Wednesday. Noon.
DEA Deputy Director Ted Cranston, a tall, conservatively dressed black man with salt and pepper hair, walked into his Seattle office carrying an armful of paperwork, and was noticeably drained after meeting with the Mayor. He and Mayor Demsey had strongly disagreed on the matter of Special Agent Alan Bradley. Demsey wanted to give Bradley a Commendation for his role in a major drug bust, which occurred a month earlier. News footage had shown a drug delivery in which Agent Bradley came out of nowhere to foil and arrest those involved. On TV, Bradley looked like John Wayne coming in to save the day.
Cranston explained to Demsey that Bradley’s actions were less than heroic. In fact, Bradley’s actions destroyed months of work that a crack team of DEA agents had put together. Bradley had allowed Kingpin, the true target of the bust, to get away. Cranston didn’t feel that these actions deserved an award.
Cranston went to a cabinet and retrieved Agent Bradley’s personnel file, then returned to his desk and sat down. The Mayor then made some phone calls to the governor, then back east to Washington DC, and spoke to Cranston’s Superiors. To Cranston’s dismay, Bradley was issued the Commendation. The paperwork he had with him was the copy for Bradley’s folder.
Cranston threw a couple of Tums in his mouth and sighed heavily before opening the file. Inside were several other awards from Bradley’s service in San Diego, as well as a list of arrests longer that Cranston’s arm. It appeared that in his relatively short time with the Agency, Bradley had put together a remarkable record. In fact, Cranston had never seen one more impressive, but he also knew it was all bull. What should’ve been in Bradley’s folder were the dozen or so reprimands Cranston had written, but was later forced to remove.
The acids in Cranston’s stomach burned as he looked at the file. Reaching down, he removed a bottle of Pepto from his bottom drawer and took a big gulp. When Bradley first transferred to the Seattle office, Cranston thought he had a lot of promise. Agent Bradley seemed to have an uncanny ability to look at cases and see connections that nobody else had even thought of. He made it look easy as case file after case file was solved due to his instinctive ability.
Unfortunately for Cranston, Bradley didn’t work well with the rest of the team. He refused to do his part when it came to the investigative work, constantly disobeyed orders, and didn’t share information, preferring instead to work solo without proper backup. The whole situation was seriously hurting moral among the rest of the team.
He and Bradley argued constantly about it, and Cranston started to put him on report. When the reprimands were put in Bradley’s personnel file, Cranston received phone calls from his Superiors to remove them. His hands were tied. Any attempt at punishing Bradley was swiftly suppressed.
The only thing Cranston could do was remove him from important cases. Bradley’s official duties were reduced to being in charge of the investigation on marijuana use by minors and control of the Agency’s evidence locker. That only made things worse. Bradley started interfering with cases he had been removed from, and conducting solo investigations without proper clearance. As far as Cranston was concerned, Bradley had gone too far. His constant insubordination and disrespect for the chain of command were inexcusable, yet he was about to be rewarded for it.
Bradley had had life too easy, Cranston thought. There were some things you just could not learn while working solo. Like the respect for your teammates and the dedication to your collective work, while also keeping an eye on the true goal, that final objective of crushing the enemy—nobody could do it alone. Cranston tried to teach Bradley that and get him involved in the team environment but was fought every step of the way.
Cranston sadly glanced over to the wall, where the picture of his Marine troop and Purple Heart hung in their frame. Such conduct wouldn’t be tolerated back then, he knew. Back then, he, and hundreds of others like him, took orders and did their job without question.
He recalled being ordered up countless hills under heavy fire. They would never be able to take the summit if anyone conducted themselves like Bradley did. Not once did he question or disobey orders.
Cranston smiled proudly as he thought of his years of faithful service to his country. In the military, he had fought to protect the principles of democracy and now, in the DEA, fought to uphold the laws of the land. He had always tried to be a good Marine and be ever faithful—Sempher Fi! But at times like these, it was hard.
Cranston thought about his military career and how he had learned some of his most valuable lessons while in the Marines. He also thought about the time he had spent in Vietnam. That was an experience that affected everyone differently—yet all the same. Going through that tore at ever fiber of a person’s soul, and without the support of his other team members, he wasn’t sure if he would have been able to endure it.
It wasn’t just the bugs, leaches, snakes or heat. It was that constant, lingering stench of death that penetrated your nostrils, skin and clothing. You were never away from it. How could you explain that to someone who had never been there? It was a time when the world was upside down. For those who had never been there, no description is possible. For those who had, none was necessary.
Cranston remembered his last mission, the one where he had earned his Purple Heart. Day and night, guns were working all around him, and the ghostly whistle of the bombs dropped by air support screamed past overhead before punishing the earth with unnerving indiscrimination. Explosions, like giant pear shaped flashes, lit up the smoky hill.
Then the bombing stopped and it was time to move. He gave the signal, then led the assault forward, up the hill through the smoke and fire. They had been ordered to this hill, one they had taken before and for some unknown reason given back to the enemy.
Like an angry child threw a rag doll, leaving it a crumpled heap in a corner, a mortar shell lifted him up and threw him down the hill. He didn’t know what hit him, just that he ended up in the hospital without half a lung. The scars on his chest looked like a road map that told the story of a field surgeon too busy to take his time or be careful. His hand subconsciously came up to his chest and felt the jagged marks under his shirt at the thought of it.
He was one of the lucky ones, he knew, but not just because he had lived. He was lucky because throughout the countless months of rehab and counseling, he had the strong support of a loving family. Without their help, he didn’t know where he would be today. The months, even years, it took to heal and fit back into normal society were the hardest he had ever known—even for a Marine. There were others who weren’t so lucky, who didn’t have the family support that he had. Many came back without enough direction or focus and wound up in soup kitchens, or worse, prison.
He looked back at the paperwork on his desk and frowned. Tonight, the mayor would be giving an award to Special Agent Alan Bradley of the DEA. At least his Agency deserved it, he thought. Cranston put the commendation in Bradley’s folder, then put it away.
Five hours later, at the Mayor’s office in Seattle, a crowd of officials and reporters gathered in a large conference room. One of the reporters looked at his watch, it was 6:55 p.m., just five minutes before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. He checked his video camera, once again, to make sure it was working properly.
Chester “Chet” Green had never been a member of the “in” crowd. He wasn’t particularly cool, hip or trendy. He never made headlines, scored the winning touchdown, got straight A’s or was elected valedictorian. It was for this reason that he was known as a “fringe” player. He wasn’t a part of the popular crowd, but he was always around it.
For as long as he could remember, he always wanted to be the center of attention, and he loved to hear himself talk. Not really developing an extraordinary life of his own, he borrowed from those that did, and reported it to others who would listen. As a child he was often heard saying things like, “Mommy! Mommy! Guess what Billy did!” Later it was things like
, “Hey Jane, guess who Mary was seen with this weekend.”
In high school, and then in college, he knew all the right people and went to all the right functions. He wasn’t particularly liked or disliked, but he was seen as a necessity to those who wanted to be or stay popular. The members of the “in” crowd needed their entourage, especially Chet, who was known as a key fringe player. If you were cool, hip, and with it, you didn’t do your own advertising or self-promotion. That was just too un-cool, un-hip and un-with it to do so. You needed someone like Chet.
If a cheerleader was going to have a party, she need only make a few key phone calls, the first being to Chet. After she invited him, she knew he would spend the next several hours calling people to tell them about it.
“Everyone that’s someone will be there,” he would say. It wouldn’t take long for the person having the party to start receiving phone calls asking about it. Semi-popular people could become more popular or vise versa depending on whether they made or received such a phone call and when.
Chet would mingle from small group to small group at the party sharing the latest scoop, gossip, or dirt. The next day he could be counted on to make phone calls explaining to people how successful or unsuccessful the party was. This was more often than not directly proportional to how well he liked the host.
It was no surprise to anyone that Chet would choose journalism as a major in college. As editor of the college paper, he was often writing about the evils of the latest Administration, the freedom of speech, or the latest sorority scandal. He often quoted the First Amendment, although he had never read it all the way through. Some people called him an ambulance chaser because he considered a police scanner to be an important tool of the trade.
Chet disliked the title of reporter and insisted on being referred to as an investigative journalist. His idol was Ted Koppel and he dreamed of hosting a hard hitting program like Night Line, even though he rarely watched it. It was, however, rare that he missed an airing of Hard Copy or American Journal.
It was in college where Chet and Alan met. Chet believed he had discovered Alan, when in fact it was Alan who chose to seek Chet out. From the first day on campus, Alan made it a point to find out who was who. When he found out Chet was not only a key fringe player, but also a journalist, he thought he’d scored double bonus points. Alan “accidentally” bump into Chet on the street and changed a question about directions into a six hour dissertation about himself over lunch, beer. and a pool table. That was all right with Chet, he had nothing better to do. Besides, Alan was buying.
They became good friends, and within a few weeks decided to be roommates. Alan spent quality time learning about his new friend’s strengths and weaknesses. He found out what he liked and didn’t like, and what he wanted and didn’t want from life. Alan found that with practice, he could manipulate Chet’s stories and editorials—a skill that would prove useful.
Chet’s decision to room with Alan wasn’t a difficult one. After all, Alan was popular, rich, had an influential family, lots of women, and a cool car. He also took advantage of the usual roommate benefits.
Having the use of Alan’s car and the apartment for dates, not to mention, borrowing money he never got around to paying back were perks he could get used to. Besides, Alan turned out to be the best writing material Chet had ever had. Being a criminal justice major, Alan was constantly quoting laws governing such things as illegal search and seizures, the right to privacy, and probable cause.
With Alan’s influence, Chet’s writing style became better. He started writing informative pieces, useful to the reader’s everyday life, not just the old, dry soap-box junk he was used to. Some of his articles were good enough to be carried by real papers in the real world, not just the campus rag. After graduation, Alan talked Chet into coming with him to San Diego. While there, Chet always got the exclusive on Alan’s drug busts and, in exchange, Chet was always happy to put a pro-Alan spin on things.
Chet’s career as a freelance investigative reporter for the most part floundered. He attempted to write a series on inner-city life. His few articles on Teenage Street Kids and the Back Alley Urban Mental Wards were not big hits. His college soap-box style just wasn’t received well by the mainstream press.
He started to rely more and more on Alan, because crime scenes were always big attention getters. Even when Alan had nothing to do with an investigation, he could be conveniently found at the scene for an expert evaluation of the situation. The two quickly built up a series of canned questions and answers to different situations, eventually working it to a polished perfection.
Alan acted like a color commentator at a baseball game, filling in the slow periods with interesting facts about things like how to find fingerprints and other evidence gathering techniques. He didn’t mind doing it either. Any opportunity to get his face and name on a prime time news cast was worth going out of his way for.
Chet considered the two of them to be a team. He believed that with Alan, they would rise to future fame and fortune. Alan, on the other hand, thought otherwise. Although he encouraged that train of thought, Alan really saw Chet as nothing more than a useful tool. Because of Chet’s lack of acceptance by the main steam press, Alan thought that someday he might become a liability. He knew that one day he would have to trade up, so to speak, to a reporter who had more national coverage potential.
Seattle Mayor Adam Demsey didn’t show his irritation. He’d been a politician for too long to make that mistake, but he couldn’t help feeling it. Being in a city with Alan Bradley had been like wearing sandpaper underwear in a salt factory. For the past two years, Bradley was constantly under foot. You couldn’t go to any major events without running into him. He was the most opportunistic little jerk Demsey had ever met.
Demsey knew that was no accident—he knew this kid’s father. Alan Bradley Sr. had been a road block to social change for decades. One of the richest men in the northwest and a strong Republican, Alan’s father seemed to mold or destroy political careers at a whim.
Demsey knew that Bradley’s father was behind the many attempts to unseat him. From being labeled a “tax and spend” Democrat to an enemy of the business community, the most recent attacks were against his low-income housing project. Demsey knew that many politicians slipped into obscurity after retirement, and he had no intention on letting that happen to him. He intended for these housing projects to be his legacy. He wanted to leave office with a successful contribution to the community.
After being plagued with schedule delays and cost overruns, for which he knew Bradley’s father had played a role, his future legacy was now weakened by a new disease—drugs. Low-income housing was suppose to bring hope to a portion of the community that was lacking. However, it had also been a magnet for drug dealers who wanted to take that hope away again. Special Agent Alan Bradley had made a few drug busts in these housing projects. Although relatively minor arrests, Bradley managed to make them front page headlines. Ignoring the fact that drug use and the crime rate was at its lowest in a decade, the press ate this kid up!
Demsey had let himself be caught off guard, a fact that kept him up at night. The election was practically around the corner, and the poles were showing that people believed he was soft on crime all because he didn’t share the Governor’s exuberance for building prisons.
No matter what the reason, nonetheless, his administration was scrambling. His advisors suggested that he should go with the flow and start giving out more awards to law enforcement agents. If drug busts were what the public wanted, then Demsey needed to be on the front page leading the way.
It was necessary for Mayor Demsey to get this publicity in a bad way. He needed one more term to make his legacy work, and if he had to sleep with the devil to make it happen, he would. The polls showed that as many people who knew Agent Bradley, knew the Mayor. With every interview, Bradley painted the picture of a city rampant with crime with
an administration unwilling or unable to deal with the problem.
Tonight would be the start to changing that image. It would be all smiles and hand shakes as Demsey presented the award to Bradley in front of the press corp. He would continue having award ceremonies until everyone finally gave up on the rhetoric and realized that crime had actually decreased since he became Mayor—a point he would make again tonight.
“Well, it looks like everything is about ready,” he said to himself as he saw that most everyone had taken their seats. “Time to get this show on the road.” With that, he straightened his tie and walked towards the front of the room.
Special Agent in Charge O’Leary stood against the back wall in his wrinkled suit, watching all the people muddle about. Agent Anderson walked over to him.
“Hey, Agent O’Leary, do you have any idea what this is about?” he asked.
Looking slightly annoyed, O’Leary replied, “That jerk Bradley is getting a commendation.”
Just then, Deputy Director Cranston, in his best suit, walked in, surveyed the room, and then walked over to them. Putting a hand on O’Leary’s shoulder he said in a low tone of voice, “Is everything on for tonight?”
“Yes sir, everything is going as planned,” O’Leary replied in a serious tone. “Are you coming along?”
“No,” the Director told him, “I have to meet with the Mayor, then finish some paperwork. Besides, you’ve run a top-notch investigation up to now, I don’t want to steal any of your glory. I’m only sorry you have to stand here and see someone else get your commendation.”
“That’s okay, sir,” O’Leary replied. “If everything works out tonight, it will more than make up for it.”
Pointing at the younger man, Cranston commented, “Take care of Anderson. This will be his first bust and I don’t want him getting hurt. And whatever you do, don’t let Cowboy find out what’s going on.”
“No problem, sir,” O’Leary replied.
Then the Director turned his attention to Anderson. “Stay close to O’Leary tonight, kid. He’s my best Agent and you can learn a lot from him.”
“Yes sir,” Anderson assured him. He waited until Cranston turned and walked away before asking the question. “Who’s Cowboy, and what did he mean by all that?”
“Well kid, since you’re fresh out of the Academy, I guess someone should fill you in on what’s been going on here lately.” O’Leary hesitated a moment and looked around before continuing.
“A couple of years ago, Agent Bradley transferred into our department from somewhere in California. He had a few commendations in his folder, and his former CO gave him a sparkling recommendation. Director Cranston assigned him to my team and, at first, he seemed to fit in all right. I was impressed by his results, but not by his methods. He’s just too unpredictable and unreliable to be safe. Patient and careful planning is the key to safety, but Bradley prefers to rush in quickly on hunches.”
“So why didn’t you report him to Cranston?” Anderson asked.
“I did,” O’Leary nodded. “Cranston backed me all the way and jumped his butt in front of the whole squad. I thought that would settle things, but it didn’t. Bradley’s actions never changed, so he was removed from my team and all major cases.
“Then, about six months ago, I got a tip from my informant that a large shipment of cocaine was coming into Pier 79. It was a special shipment, and Kingpin himself was supposed to be there to inspect it. I had thirty agents in position to seal off the area once Kingpin arrived, but we had no such luck. As the shipment hit the dock, Bradley came flying out of nowhere with guns blazing. The damn fool would’ve gotten himself killed if I hadn’t called in the troops to save his butt. Needless to say, Kingpin got away, and months of investigative work went down the drain.”
“That’s against departmental procedure!” Anderson said, remembering how strict they were at the Academy about going by the book. “He should’ve gotten canned for it!”
“He did—well almost. Cranston suspended him and took his badge, but a couple of hours later Cranston got a phone call from the Governor’s office asking him to reconsider.”
“What does the Governor have to do with it? We’re Federal, we don’t answer to him,” Anderson stated.
“That’s what Cranston thought when he told Governor Wilson to go fly a kite. However, when the Regional Chief of Internal Affairs walked into his office to investigate him for harassment of one of his Agents, Cranston had to back down. Bradley got his badge back and credit for the bust. Cranston’s been walking on egg shells ever since. We nicknamed Bradley “Cowboy” and nobody tells him anything about their cases anymore.
“If Bradley screwed up so bad, why is he getting a commendation?” Anderson asked.
“I’m not sure, kid.” O’Leary shrugged. “All I know is that Governor Wilson won re-election last fall due to his hard on crime platform. It was so successful that Mayor Demsey must be trying to do the same thing. Look around, I’ve never seen this much press for an award before. This will get Demsey on the front page tomorrow for sure.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Anderson said, sympathetically. “That could have been you on the front page with him.”
“That’s all right, kid. If everything goes well tonight, things will be different. There’s another shipment coming in, and, according to my informant, Kingpin is taking the deliver in person.” O’Leary could see that almost everyone had taken their seats. “It looks like this party’s stating to get underway. I’ll fill you in on the rest back at HQ, when this is all over.” As he said this, Mayor Demsey stepped up to the podium.