The Last Undercover by Bob Hamer Page A

gangs. Tom and I were white and Rick and Mike were well known as CRASH detectives.
    Rick and Mike introduced us to an informant who was willing to make buys from those members we targeted. The informant, however, had a criminal record and his credibility could be attacked if called upon to testify. If we hoped to be successful and convict those members we targeted, we were going to need an undercover agent.
    Although the FBI had talented black agents, many were lawyers and accountants who came from middle-class backgrounds. They were no more anxious to work undercover in South Central than anybody else. Our first attempts at using FBI agents proved disastrous: the first two agents we attempted to introduce lacked the experience to successfully pull off the assignment. In our third attempt, the informant could not get along with the agent. Finally, one Friday evening, the black informant looked at me in desperation and said—and I quote—“Leave the niggers at home. I’d rather take you in.” When I asked if he could sell it, he offered a huge smile. Thus began my undercover experiences in South Central.
    The cover I developed was simple. I knew that most of the gang members we targeted stayed within the boundaries of their own gang territory and few, if any, would ever travel to “Boystown,” in West Hollywood. My story was that I worked in a tire store on Santa Monica Boulevard and sold rock to the gays. “They eat that stuff up” was my standard line. Actually, to sell my act in the tough streets of South Cental L.A., I used slightly stronger language, but you get the idea. We had an old pickup truck as our undercover vehicle. My daily attire was already pretty grubby and I rubbed grease on my hands and clothes, making sure my fingernails were filthy. I looked like I’d been changing tires all day.
    The informant made the initial introduction and after that the sales came rather easily. Typically, once I entered a neighborhood, I turned away youngsters who ran up to my car, hoping to sell me rock. I’d ask for the person we had identified as being a viable target and within a few minutes he would appear. After consummating a sale, I’d leave the area. Within a half hour or so, police units would arrive in the neighborhood, not an infrequent occurrence, and conduct an FI (field identification) of the gang members congregating on the street. Our target was often milling about with the others. Rick and Mike would take photos of the gang members and maybe even pat them down, discovering the marked bills used to purchase the rock. No arrests were made, but the evidence began to mount.

10
    PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE
    S ome nights in South Central proved more nerve-wracking than others. Late one evening while making a purchase, a drive-by shooting occurred up the block from where I was parked. The recorder I was wearing picked up the distinct
pop, pop, pop
of the firearms.
    A community source identified Eligh as a prominent shot caller. He had an extensive criminal record with multiple narcotics convictions and was a major street-level distributor. He became a prime target.
    Accompanying the informant late one Friday evening, we drove through the hood seeking Eligh. We came upon him and the informant introduced me. We made a quick buy and the stage was set for further business. Several nights later I returned alone and made a quick purchase. When I returned to the office to review the evidence, I realized the sale took place so quickly and with such ease there was almost no audio of any evidentiary value. The sole evidence was my testimony; the U.S. Attorney’s office would require more if we were hoping for a federal prosecution.
    I decided the next purchase would have to involve more conversation. The problem was, Eligh wasn’t much of a talker. He wanted buyers and wasn’t looking to make a white man his best friend. Although the purchase prices were minimal, often just a few hundred dollars, I decided that rather than