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| L |
| by Lisa Lockwood |
| Women on the Force and the Dangers of Undercover Work |
| Women on the Force and the Dangers of Undercover Work |
| By Lisa Lockwood |
Because policewomen inherently feel the need to prove themselves even more so
than a new male rookie, they’re more willing to do more dangerous undercover
operations.
They’re called upon more frequently and are considered secret weapons in the
police world. More times than not, women police officers choose to place
themselves in more dangerous criminal situations than policemen.
For example, when I went undercover to infiltrate a mafia-tied fencing operation, I
didn’t care that I didn’t have a gun, vest or wire to protect myself. I threw myself
into a precarious undercover role because I felt I needed to prove I was
courageous.
Read the following excerpt from my book, Undercover Angel – From Beauty Queen
to SWAT Team…a true story, to better understand a woman’s dedication to the
job.
A few months after wearing my little girl persona, I’d dolled myself up in short
shorts, black stilettos and a slinky, purple tank top. My platinum blonde mane
tussled wildly over my shoulders and stretched down to the small of my back. My
lips were over-lined, a trick I’d picked up from the Miss Illinois pageant to give the
illusion of a plumper mouth. Finally, my eyes—which could be my most valuable
tool today—struggled to stay open as they lay heavily encrusted from the clumps
of midnight-black mascara. Was all of this overkill? Not when this desperate rookie
was at least smart enough to realize she’d be unwired, unvested and unarmed
while escorting a snitch named Rocco into a Mafia–owned pawnshop with bags of
“stolen” goods to sell.
My assignment was to infiltrate a Mafia-connected fencing operation on Chicago’s
south side, and Rocco was our informant. After having been arrested for
shoplifting a felony amount of merchandise from a department store, Rocco had
opted to flip on his source instead of going to jail for the crime. Rocco was in his
mid-twenties, brunette, thin, and addicted to heroin.
My job, armed only with street smarts, was to become the cocaine-addicted
stripper girlfriend of one of Rocco’s drinking buddies. Sound confusing? I hoped
so, because that’s exactly what we were going for. The sketchier my relationship
was with the informant, the better it was for Rocco. We needed to do what we could
to protect his decision to “nark.” If pressed by the Mafia, Rocco was coached to
say, “Her boyfriend told me she was an expert thief and needed help unloading
stuff.” Rocco was prepared to casually brag, “Yeah I told her I’d get her in, but
she’s gonna have to give me a cut for the connect.”
We were convinced that we’d created an airtight story to get me inside the quasi-
pawnshop to meet the players. Then again, what did I know? I was just an
undercover rookie willing to do anything to impress the guys.
The “pawnshop’s” lobby was dark and barren, furnished with nothing more than
two metal folding chairs. Filthy orange linoleum, circa 1970s no doubt, lay scuffed
and faded beneath our feet. A solid wood-paneled wall stood directly before us,
encasing a small, clouded bulletproof glass window with a money exchange slit at
the bottom. To the left of that window was a seamless door with no knob and a
doorbell. The elusive entrance.
My mind raced momentarily as I considered my mission. Aside from convincing the
Mafiosi that I was a cocaine-snorting thief who made her living as a stripper, I had
additional tasks. This is where my cake-lashed eyes would be called into action.
The team made my assignment clear: ascertain the identity of the players,
discover whether or not “hot” merchandise was secreted in the warehouse,
pinpoint the guy who was actually conducting the day-to-day business operations,
locate where the cash was stashed, identify the locations of all entrances, exits,
doors, windows and stairwells and conclude if anyone was carrying concealed
weapon. Additionally, I had to remember anything that would present an officer
safety concern in order to prepare for the eventual execution of a search warrant
on the business, provided that probable cause was established. All of this was
expected from an inexperienced patrol officer who was chosen for the undercover
because, like Greg Brady’s Johnny Bravo from The Brady Bunch, “I fit the suit.” I’d
made it easy for them. I was attractive and sexy and, most important, I was willing.
Rocco walked up to the bulletproof glass and said, “Hey buddy, open up!”
The young dark-haired, olive-skinned man monitoring the door deliberately shifted
his eyes toward me with disdain. He furrowed his eyebrows and squinted while
nodding his chin upward at Rocco, as if to say, “Who’s that?”
Rocco crept closer to the window. I stood to the side trying to remain aloof and
gazing around the lobby as if I didn’t give a rats ass if he let in that back room or
not. I listened as Rocco pleaded with the guy (Tony), whom he referred to as
Tone.
“C’mon Tone, open up. She’s okay; it’s my buddy’s girl…”
After several seconds of peering down his nose and scowling at a groveling
Rocco, Tony relented and buzzed the door open. Showtime. Following Rocco past
a small, grungy office, I noticed Tony icily locked onto me. Immediately beyond the
office was the warehouse, where a short pudgy, fifty-five-year-old Italian man made
his debut. He wore an untucked, wrinkled dress shirt and tired black dress pants.
The musty warehouse reeked of sewer odor. It was poorly lit and…Bingo! Loaded
with hot merchandise. Shelves were packed to the ceiling with TVs, DVD players,
laptops, stereo equipment, and an organized assortment of toolboxes and power
tools, all in their original packaging. To the left were clothing racks overflowing with
men’s suits and sports jerseys. Two rows of bicycles lined the back wall, most with
the store tags still hanging from them.
Rocco walked straight up to the pudgy guy, extended his hand and said, “Hey
Danno. This is Lisa.” (I was told by the veteran detectives to use my real first
name undercover so as not to trip up some of their ‘rocket scientist’ snitches.)
Mr. Pudgy acknowledged me by correcting Rocco: “Danny.”
Again, Rocco spewed his rehearsed line, “She’s my buddy’s girl,” and added…“for
now” (not rehearsed). Rocco’s nervousness manifested itself with a case of
diarrhea of the mouth. “She’s a stripper,” he said, as if I weren’t there,
“ain’t she hot?”
As Danny blatantly eyed my now-perspiring body up and down, I corrected Rocco
and sarcastically said, “That’s dancer.”
Now that the formalities were over, I followed Rocco’s lead by dumping our bags of
‘stolen’ razor blades and jars of Tylenol on a card table, and then neatly laid out
the men’s suits. Danny’s eyes lit up; he began sorting the items. “How much?”
Rocco said, “Three hundred for the suits.”
Pleased with the load, Danny shrugged, puckered his lips, and nodded his
approval as he caressed the fabric. Before I had a chance to name my price he
said, “I’ll give you a hundred.”
In no position to negotiate with Danny head on, I looked at Rocco and asked,
“Whattaya think?”
Rocco snapped, “Take it.”
Before I had a chance to agree, Danny picked up one of the suits and walked
away as if the deal had already been settled. Suddenly, he searched the suit and
barked, “Where’s the store tag on this? I told you before, this shit has to have the
tag on it for me to get a good buck for it!” Then he noticed the size and expressed
further disappointment. “Next time you get a forty-four short.”
Rocco, not intimidated, said, “Okay, man.”
It was evident Danny wanted the forty-four short for himself. He pulled out a large
roll of cash, gave me a hundred-dollar bill, and began counting out Rocco’s share.
“You still owe me fifty bucks,” he grunted, handing him $250 instead of $300.
Rocco didn’t flinch. How often does a bad guy get to use police money to pay off a
debt to the Mafia? After the transaction, Danny escorted us out.
As we passed the office, Tony and another young man were comfortably reclined
in their leather office chairs watching a movie on a brand new large-screen TV.
When they looked up, I seized the moment by smiling flirtatiously and purring,
Goodbye, as I scanned the room for a safe and any sign of a weapon. Rocco
said, “See ya man,” to which Tony just nodded. I wondered if Tony was a mute or
preserving his vocal cords for a Sinatra karaoke night. They each returned my
smile as we left.
We crossed the street to a parking lot where the surveillance van loaded with back-
up detectives awaited us. Rocco and I entered our undercover car, all too aware
that the guys in the store could still see us as we drove off. A tail and lead car
escorted us to a predetermined rendezvous point for our debriefing.
We arrived at a park only minutes away from the business, and Rocco was swiftly
transferred to an undercover vehicle with heavily tinted windows. I felt like I was
under a microscope, surrounded by high-ranking members of the Southwest Major
Case Unit along with various superiors from my department. They were anxious to
hear the play-by-play, and I reveled in all the attention as I handed over $350 to
the case detective. “We did it!” I exclaimed.
I overheard one of the Commanders whisper to a detective, “Hell, I know she’s a
cop, and I’d still buy stolen shit from her.”
Consumed by adrenaline, I’d forgotten what I must have looked like dressed as a
stripper in a crowd of policemen. I considered that I would no longer just be the
petite, no make-up wearing, French-braided blonde rookie they barely saw for the
last four years on midnights. Now these men had an actual visual to fantasize
about “Lisa the stripper.” Everyone was beaming about our success, including me.
Only now I glowed for an additional reason: would these guys still respect me or
did I just unseal Pandora’s Box? Regardless, it was done. We had successfully
infiltrated a Mafia-tied fencing ring and I was now a crucial operative. I remained on
a high for the next two days, recounting our successful sting in my mind. I shared
what I had accomplished with my boyfriend Dean, my two closest friends and a few
family members—short of the case-sensitive information, of course.
Days later, with an inflated ego, I was back inside the seamy pawnshop with Rocco,
attempting to sell more suits and power tools. This time, Tony was quick to buzz us
in, and Danny was already waiting for us in the warehouse as we placed our items
down on the card table. Rocco and I replayed a rehearsed story about how we
were nearly caught by store security as we fled with the power tools. To tighten
our case against Danny and the fencing operation, we needed to ensure that he
knew the merchandise we were bringing him was stolen. As Danny examined our
wares, I made an intentionally loud aside to Rocco: “You’re only gettin’ $25 from
me on the suit split because I took more risk.” It worked…however, a bit too well.
Hearing me sound so assertive this time piqued Danny’s suspicion. With furrowed
brows, he looked into my eyes and started his interrogation.
“Where you from?”
I’d learned, when trying to convince someone of a false identity, to keep the story
as simple as possible. Besides, I’d always enjoyed role-playing pranks with friends
and strangers to see how convincing I could be, and had learned from an early
age to intertwine real events with fictitious stories to make my accounts more
believable. This was definitely a moment when I was thankful for indulging in such
a silly pastime.
“Bridgeport,” I replied.
“Where’d you go to high school?”
“Kelly High.” This wasn’t true, but my sisters had been students there and I thought
at the very least I’d be able to recall some things about it if necessary. I’d attended
an all-girls Catholic high school, but I wasn’t sure Danny would buy that a Catholic
schoolgirl would graduate to a coke-addicted stripper.
He paused for a second, then asked, “You got any ID?” That was the question that
dried my palate. It was evident that today’s Daisy Dukes and a skin-tight cleavage-
revealing shirt were not going to be enough to distract Danny this time. Since I
hadn’t done much undercover work, the detective division hadn’t bothered to
create the usual wallet of fake credentials for me. They had, however, at the last
minute, thrown together a traffic citation for speeding, which bore my undercover
name. There was only one problem: I’d forgotten it in the undercover car parked
across the street.
I answered Danny with a hint of sarcasm: “Yeah, it’s in the car, in my purse.”
To my horror he said, “Go get it.”
A quick decision had to be made. I dared not get into an argument with him and
risk leaving without a sale. The other option was to retrieve the ticket, but this
meant leaving Rocco alone. (It would have seemed suspicious to ask him to
accompany me to the car.) But this option was an officer-safety “no-no,” posing a
number of possible risks: without a wire I had no way of alerting the guys in the
back-up van that I would be leaving the pawnshop without the informant.
Meanwhile, I ran the risk that Rocco would betray the police and voluntarily reveal
my cover; it was not uncommon for an informant to play both sides. Or, Danny
could either shake Rocco down or entice him with a reward to reveal my identity.
I needed to show that I was unmoved by his request, so I exited the shop and
hastily crossed the street, pretending to act like it was more of an inconvenience
than anything else. As I approached the undercover car and grabbed my purse, I
could feel the tension and confusion filtering out of the hot, beat-up panel van less
than two feet from where I stood. But I couldn’t communicate with SWAT for fear
that someone inside the business was watching. The decision was ultimately
mine. I could abort the sting by not returning to the shop, or return and hope that
my cover had not been compromised. I made the rookie decision; risking my
safety, I opted for the latter and hurried back across the street.
Tony buzzed me in without question, and Danny greedily snatched the ticket from
my hand. “You got somethin’ with a picture on it?” he asked me, agitated.
“Yeah, my license has a picture on it but the cop took it when he gave me the
ticket!” I tried to sound equally agitated. I couldn’t understand why he was so
pissed off this time around.
He headed toward the front desk to consult with Tony, whom I would later discover
was his brother and in charge of running the business. As I tried to eavesdrop on
their conversation, I began thinking of an escape route. I stared at Rocco for any
indication that Danny had extracted information from him. But Rocco appeared
carefree as he rode a kids’ bike he had found in the warehouse between the
tables and boxes of merchandise.
This was no time to relax. A minute later, Danny pounded toward me with Tony on
his heels. I scanned them both, looking for a gun bulge, trying to appear calm and
also keep Rocco in my sight. There were three of them and one of me and the
SWAT guys were clueless. All the police academy training in the world couldn’t
prepare me to take on three men without a weapon, and I felt naked without my
vest. Danny flicked his wrist toward me, indicating that I should take it my ticket
back as if it were contaminated, and posed the fateful question. The one everyone
has heard asked on TV dramas and in movies: “You a cop?” Damn! I felt
nauseous. Did Rocco nark me out? Were Danny and Tony preparing for my final
‘sleep with the fishes’ in the Canal Street river? I dared not look down to see if I
was standing in the middle of a disposable area rug. How could this be happening
to me? I thought the other day went brilliantly. This wasn’t fun anymore. Could all
of Mom’s worries have been right? Surely I didn’t push myself all these years to
achieve goal after goal, just to die so foolishly.
There was no time to think. I quickly responded with a sly, flattered smile and
breathy laugh, “Are you serious?”
Rocco morphed from his deer-in-the-headlights expression and chuckled. This
made me believe that he wasn’t shaken down. I felt relieved. There was no need
to say anything else.
In an instant, Danny abruptly lightened up and smiled. I’m not sure if it was one of
embarrassment for the false accusation or a grin to show his Napoleonic power of
intimidation. Regardless, they must have seen that I was unmoved because Tony
passed him a piece of paper to have me sign, indicating that the items I was selling
him today were not stolen property. Piece of cake. Giggling, I rolled my eyes and
said, “Gimme a pen.” I signed the ‘contract,’ which was about as valuable as a
three-dollar bill, considering all I had to prove in court was that he was verbally
aware the stuff I sold him was ‘stolen.’ Tony, who still hadn’t uttered a peep,
handed me a mere $75 for the suits, then forked over $80 to Rocco for the power
tools.
After all of our transactions changed hands, the men couldn’t repress their rising
testosterone level. Thank goodness. I was starting to question my sex appeal. This
time, instead of the rush to the exit, Danny said, “How long you been dancin’?”
“Two years,” I told him.
“Do you do private parties?” he coyly asked. Does a bear shit in the woods? Now
that I had them hook, line and sinker, there was nothing I didn’t do.
“For the right price,” I boasted.
Then, Tony piped in with his first words: “You go to da boat?” he asked in a deep
Rocky Balboa voice.
“Sometimes, but mostly I’m a slot girl.” I winked. C’mon, did I really just say that? As
we all caught the accidental sexual innuendo, grins erupted. It was evident that
the ‘cop issue’ was now the farthest thing from their minds. I took advantage of my
sluthood and flirted with them as Rocco stood by and listened. I meandered into
their front office as if I owned the place and noticed a safe under a desk in the far
corner. Tony and Danny gave me their personal cell phone numbers in case I ever
needed to get rid of anything. This meant I didn’t need Rocco to bring me back
here. I thought it bold of them to cut Rocco out right in front of him, but I went
along with it. Rocco was small-time and I’m sure Danny, with his Napoleon complex,
was used to letting little people know where they stood.
When I thought things couldn’t get better, Tony asked me, “Wanna go on the
riverboat?”
“Sure,” I replied, sounding flattered.
Tony, acting like the stud of the pair, beat Danny to the punch and said, “Give me
a call Friday night if you’re not doin’ nothin’, I’ll take ya out dere.”
Smiling, I said, “I’m in.” They were clueless, and I knew that this would be our last
deal at the pawnshop; our team would be arresting them during a search warrant
later that afternoon.
I breathed easily, convinced that neither of them was the wiser regarding my true
identity. Rocco and I left the pawnshop as Tony and Danny, appearing smitten,
watched us from the front window. I crossed the street, playfully placing Rocco in a
headlock and feinting punches at his head, landing a few light ones for good
measure. He struggled all the way to the undercover car. We were again escorted
to a new rendezvous point. This time, however, I would have to reveal my screw-
up with the ID to the team. Rocco was immediately hustled into the undercover
car, and I had to explain why I’d put us in such a precarious situation. I glossed
over the purse-in-the-car bit as quickly as possible, trying to downplay the event,
and highlighted all of the good things that had transpired upon my return.
Everyone was satisfied with the outcome, but admittedly shaken by my mistake.
After receiving a few handshakes and pats on the back, Detective Burke discreetly
took me aside and read me the riot act. He—the king of officer safety and my
former field-training officer—was pissed off and scolded me accordingly. “Nothing
is worth you gettin’ hurt, Lockwood! There’s no glory in dyin’ over a property
crime!” He glared at me in admonishment.
“Got it,” I said, swallowing hard, knowing he was right. Burke was like an older
brother to me; the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint him. I knew I deserved
this and stoically took my lumps as I nearly choked on my short-lived pride. I darted
off to the safety of a blacked out suburban just in time to hide the eye-blurring
wells of tears pooling up, hoping they thought I was just in a hurry to change out of
the slut ensemble. I was shocked by Burke’s authentic show of concern. How could
this man care about me so much? I mean, Dean, my lover of two years, would
occasionally throw in a “be safe tonight.” My ex-husband, Tony, flippantly asked
me to go AWOL when I received orders for Desert Storm and my own father was
emotionless when I told him I was chosen for the SWAT team. Burke’s gesture was
overwhelming. Was he just being protective, or is this how men are supposed to
treat women? I knew two things in that moment: it made me feel weak and
uncomfortable, and at the same time made me feel loved and special.
With the two successful pawnshop deals under our belts, we were ready to put
together a search and arrest team. The SWAT team, along with other task force
members gathered at a local police department, where the preparation was
initiated. The team leader circulated all of the intelligence on the suspects to the
eager police officers. In a pair of jeans, a black tee-shirt with white POLICE
lettering emblazoned across the front and back, a low hanging pony-tail and a
monochromatic finish to my face, I was back in my element as one of the boys.
A buzz of euphoria flooded the air in the prep room as I diagrammed the floor plan
of the business, labeling all of the exits and entrances on the large dry erase
board in front of the eager squad. After the SWAT team leaders formulated their
entry plan, nearly everyone made their way over to offer a compliment for my
undercover work and efficiency in recalling, in detail, the layout of the pawnshop. I
was excluded from participating on this search warrant; it was imperative to keep
my real identity a secret as long as possible to protect Rocco.
Later that afternoon, members of the SWAT team, along with officers from the
Southwest Major Case Unit, assembled near the pawnshop to execute the search
warrant. It was decided that one of the detectives would stage a ruse to get the
reinforced door buzzed open. Jake, the chosen detective, dressed as a
construction worker and walked inside hoping to hock a power tool.
Meanwhile, we had a team stationed at the back door of the warehouse, and
another team lined up against the building directly next door to the pawnshop.
This time Danny stood behind the bulletproof glass when Jake entered.
Jake asked, “How much will ya give me for this?”
Danny’s guard was up and, not recognizing Jake as a regular, he said, “We don’t
buy stuff like that.” After some desperate pleading on Jake’s part, it became
evident that Danny wasn’t going to open the door, so Jake gave the green light for
the teams to enter and then calmly identified himself as a police officer. He
handed the search warrant through the slit in the glass and demanded that Danny
open the door.
Danny tried to pretend that nothing was wrong as he told the officers to go right
ahead and search, acting the part of a perfect gentleman. (There was no one else
present, so Tony would have to be reckoned with later.) Danny was cuffed, and a
bankroll of more than ten thousand dollars was retrieved from his front pocket.
After he was taken into custody and transported to the police department, I was
allowed to return to the pawnshop, where I had the painstaking job of assisting with
the seizure of stolen inventory worth well over one hundred thousand dollars.
While Commander Wheeler, a highly respected team coordinator, and I searched
the office two young men in their late teens entered. Ignorant of the fact that we
were police, even with my black and white police shirt, they asked, “You wanna buy
two brand new lawn mowers?”
Not missing a beat, Wheeler said, “Bring ’em in so I can see what they look like.”
As the boys left to retrieve the mowers, we were dumbfounded and clued the other
detectives in. When they returned, brand new mowers in tow, Wheeler and I met
them in the lobby. Wheeler asked, “Where’d you guys get these?”
The boys proudly exclaimed, “We stole them from Sears in Burbank mall!”
Ironically, this was in Wheeler’s jurisdiction.
“Well guess what, boys? We’re the police and you’re both going to jail.” Wheeler
took out his badge. We cuffed the stunned boys and brought them into the
warehouse. As we waited for a marked squad car to take them away, I felt
compelled to ask them what they’d planned to do with the money they would have
received from the mowers.
The older boy said, “I got a bad drug problem and use it for acid.”
The other boy sat silently in the chair, his head sunk low between his legs, fighting
tears. They further revealed that they’d been doing business with Danny and Tony
for the last three months. Both started crying, expressing the devastation their
parents would feel upon notification of their crime. In response to what hard-nosed
cops looked at as a cowardly emotional display, one of the detectives said, “When
you play with the big boys, you go down like the big boys.” I fought the feminine
urge to counsel and console the lost boys. I had an image to uphold around my
comrades. The boys were both charged with a felony crime.
Shortly after, Commander Selleck made a special point of addressing me in the
alley behind the shop. “You did good today. What do think about this type of
work?”
His approval meant the world to me. He had been one of my mentors early on. He’
d encouraged me in my rookie years to embrace the highest of standards. He had
attracted ridicule for having the confidence to send me—a rookie—to Firearms
Instructor School. He’d supported my decision to apply for the SWAT team, aware
that this would make him unpopular in the eyes of his colleagues, as well as certain
members of the team. It wasn’t long before my envious colleagues started to call
me Sgt. Lockwood, due to the rapid pace my law enforcement career was
advancing. Now, I was being pulled out of patrol to perform undercover operations
with joint agencies. With the exhilaration of our success fresh in my mind, I forgot
about the near death experience I’d endured just hours before. I was too naïve to
wonder if I was doing this for their approval or for my own self-esteem. I gave
Commander Selleck an adamant, “Yes!” in response to his question. I loved the
thrill of working undercover!
We all celebrated our successful day with pizza back at the station after unloading
the contents of our vans and trucks into an evidence warehouse. We heard that
Danny was giving the lock-up keepers a hard time, behaving boisterously and
demanding to make phone calls. Later he would complain of chest pain, a
symptom the police often refer to as “Felony Flu.” (In many cases, when an
individual is made aware of the gravity of their crime, he trumps up some type of
ailment that can get him out of his cell and transported to the hospital. Whether
we believe him or not, protocol insists that we assume it’s a valid ailment.) Danny
was transported to the hospital, where he remained for two days before he went in
front of a judge for bond hearing.
Tony eventually turned himself in, with his attorney attached at the hip, and was
free on bond within forty-eight hours. Several months later, still awaiting trial, he
was discovered dead in his hotel room in Las Vegas. The cause of death was an
alleged overdose. Danny ended up cooperating with the police and was given
probation for his participation in the fencing operation. The entire recovered
inventory was sold at a police auction.
Later that year, I received the Grand Cordon award. This would only be the
beginning.
than a new male rookie, they’re more willing to do more dangerous undercover
operations.
They’re called upon more frequently and are considered secret weapons in the
police world. More times than not, women police officers choose to place
themselves in more dangerous criminal situations than policemen.
For example, when I went undercover to infiltrate a mafia-tied fencing operation, I
didn’t care that I didn’t have a gun, vest or wire to protect myself. I threw myself
into a precarious undercover role because I felt I needed to prove I was
courageous.
Read the following excerpt from my book, Undercover Angel – From Beauty Queen
to SWAT Team…a true story, to better understand a woman’s dedication to the
job.
A few months after wearing my little girl persona, I’d dolled myself up in short
shorts, black stilettos and a slinky, purple tank top. My platinum blonde mane
tussled wildly over my shoulders and stretched down to the small of my back. My
lips were over-lined, a trick I’d picked up from the Miss Illinois pageant to give the
illusion of a plumper mouth. Finally, my eyes—which could be my most valuable
tool today—struggled to stay open as they lay heavily encrusted from the clumps
of midnight-black mascara. Was all of this overkill? Not when this desperate rookie
was at least smart enough to realize she’d be unwired, unvested and unarmed
while escorting a snitch named Rocco into a Mafia–owned pawnshop with bags of
“stolen” goods to sell.
My assignment was to infiltrate a Mafia-connected fencing operation on Chicago’s
south side, and Rocco was our informant. After having been arrested for
shoplifting a felony amount of merchandise from a department store, Rocco had
opted to flip on his source instead of going to jail for the crime. Rocco was in his
mid-twenties, brunette, thin, and addicted to heroin.
My job, armed only with street smarts, was to become the cocaine-addicted
stripper girlfriend of one of Rocco’s drinking buddies. Sound confusing? I hoped
so, because that’s exactly what we were going for. The sketchier my relationship
was with the informant, the better it was for Rocco. We needed to do what we could
to protect his decision to “nark.” If pressed by the Mafia, Rocco was coached to
say, “Her boyfriend told me she was an expert thief and needed help unloading
stuff.” Rocco was prepared to casually brag, “Yeah I told her I’d get her in, but
she’s gonna have to give me a cut for the connect.”
We were convinced that we’d created an airtight story to get me inside the quasi-
pawnshop to meet the players. Then again, what did I know? I was just an
undercover rookie willing to do anything to impress the guys.
The “pawnshop’s” lobby was dark and barren, furnished with nothing more than
two metal folding chairs. Filthy orange linoleum, circa 1970s no doubt, lay scuffed
and faded beneath our feet. A solid wood-paneled wall stood directly before us,
encasing a small, clouded bulletproof glass window with a money exchange slit at
the bottom. To the left of that window was a seamless door with no knob and a
doorbell. The elusive entrance.
My mind raced momentarily as I considered my mission. Aside from convincing the
Mafiosi that I was a cocaine-snorting thief who made her living as a stripper, I had
additional tasks. This is where my cake-lashed eyes would be called into action.
The team made my assignment clear: ascertain the identity of the players,
discover whether or not “hot” merchandise was secreted in the warehouse,
pinpoint the guy who was actually conducting the day-to-day business operations,
locate where the cash was stashed, identify the locations of all entrances, exits,
doors, windows and stairwells and conclude if anyone was carrying concealed
weapon. Additionally, I had to remember anything that would present an officer
safety concern in order to prepare for the eventual execution of a search warrant
on the business, provided that probable cause was established. All of this was
expected from an inexperienced patrol officer who was chosen for the undercover
because, like Greg Brady’s Johnny Bravo from The Brady Bunch, “I fit the suit.” I’d
made it easy for them. I was attractive and sexy and, most important, I was willing.
Rocco walked up to the bulletproof glass and said, “Hey buddy, open up!”
The young dark-haired, olive-skinned man monitoring the door deliberately shifted
his eyes toward me with disdain. He furrowed his eyebrows and squinted while
nodding his chin upward at Rocco, as if to say, “Who’s that?”
Rocco crept closer to the window. I stood to the side trying to remain aloof and
gazing around the lobby as if I didn’t give a rats ass if he let in that back room or
not. I listened as Rocco pleaded with the guy (Tony), whom he referred to as
Tone.
“C’mon Tone, open up. She’s okay; it’s my buddy’s girl…”
After several seconds of peering down his nose and scowling at a groveling
Rocco, Tony relented and buzzed the door open. Showtime. Following Rocco past
a small, grungy office, I noticed Tony icily locked onto me. Immediately beyond the
office was the warehouse, where a short pudgy, fifty-five-year-old Italian man made
his debut. He wore an untucked, wrinkled dress shirt and tired black dress pants.
The musty warehouse reeked of sewer odor. It was poorly lit and…Bingo! Loaded
with hot merchandise. Shelves were packed to the ceiling with TVs, DVD players,
laptops, stereo equipment, and an organized assortment of toolboxes and power
tools, all in their original packaging. To the left were clothing racks overflowing with
men’s suits and sports jerseys. Two rows of bicycles lined the back wall, most with
the store tags still hanging from them.
Rocco walked straight up to the pudgy guy, extended his hand and said, “Hey
Danno. This is Lisa.” (I was told by the veteran detectives to use my real first
name undercover so as not to trip up some of their ‘rocket scientist’ snitches.)
Mr. Pudgy acknowledged me by correcting Rocco: “Danny.”
Again, Rocco spewed his rehearsed line, “She’s my buddy’s girl,” and added…“for
now” (not rehearsed). Rocco’s nervousness manifested itself with a case of
diarrhea of the mouth. “She’s a stripper,” he said, as if I weren’t there,
“ain’t she hot?”
As Danny blatantly eyed my now-perspiring body up and down, I corrected Rocco
and sarcastically said, “That’s dancer.”
Now that the formalities were over, I followed Rocco’s lead by dumping our bags of
‘stolen’ razor blades and jars of Tylenol on a card table, and then neatly laid out
the men’s suits. Danny’s eyes lit up; he began sorting the items. “How much?”
Rocco said, “Three hundred for the suits.”
Pleased with the load, Danny shrugged, puckered his lips, and nodded his
approval as he caressed the fabric. Before I had a chance to name my price he
said, “I’ll give you a hundred.”
In no position to negotiate with Danny head on, I looked at Rocco and asked,
“Whattaya think?”
Rocco snapped, “Take it.”
Before I had a chance to agree, Danny picked up one of the suits and walked
away as if the deal had already been settled. Suddenly, he searched the suit and
barked, “Where’s the store tag on this? I told you before, this shit has to have the
tag on it for me to get a good buck for it!” Then he noticed the size and expressed
further disappointment. “Next time you get a forty-four short.”
Rocco, not intimidated, said, “Okay, man.”
It was evident Danny wanted the forty-four short for himself. He pulled out a large
roll of cash, gave me a hundred-dollar bill, and began counting out Rocco’s share.
“You still owe me fifty bucks,” he grunted, handing him $250 instead of $300.
Rocco didn’t flinch. How often does a bad guy get to use police money to pay off a
debt to the Mafia? After the transaction, Danny escorted us out.
As we passed the office, Tony and another young man were comfortably reclined
in their leather office chairs watching a movie on a brand new large-screen TV.
When they looked up, I seized the moment by smiling flirtatiously and purring,
Goodbye, as I scanned the room for a safe and any sign of a weapon. Rocco
said, “See ya man,” to which Tony just nodded. I wondered if Tony was a mute or
preserving his vocal cords for a Sinatra karaoke night. They each returned my
smile as we left.
We crossed the street to a parking lot where the surveillance van loaded with back-
up detectives awaited us. Rocco and I entered our undercover car, all too aware
that the guys in the store could still see us as we drove off. A tail and lead car
escorted us to a predetermined rendezvous point for our debriefing.
We arrived at a park only minutes away from the business, and Rocco was swiftly
transferred to an undercover vehicle with heavily tinted windows. I felt like I was
under a microscope, surrounded by high-ranking members of the Southwest Major
Case Unit along with various superiors from my department. They were anxious to
hear the play-by-play, and I reveled in all the attention as I handed over $350 to
the case detective. “We did it!” I exclaimed.
I overheard one of the Commanders whisper to a detective, “Hell, I know she’s a
cop, and I’d still buy stolen shit from her.”
Consumed by adrenaline, I’d forgotten what I must have looked like dressed as a
stripper in a crowd of policemen. I considered that I would no longer just be the
petite, no make-up wearing, French-braided blonde rookie they barely saw for the
last four years on midnights. Now these men had an actual visual to fantasize
about “Lisa the stripper.” Everyone was beaming about our success, including me.
Only now I glowed for an additional reason: would these guys still respect me or
did I just unseal Pandora’s Box? Regardless, it was done. We had successfully
infiltrated a Mafia-tied fencing ring and I was now a crucial operative. I remained on
a high for the next two days, recounting our successful sting in my mind. I shared
what I had accomplished with my boyfriend Dean, my two closest friends and a few
family members—short of the case-sensitive information, of course.
Days later, with an inflated ego, I was back inside the seamy pawnshop with Rocco,
attempting to sell more suits and power tools. This time, Tony was quick to buzz us
in, and Danny was already waiting for us in the warehouse as we placed our items
down on the card table. Rocco and I replayed a rehearsed story about how we
were nearly caught by store security as we fled with the power tools. To tighten
our case against Danny and the fencing operation, we needed to ensure that he
knew the merchandise we were bringing him was stolen. As Danny examined our
wares, I made an intentionally loud aside to Rocco: “You’re only gettin’ $25 from
me on the suit split because I took more risk.” It worked…however, a bit too well.
Hearing me sound so assertive this time piqued Danny’s suspicion. With furrowed
brows, he looked into my eyes and started his interrogation.
“Where you from?”
I’d learned, when trying to convince someone of a false identity, to keep the story
as simple as possible. Besides, I’d always enjoyed role-playing pranks with friends
and strangers to see how convincing I could be, and had learned from an early
age to intertwine real events with fictitious stories to make my accounts more
believable. This was definitely a moment when I was thankful for indulging in such
a silly pastime.
“Bridgeport,” I replied.
“Where’d you go to high school?”
“Kelly High.” This wasn’t true, but my sisters had been students there and I thought
at the very least I’d be able to recall some things about it if necessary. I’d attended
an all-girls Catholic high school, but I wasn’t sure Danny would buy that a Catholic
schoolgirl would graduate to a coke-addicted stripper.
He paused for a second, then asked, “You got any ID?” That was the question that
dried my palate. It was evident that today’s Daisy Dukes and a skin-tight cleavage-
revealing shirt were not going to be enough to distract Danny this time. Since I
hadn’t done much undercover work, the detective division hadn’t bothered to
create the usual wallet of fake credentials for me. They had, however, at the last
minute, thrown together a traffic citation for speeding, which bore my undercover
name. There was only one problem: I’d forgotten it in the undercover car parked
across the street.
I answered Danny with a hint of sarcasm: “Yeah, it’s in the car, in my purse.”
To my horror he said, “Go get it.”
A quick decision had to be made. I dared not get into an argument with him and
risk leaving without a sale. The other option was to retrieve the ticket, but this
meant leaving Rocco alone. (It would have seemed suspicious to ask him to
accompany me to the car.) But this option was an officer-safety “no-no,” posing a
number of possible risks: without a wire I had no way of alerting the guys in the
back-up van that I would be leaving the pawnshop without the informant.
Meanwhile, I ran the risk that Rocco would betray the police and voluntarily reveal
my cover; it was not uncommon for an informant to play both sides. Or, Danny
could either shake Rocco down or entice him with a reward to reveal my identity.
I needed to show that I was unmoved by his request, so I exited the shop and
hastily crossed the street, pretending to act like it was more of an inconvenience
than anything else. As I approached the undercover car and grabbed my purse, I
could feel the tension and confusion filtering out of the hot, beat-up panel van less
than two feet from where I stood. But I couldn’t communicate with SWAT for fear
that someone inside the business was watching. The decision was ultimately
mine. I could abort the sting by not returning to the shop, or return and hope that
my cover had not been compromised. I made the rookie decision; risking my
safety, I opted for the latter and hurried back across the street.
Tony buzzed me in without question, and Danny greedily snatched the ticket from
my hand. “You got somethin’ with a picture on it?” he asked me, agitated.
“Yeah, my license has a picture on it but the cop took it when he gave me the
ticket!” I tried to sound equally agitated. I couldn’t understand why he was so
pissed off this time around.
He headed toward the front desk to consult with Tony, whom I would later discover
was his brother and in charge of running the business. As I tried to eavesdrop on
their conversation, I began thinking of an escape route. I stared at Rocco for any
indication that Danny had extracted information from him. But Rocco appeared
carefree as he rode a kids’ bike he had found in the warehouse between the
tables and boxes of merchandise.
This was no time to relax. A minute later, Danny pounded toward me with Tony on
his heels. I scanned them both, looking for a gun bulge, trying to appear calm and
also keep Rocco in my sight. There were three of them and one of me and the
SWAT guys were clueless. All the police academy training in the world couldn’t
prepare me to take on three men without a weapon, and I felt naked without my
vest. Danny flicked his wrist toward me, indicating that I should take it my ticket
back as if it were contaminated, and posed the fateful question. The one everyone
has heard asked on TV dramas and in movies: “You a cop?” Damn! I felt
nauseous. Did Rocco nark me out? Were Danny and Tony preparing for my final
‘sleep with the fishes’ in the Canal Street river? I dared not look down to see if I
was standing in the middle of a disposable area rug. How could this be happening
to me? I thought the other day went brilliantly. This wasn’t fun anymore. Could all
of Mom’s worries have been right? Surely I didn’t push myself all these years to
achieve goal after goal, just to die so foolishly.
There was no time to think. I quickly responded with a sly, flattered smile and
breathy laugh, “Are you serious?”
Rocco morphed from his deer-in-the-headlights expression and chuckled. This
made me believe that he wasn’t shaken down. I felt relieved. There was no need
to say anything else.
In an instant, Danny abruptly lightened up and smiled. I’m not sure if it was one of
embarrassment for the false accusation or a grin to show his Napoleonic power of
intimidation. Regardless, they must have seen that I was unmoved because Tony
passed him a piece of paper to have me sign, indicating that the items I was selling
him today were not stolen property. Piece of cake. Giggling, I rolled my eyes and
said, “Gimme a pen.” I signed the ‘contract,’ which was about as valuable as a
three-dollar bill, considering all I had to prove in court was that he was verbally
aware the stuff I sold him was ‘stolen.’ Tony, who still hadn’t uttered a peep,
handed me a mere $75 for the suits, then forked over $80 to Rocco for the power
tools.
After all of our transactions changed hands, the men couldn’t repress their rising
testosterone level. Thank goodness. I was starting to question my sex appeal. This
time, instead of the rush to the exit, Danny said, “How long you been dancin’?”
“Two years,” I told him.
“Do you do private parties?” he coyly asked. Does a bear shit in the woods? Now
that I had them hook, line and sinker, there was nothing I didn’t do.
“For the right price,” I boasted.
Then, Tony piped in with his first words: “You go to da boat?” he asked in a deep
Rocky Balboa voice.
“Sometimes, but mostly I’m a slot girl.” I winked. C’mon, did I really just say that? As
we all caught the accidental sexual innuendo, grins erupted. It was evident that
the ‘cop issue’ was now the farthest thing from their minds. I took advantage of my
sluthood and flirted with them as Rocco stood by and listened. I meandered into
their front office as if I owned the place and noticed a safe under a desk in the far
corner. Tony and Danny gave me their personal cell phone numbers in case I ever
needed to get rid of anything. This meant I didn’t need Rocco to bring me back
here. I thought it bold of them to cut Rocco out right in front of him, but I went
along with it. Rocco was small-time and I’m sure Danny, with his Napoleon complex,
was used to letting little people know where they stood.
When I thought things couldn’t get better, Tony asked me, “Wanna go on the
riverboat?”
“Sure,” I replied, sounding flattered.
Tony, acting like the stud of the pair, beat Danny to the punch and said, “Give me
a call Friday night if you’re not doin’ nothin’, I’ll take ya out dere.”
Smiling, I said, “I’m in.” They were clueless, and I knew that this would be our last
deal at the pawnshop; our team would be arresting them during a search warrant
later that afternoon.
I breathed easily, convinced that neither of them was the wiser regarding my true
identity. Rocco and I left the pawnshop as Tony and Danny, appearing smitten,
watched us from the front window. I crossed the street, playfully placing Rocco in a
headlock and feinting punches at his head, landing a few light ones for good
measure. He struggled all the way to the undercover car. We were again escorted
to a new rendezvous point. This time, however, I would have to reveal my screw-
up with the ID to the team. Rocco was immediately hustled into the undercover
car, and I had to explain why I’d put us in such a precarious situation. I glossed
over the purse-in-the-car bit as quickly as possible, trying to downplay the event,
and highlighted all of the good things that had transpired upon my return.
Everyone was satisfied with the outcome, but admittedly shaken by my mistake.
After receiving a few handshakes and pats on the back, Detective Burke discreetly
took me aside and read me the riot act. He—the king of officer safety and my
former field-training officer—was pissed off and scolded me accordingly. “Nothing
is worth you gettin’ hurt, Lockwood! There’s no glory in dyin’ over a property
crime!” He glared at me in admonishment.
“Got it,” I said, swallowing hard, knowing he was right. Burke was like an older
brother to me; the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint him. I knew I deserved
this and stoically took my lumps as I nearly choked on my short-lived pride. I darted
off to the safety of a blacked out suburban just in time to hide the eye-blurring
wells of tears pooling up, hoping they thought I was just in a hurry to change out of
the slut ensemble. I was shocked by Burke’s authentic show of concern. How could
this man care about me so much? I mean, Dean, my lover of two years, would
occasionally throw in a “be safe tonight.” My ex-husband, Tony, flippantly asked
me to go AWOL when I received orders for Desert Storm and my own father was
emotionless when I told him I was chosen for the SWAT team. Burke’s gesture was
overwhelming. Was he just being protective, or is this how men are supposed to
treat women? I knew two things in that moment: it made me feel weak and
uncomfortable, and at the same time made me feel loved and special.
With the two successful pawnshop deals under our belts, we were ready to put
together a search and arrest team. The SWAT team, along with other task force
members gathered at a local police department, where the preparation was
initiated. The team leader circulated all of the intelligence on the suspects to the
eager police officers. In a pair of jeans, a black tee-shirt with white POLICE
lettering emblazoned across the front and back, a low hanging pony-tail and a
monochromatic finish to my face, I was back in my element as one of the boys.
A buzz of euphoria flooded the air in the prep room as I diagrammed the floor plan
of the business, labeling all of the exits and entrances on the large dry erase
board in front of the eager squad. After the SWAT team leaders formulated their
entry plan, nearly everyone made their way over to offer a compliment for my
undercover work and efficiency in recalling, in detail, the layout of the pawnshop. I
was excluded from participating on this search warrant; it was imperative to keep
my real identity a secret as long as possible to protect Rocco.
Later that afternoon, members of the SWAT team, along with officers from the
Southwest Major Case Unit, assembled near the pawnshop to execute the search
warrant. It was decided that one of the detectives would stage a ruse to get the
reinforced door buzzed open. Jake, the chosen detective, dressed as a
construction worker and walked inside hoping to hock a power tool.
Meanwhile, we had a team stationed at the back door of the warehouse, and
another team lined up against the building directly next door to the pawnshop.
This time Danny stood behind the bulletproof glass when Jake entered.
Jake asked, “How much will ya give me for this?”
Danny’s guard was up and, not recognizing Jake as a regular, he said, “We don’t
buy stuff like that.” After some desperate pleading on Jake’s part, it became
evident that Danny wasn’t going to open the door, so Jake gave the green light for
the teams to enter and then calmly identified himself as a police officer. He
handed the search warrant through the slit in the glass and demanded that Danny
open the door.
Danny tried to pretend that nothing was wrong as he told the officers to go right
ahead and search, acting the part of a perfect gentleman. (There was no one else
present, so Tony would have to be reckoned with later.) Danny was cuffed, and a
bankroll of more than ten thousand dollars was retrieved from his front pocket.
After he was taken into custody and transported to the police department, I was
allowed to return to the pawnshop, where I had the painstaking job of assisting with
the seizure of stolen inventory worth well over one hundred thousand dollars.
While Commander Wheeler, a highly respected team coordinator, and I searched
the office two young men in their late teens entered. Ignorant of the fact that we
were police, even with my black and white police shirt, they asked, “You wanna buy
two brand new lawn mowers?”
Not missing a beat, Wheeler said, “Bring ’em in so I can see what they look like.”
As the boys left to retrieve the mowers, we were dumbfounded and clued the other
detectives in. When they returned, brand new mowers in tow, Wheeler and I met
them in the lobby. Wheeler asked, “Where’d you guys get these?”
The boys proudly exclaimed, “We stole them from Sears in Burbank mall!”
Ironically, this was in Wheeler’s jurisdiction.
“Well guess what, boys? We’re the police and you’re both going to jail.” Wheeler
took out his badge. We cuffed the stunned boys and brought them into the
warehouse. As we waited for a marked squad car to take them away, I felt
compelled to ask them what they’d planned to do with the money they would have
received from the mowers.
The older boy said, “I got a bad drug problem and use it for acid.”
The other boy sat silently in the chair, his head sunk low between his legs, fighting
tears. They further revealed that they’d been doing business with Danny and Tony
for the last three months. Both started crying, expressing the devastation their
parents would feel upon notification of their crime. In response to what hard-nosed
cops looked at as a cowardly emotional display, one of the detectives said, “When
you play with the big boys, you go down like the big boys.” I fought the feminine
urge to counsel and console the lost boys. I had an image to uphold around my
comrades. The boys were both charged with a felony crime.
Shortly after, Commander Selleck made a special point of addressing me in the
alley behind the shop. “You did good today. What do think about this type of
work?”
His approval meant the world to me. He had been one of my mentors early on. He’
d encouraged me in my rookie years to embrace the highest of standards. He had
attracted ridicule for having the confidence to send me—a rookie—to Firearms
Instructor School. He’d supported my decision to apply for the SWAT team, aware
that this would make him unpopular in the eyes of his colleagues, as well as certain
members of the team. It wasn’t long before my envious colleagues started to call
me Sgt. Lockwood, due to the rapid pace my law enforcement career was
advancing. Now, I was being pulled out of patrol to perform undercover operations
with joint agencies. With the exhilaration of our success fresh in my mind, I forgot
about the near death experience I’d endured just hours before. I was too naïve to
wonder if I was doing this for their approval or for my own self-esteem. I gave
Commander Selleck an adamant, “Yes!” in response to his question. I loved the
thrill of working undercover!
We all celebrated our successful day with pizza back at the station after unloading
the contents of our vans and trucks into an evidence warehouse. We heard that
Danny was giving the lock-up keepers a hard time, behaving boisterously and
demanding to make phone calls. Later he would complain of chest pain, a
symptom the police often refer to as “Felony Flu.” (In many cases, when an
individual is made aware of the gravity of their crime, he trumps up some type of
ailment that can get him out of his cell and transported to the hospital. Whether
we believe him or not, protocol insists that we assume it’s a valid ailment.) Danny
was transported to the hospital, where he remained for two days before he went in
front of a judge for bond hearing.
Tony eventually turned himself in, with his attorney attached at the hip, and was
free on bond within forty-eight hours. Several months later, still awaiting trial, he
was discovered dead in his hotel room in Las Vegas. The cause of death was an
alleged overdose. Danny ended up cooperating with the police and was given
probation for his participation in the fencing operation. The entire recovered
inventory was sold at a police auction.
Later that year, I received the Grand Cordon award. This would only be the
beginning.
| Chapter 13 |
| The Stripper & The Chicago Mafia |
Lisa Lockwood is the author of Undercover Angel -- From Beauty Queen to SWAT
Team...a true story. During Lisa's law enforcement career she served as a police
officer, SWAT Team member, and an undercover narcotics detective. Lisa's
femininity, initially perceived as a drawback in the male-dominated world of law
enforcement, became her greatest weapon in the field.
Team...a true story. During Lisa's law enforcement career she served as a police
officer, SWAT Team member, and an undercover narcotics detective. Lisa's
femininity, initially perceived as a drawback in the male-dominated world of law
enforcement, became her greatest weapon in the field.
