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“Against All Enemies…”

“An army major with close ties to the FBI admits that he planned to kidnap a Mafia member, force him to talk about illegal drug deals, ransom him for $1 million, and turn over the intelligence and money to the FBI.”

That was the lede of one of the most bizarre stories I came across during my 42 years as a newspaperman.  And it’s gets better.

Silver Star
Silver Star

The major was a war hero.  He had served two tours of duty in Vietnam, as a first lieutenant in the Special Forces and as a captain in command of a rifle company; he had been wounded in combat and awarded three Purple Hearts; and he had won a Silver Star, the nation’s third highest personal decoration for valor.

After that he had worked undercover for the FBI — and was wounded a fourth time.

*  *  *

The major had wanted to make the Army his career but, in spite of his war record, he was mustered out of the service as the Vietnam war wound down and the Army didn’t need as large a force — and didn’t need him any more.

Eight years later he volunteered to serve our country again, working for the FBI, secretly recording mobsters who frequented a restaurant up North where he worked.

And then, one morning, he got shot.  Actually,  he shot himself.   He was carrying a gun in a briefcase and when he accidentally dropped it and the gun went off.  It could have happened to anybody.

The problem, besides the fact that he had been shot, was that he was wearing a wire.  The FBI, fearing that the Mafia would would hear about the wire from another waiter or a paramedic, maybe, offered to put him in the government’s witness protection program. But he said, No, use your influence to get me back in the Army.  And the FBI did.

Back in the Army, the major continued helping federal agents from up North, meeting with them at least twice, answering their questions about organized crime figures.  At the same time he began recruiting five other Special Forces solders, including two from his unit, to help him carry out his kidnapping, torture, ransom idea.

The whole thing came to a head when one of those solders called an FBI office in North Carolina –those agents didn’t know the major secretly worked for an FBI office up North– and gave them a heads up.  They wired up that solder and pretty soon they knew all about the major’s plan.

When the two FBI offices began talking to each other, the investigation was suddenly dropped.   Agents did, however, tell the major in no uncertain terms to knock it off.

“It was a big misunderstanding,” he told me — the FBI had not wanted him to kidnap and torture anyone.  “I believe I read something into what they were saying that wasn’t there.”

While his plan might have been “misguided,” the major admitted, he said it was conceived out of a sense of duty and patriotism. As an Army officer he had taken an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic – and the Mafia is a domestic enemy of the United States, he said.

* * *

I tried to interview men he had recruited for the kidnapping mission. I found one of them in Alabama and got him on the phone but he wouldn’t talk. He said he’d write me a letter and explain why.

Talking or not talking to me was entirely his call — the “why” made no difference to me.  But, a few days later, his letter arrived. He said he was concerned that if the Mafia learned that he had agreed to come after one of theirs – they might come after him.

“If you put my name in the paper,” he said, “I will have to take my family and go into hiding. And you will have to take your family and go into hiding.”

He signed the letter with his name – and a bloody fingerprint.

Postscript:  The major was kicked out of the Army but was not charged with a crime.  He asked me, “If the U.S. Attorney did not indict me and the Army didn’t court martial me, what, exactly, did I do wrong?”

Coming Monday: Jimmy Hoffa’s Grave

I Ran Over Someone

I saw the woman an instant before I hit her, and then she came up, over the hood of my car, and smashed into the windshield, leaving strands of her hair embedded in the broken glass.

It was a chilly Saturday afternoon a few days before Christmas, dusk dark. I had been at work, at The News & Observer, and had stopped by a relative’s home to visit for a few minutes, before heading home.   She had walked from the mobile home park where she lived to a convenience store on the other side of U.S. 64, a heavily traveled, four-lane highway with a grassy median. Now she was running back across the east bound lanes, going home, with a 12-pack of beer in her arms.

When I saw her I swerved to the right, trying to miss her, and rode my brakes to a stop at the edge of a ditch beside the highway. I may have hit her even before I swerved, before my car began sliding, leaving a long, black patch of rubber on the highway.  Just as my car stopped, she fell off the hood and laid still at the edge of the highway.

I got out and yelled at a man coming toward us from a car lot on the other side of the ditch, yelled at him to call 911. He turn around and start running toward the office.

I took off my coat and laid it on her body and stood beside her until help began arriving, so other drivers could see that something was wrong — so she wouldn’t get hit again.

I didn’t know if she was alive or dead.

* * *

In a few minutes there were blue lights flashing all around.  The troopers arrived first, then the ambulance.

Cars were stopping, parking. A crowd began to gather.  One woman walked up to me and said, “I’m a nurse. Are you OK?”    I said I was and she bent down over the woman laying at my feet. A few minutes later paramedics lifted her onto a stretcher, put her in an ambulance, and took off, back toward Raleigh, toward the Emergency Room at Wake Medical Center.

Another woman walked by  without speaking to me but I heard her say to a trooper, “I was behind him. I saw the accident. That man did everything he could to avoid her.”

I guess I should have been grateful. Or relieved. Or something. But I wasn’t, I was numb.

Finally a trooper told me to get in his cruiser. He asked me what happened, and told me to start when I left my house that morning. And when I finished he didn’t ask any questions, he just said,  “Now tell me again.”

The trooper who measured my skid marks estimated my speed at 45 to 50 miles per hour.  The speed limit was 55.  It was dusk dark, the time of day when some drivers have turned on their lights, and some haven’t. My lights were on.  I had swerved trying to missed her and had slid to a stop.  I didn’t think I would be charged, but who knows.

The trooper who told me to get in his patrol car asked me if I had been wearing my seat belt and I said “No, sir,” and he wrote me a ticket for that. I didn’t think he should have used my honor against me but I wasn’t in a position to argue about it.

And then he was finished and I got out of his patrol car.  My car had been towed, so I started walking down U.S. 64 toward home, a two, three-mile hike.   I hadn’t walked far when the trooper who had questioned me pulled up beside me, rolled down the passenger side window, asked where I was going and if I wanted a ride.  I got back in his cruiser.  On the way home he said, “I’m not going to charge you even if she dies.”

***

That night I called  Brother Dave , who lives in  Charlotte, and told him what had happened.  He asked if I was going to the funeral if she died and offered to go with me. I said I wouldn’t go. But I was going to go to the hospital, to Wake Medical Center, on Sunday to see her family, tell them I was sorry, and try to answer any questions they had. He called me back and offered to go there, too. 

Donna drove me over to the hospital the next day.  I asked her to stay in the car.   There were 10 or 12 of her relatives and friends in the waiting room, including her mother and father. I introduced myself and told them I was the man who had hit their daughter.

I told them I was sorry she had been hurt, that I had tried to miss her. I offered to answer their questions.  Her family and friends were as kind to me as I tried to be to them.

But her mother asked me a question that I’ve thought about from time to time because it told me so much.

“Do you have a job?” she asked.

Postscript:   The State Highway Patrol told me later that the woman I hit, who was mentally handicapped, had a blood alcohol content of .19, more than double the legal limit in North Carolina.

She survived the accident. 

Coming Friday: “Against All Enemies…”