but the ACC station chief in Perth was adamant about moving against him.
As one of the few female agents in the AFP, Judy was often assigned to these cases. Initially she had resented being typecast as the “sheila investigator,” but soon realized that it also carried benefits, namely involvement in more complicated organized crime efforts and an opportunity to influence the investigation.
Most of her male colleagues were clueless on the nuances of Chinese gangs and triads, and somehow felt that a female agent would create less suspicion. She did not think the triad members were that stupid, but the chance to be seen as useful by her bosses overcame her own concerns.
Judy inched forward in the security line, toying with her fake boarding pass. Wu turned again and smiled. She flashed a restrained smile and quickly looked away. My God, he’s flirting with me, she thought. Behave yourself, Mr. Wu. You’re in enough trouble as it is.
Wu placed his briefcase on the conveyor belt, took off his sports coat and folded it gently into a plastic tray, kicked off his loafers and placed them on the belt, and leisurely walked through the metal detector.
Judy could see the two uniformed officers of the Australian Customs and Border Protection Service on the other side of the barrier standing with Clive Baker of the AFP strike force. Behind Judy were two more uniformed officers moving up quickly.
Wu had made it through to the other side and was slipping on his shoes and sports coat while Judy quickly flashed her identification badge. The airport security personnel had been told there might be an intervention that morning.
Judy stepped through the metal detector, and the alarm went off as it picked up the Glock. Wu, who had just finished getting re-dressed, looked up as the alarm went off. He and Judy locked eyes as she walked toward him; she saw his face harden to stone as he noticed the other officers stepping toward him.
“Mr. Wu,” she said, “we’d like you to come with us, please. This will only take a minute.” Counting Judy, there were now four people surrounding Wu, with two additional uniformed officers on the other side of the metal detector blocking the exit.
Baker put his hand on Mr. Wu’s wrist and said, “Please come this way.”
Judy noticed that the only noise in that area of the airport was the mournful clanking of the conveyor belt; everyone—including passengers and airport screeners—was frozen as the scene played out. Perhaps it was a post-9/11 reaction, but Judy noticed that any police action at an airport seemed to work like a comic-book ray gun, freezing people in their tracks.
The police led Wu down a long hallway into a brightly lit, sterile room where two more men stood waiting. The uniformed officers stayed outside while Judy, Baker, and the two new security personnel surrounded Wu. Judy was not convinced this intervention was going to turn up anything because the evidence of money laundering was not clear cut to her, but she dutifully stood directly behind Wu as one of the new officers said, “Mr. Wu, please take off your jacket.”
Wu suddenly turned around, looked at Judy, and said in heavily accented English: “Very bad.”
“Please remember I’m a police officer, Mr. Wu.”
“You make very big mistake,” he said, and turned away, slowly taking off his jacket and handing it over.
The currency was not in his jacket, nor his briefcase, but was stuffed in neat, flat plastic packets around Wu’s thighs into a knee-length racing swimsuit. Wu’s portly build and baggy slacks hid the bulge perfectly.
Throughout the examination Wu said nothing. When they finished photographing everything, they handcuffed him and turned him over to the uniformed officers, who took him away.
While they watched the two Customs officers count the currency, Baker asked, “What did he say to you, Judy?”
“Wu?”
“Yeah, I thought he said something.”
“He said, ‘you make big
As one of the few female agents in the AFP, Judy was often assigned to these cases. Initially she had resented being typecast as the “sheila investigator,” but soon realized that it also carried benefits, namely involvement in more complicated organized crime efforts and an opportunity to influence the investigation.
Most of her male colleagues were clueless on the nuances of Chinese gangs and triads, and somehow felt that a female agent would create less suspicion. She did not think the triad members were that stupid, but the chance to be seen as useful by her bosses overcame her own concerns.
Judy inched forward in the security line, toying with her fake boarding pass. Wu turned again and smiled. She flashed a restrained smile and quickly looked away. My God, he’s flirting with me, she thought. Behave yourself, Mr. Wu. You’re in enough trouble as it is.
Wu placed his briefcase on the conveyor belt, took off his sports coat and folded it gently into a plastic tray, kicked off his loafers and placed them on the belt, and leisurely walked through the metal detector.
Judy could see the two uniformed officers of the Australian Customs and Border Protection Service on the other side of the barrier standing with Clive Baker of the AFP strike force. Behind Judy were two more uniformed officers moving up quickly.
Wu had made it through to the other side and was slipping on his shoes and sports coat while Judy quickly flashed her identification badge. The airport security personnel had been told there might be an intervention that morning.
Judy stepped through the metal detector, and the alarm went off as it picked up the Glock. Wu, who had just finished getting re-dressed, looked up as the alarm went off. He and Judy locked eyes as she walked toward him; she saw his face harden to stone as he noticed the other officers stepping toward him.
“Mr. Wu,” she said, “we’d like you to come with us, please. This will only take a minute.” Counting Judy, there were now four people surrounding Wu, with two additional uniformed officers on the other side of the metal detector blocking the exit.
Baker put his hand on Mr. Wu’s wrist and said, “Please come this way.”
Judy noticed that the only noise in that area of the airport was the mournful clanking of the conveyor belt; everyone—including passengers and airport screeners—was frozen as the scene played out. Perhaps it was a post-9/11 reaction, but Judy noticed that any police action at an airport seemed to work like a comic-book ray gun, freezing people in their tracks.
The police led Wu down a long hallway into a brightly lit, sterile room where two more men stood waiting. The uniformed officers stayed outside while Judy, Baker, and the two new security personnel surrounded Wu. Judy was not convinced this intervention was going to turn up anything because the evidence of money laundering was not clear cut to her, but she dutifully stood directly behind Wu as one of the new officers said, “Mr. Wu, please take off your jacket.”
Wu suddenly turned around, looked at Judy, and said in heavily accented English: “Very bad.”
“Please remember I’m a police officer, Mr. Wu.”
“You make very big mistake,” he said, and turned away, slowly taking off his jacket and handing it over.
The currency was not in his jacket, nor his briefcase, but was stuffed in neat, flat plastic packets around Wu’s thighs into a knee-length racing swimsuit. Wu’s portly build and baggy slacks hid the bulge perfectly.
Throughout the examination Wu said nothing. When they finished photographing everything, they handcuffed him and turned him over to the uniformed officers, who took him away.
While they watched the two Customs officers count the currency, Baker asked, “What did he say to you, Judy?”
“Wu?”
“Yeah, I thought he said something.”
“He said, ‘you make big
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