''Memoirs of a Rural Undercover Cop''
Published by: Xlibris LLC
Date published: 06/08/2009
Edition: Casebound Hardcover
ISBN: 978-1-43633-302-3
Available in Hardcover




Review:

The Cloak of Deception is written to provide insight into the criminal justice system as it relates to the politics of drug enforcement in rural America. Its content illustrate the events, actions and incidents that occurred on the flatlands, back roads and waterways of a small region of Virginia. This book could spark a new wave of debates over crime, justice and society.


Book Teaser:

XIV

DON'T CRY OVER SPILT BEER
A drug enforcement investigator learns early in his career that his ability to successfully infiltrate and serve his community will rely heavily on his down to earth approach in interrelating with the general public. This effort is not reserved for the in the clouds, can’t see the forest because of the trees, social upper elite. (They wouldn’t know that there was a drug problem unless an aircraft filled with cocaine crashed through their $500,000.00 home in the middle of the night). I am referring to the hard working blue-collar people who after work. raise hell, drink beer, and curse the damnation of their struggling existence. Of course, some of these individuals are members of the dark criminal element and it is a drug agent’s responsibility to identify, confront, and effectively bring them to justice. This can not be accomplished by comfortably propping yourself up behind a desk in a safe, tranquil, air-conditioned office. A fisherman can not can not bass while sitting in his boat resting in the middle of a cornfield.



I chose to be a law enforcement officer for the people and among the people. I opted to frequent various establishments across the region and intermingle with the true populace. I refused to pretend that I was somehow “better” than the people I swore to serve and protect simply because I wore a badge.

I had numerous conversations with, and befriended, many people in the area by meeting them in popular nightspots and holes in the walls. I considered it good, basic, and straightforward police work. I wasn‘t pulling any punches. The drug dealers knew who they were and they damned sure knew who I was.


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I could have cared less that the information provided to me by a drug dealer during a game of nine-ball was in retribution of another sleeping with his wife. That was none of my concern. Illegal drugs were. I had no personal animosity against any of these people. In fact, I found most to be quite amicable and they all shared a common and admirable quality that
governmental officials and upper crust community activists often fail to posses. Lack of hypocrisy! These people have nothing to lose and could care less. Their information is genuine, raw, and reliable, and if you fuck them over they will kick your ass without hesitation. They were fully aware that given the evidence of criminal activity I would arrest them in an instant. They also knew that I would buy them a beer, shoot a friendly game of pool, and help them fix a flat tire in the parking lot after last call. They more importantly realized that I would risk my life to assist them in an emergency situation or aid them in a personal crisis.

The Circuit Court Judge deeply resented my activities of this nature. He openly, according to Sheriff Clarke, complained about my drug enforcement approach and methods. Judge Spruill probably would have been less objectionable and much more at ease if I had spent my time dressed in a three-piece suit and frequented upscale cafés drinking martinis with my pinkie extended. Actually, I do not think that the judge really cared how I was dressed or what establishments I patronized. I feel Spruill was much more concerned with whom I was talking to and the potential of their disclosures.

Obviously, individuals that distribute illegal substances on the street level are human beings and not demons released by Satan through the gates of hell to poison the world (even though sometimes it does appear they are). These people have families, problems, and personal goals not unlike any other member of society. The conflict exists in the route they chose to pursue their wants and needs. The reasons drug dealers enter a lifestyle of criminal activity vary from one individual to another and range from mere survival, to desperation, to depression, to peer pressure and intimidation, to just plain greed.

Constant interaction with elements of the drug culture on a daily basis takes a heavy toll on an officer. Neither an undercover agent’s superior officers nor the general public can send someone in to clean up a cesspool and then complain when, upon his return, he doesn't smell like a rose. I am not insinuating that any strayed actions conducted by an undercover officer should be overlooked, nonchalantly discarded, or negligently tolerated. They do, however, need to be expected, understood, and properly addressed. It needs to be accepted as fact a. truly effective undercover operative will never be able to embed him or herself into the bowels of the criminal element until becoming bi-cranial and learning to think fluid shit.

A narcotics agent, over time, learns to embrace danger, fear, and anxious anxiety as his friend. Consequent anxiety and stress become part of your evolution into the matrix of the dark side of the criminal justice system.

Unfortunately when your assignments are completed there is no outlet available to purge cynicism and other parasitic side effects from your system. Even more discouraging. though, is the realization that there is nobody that actually gives a shit. The professional abandonment leaves a narcotics officer buried with confusion, frustration, and a bitterly sarcastic belief that his sacrificed efforts are being taken for granted. (Or even being used against him).

The physical and mental scars of a drug agent are deeply rooted but any plea for help, either overt or latent, is often discarded with, "What have you done for me lately?" Still, somehow you crave it because you learned long ago that as you weave your way through the world of drug enforcement theres no time to cry over spilt beer.


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