot of fees to the state.
Part 2 coming soon….
Adios, amigos
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 2 March 2009: Speed, Kills and Brakes... The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration reports:
Braking speeds and distances:
- At 20 mph, the total stopping distance needed is 69 feet.
- At 30 mph, the distance needed is 123 feet.
- At 40 mph, the distance needed is 189 feet ” which may not be enough distance and time to avoid hitting an object or pedestrian.
Death rates: If a motorist hits a pedestrian:
- At 20 mph, 5 percent will die.
- At 30 mph, 45 percent will die.
- At 40 mph, 85 percent will die.
Adios, amigos ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
More on seminars...
Click here Seminars
Your daily Combatives News Service webpage... 
Combat Centric News
|
