A cop to the core

A cop to the core /By Ken Banta

“ When Chicago policeman Mac McLaughlin spoke up against his drug-dealing colleagues, he never imagined he’d be asked to catch them in the act –at terrible risk to himself and his family”

            Dusk was falling as patrolman A’Roterick (Mac) McLaughlin drove slowly down a dingy alley in Chicago. Suddenly the veteran cop spotted a large figure kicking in the basement windows of a flat. Leaping from his patrol car and leveling his revolver, McLaughlin shouted, “Hold it!” The suspect froze, but his hulking frame tensed. McLaughlin needed help. Slowly backing up to his car, eyes on the suspect, he radioed for assistance.

            He was shocked by the response. Over the radio came muffled giggles. Then he recognized the slurred voice of a colleague. “We can’t make it.” Stunned, McLaughlin lowered his gun; with a startled glance, the suspect fled.

            Cold rage. Back at the police station, McLaughlin learnt that the officers on the radio had been high on cocaine. His shock turned to cold rage. Whatever it takes, he vowed to himself, I’m going to put an end to this.

            Since joining the Chicago police force in 1967, McLaughlin had found to his horror that, for many cops, drug dealing was becoming more important than their job. He watched, disgusted, as he saw drugs, including heroin, casually sold from patrol-car windows, on street corners, even in the police headquarters. Other cops shared his outrage. But loyalty to the department and one another kept them quiet. Moreover, the dealing cops had a reputation for ruthlessness, and McLaughlin and many of his colleagues feared revenge if they spoke up.

            It was the incident in the alley that finally shocked McLaughlin into action. The following Saturday, September 26, 1981, he drove to the home of his friend Thomas Chandler, 33, an officer in the department’s self-policing Internal Affairs Division (IAD).

            There McLaughlin unburdened himself. “Dope-dealing cops are a slap in the face to our community,” he fumed. “It makes me sick.” Then, on a large yellow pad, he sketched a complex diagram of police drug deals, including names and dates.

            Chandler was incredulous. With McLaughlin, he had been one of the first black officers recruited on to the predominantly white Chicago force, and both men had worked hard to get even more black police hired. Chandler was angered to learn that most of the cops involved in the dealing were black. “This will get action,” he declared. “I promise.”

            An undercover operation was quickly launched. Still anguished by what he felt was a betrayal of his colleagues, McLaughlin refused any role in the investigation. Heading the probe was Lieutenant Richard Sandberg, 45, an ex-homicide detective known for his tenacity. With Chandler, Sandberg kept a bar popular with off-duty cops under surveillance. Watching from an unmarked van, the officers saw deal after deal between policemen, some still in uniform.

            A police agent tried to make buys at the bar, but the suspicious dealers refused to sell to a stranger. The probe looked doomed. Finally, Chandler went to McLaughlin. “We can’t do this without you,” he said.

            After thinking it over, McLaughlin agreed only to introduce an undercover agent to the dealers. The agent would then make the buys without involving him further.

            The next Wednesday, McLaughlin, a bespectacled, chunky 40-year-old, drove to a residential area in a fashionable neighborhood, accompanied by an attractive, black, female secret agent. They stopped at the building of Patrolman Gregory Grant. Grant had once been McLaughlin’s patrol-car partner, and McLaughlin had quickly learnt to distrust him.

            Nervously climbing the steps to the second floor, McLaughlin and the agent met Grant at the door. “Pam, this is the friend I told you about,” said McLaughlin. “He might be able to help you with that purchase.”

            Grant stared hard at her. Then, instead of introducing himself, he said coolly, “Hey, Pam, haven’t seen you in a long time.”

            No success. Pam stalled. “I don’t know you. What are you talking about?” she replied sharply, glancing at McLaughlin.

            Grabbing McLaughlin by the elbow, Grant led him to the kitchen. “I’ve seen her before. She’s a policewoman,” he sneered angrily.

            Fearing that Grant was accusing him of a frame-up, McLaughlin moved his hand instinctively towards the gun strapped under his jacket. “Hey, I just met the woman at a party,” he bluffed. “How was I supposed to know she’s a cop?” Playfully, McLaughlin slapped the mollified dealer on the shoulder: “Thanks for telling me.”

            As he and the female agent hurriedly left, McLaughlin was shaking with anger over the slip-up. If they ever find me out, he thought, I’m as good as dead.

            McLaughlin rejected any further role in the probe. Sandberg and Chandler knew they needed tape recordings of transactions to get convictions. But for the next four months, the investigators failed to get any evidence on tape; the dealers simply refused to sell to strangers. Chandler was convinced, however, that one person could get the operation moving.

            Over drinks, Chandler went straight to the point. “Mac, it just won’t work without you. Either you catch them in the act, or they’ll go untouched.”

            Still McLaughlin resisted. He was worried that the ruthless dealers might kidnap his wife, two young daughters or, more worrying, his 17-year-old son, Ricky, who had haemophilia. “ A heavy blow to the head could be fatal; you know that,” he told Chandler. Nevertheless, he promised to think it over.

            Hours later, Chandler got a call “I’ll do it,” McLaughlin said. What had made the difference was his sense of duty to the black community. It was in these impoverished neighbourhoods that the drug-dealing cops were selling their destructive wares. And when drug-using officers failed to respond, it was most often blacks who were left unaided in assaults and shootings.

            For several days, McLaughlin dropped hints in the police-station dressing-rooms. “I need some cash,” he would whisper to the cops he knew were dealing in drugs.

            The ploy worked; Gregory Grant took the bait. On Thursday morning, March 11, McLaughlin and the IAD team met in their unmarked van. Two tiny microphones were strapped to McLaughlin’s chest. Technicians checked the signal radioed from the microphones to tape recorders in the van. “We need talk,” Chandler reminded him. “Remember to ask what you’re buying, how much it costs. And get in and out as fast as you can.” Chandler knew that if the dealer suspected a frame-up, he might try to kill McLaughlin then and there.

            McLaughlin drove to Grant’s flat. The IAD van was parked across the street. Inside Grant’s living-room, McLaughlin tried to look relaxed on the deep leather sofa. After some small talk, the dealer got down to business. “So what are you looking for?” Grant asked.

            “I want to cop an eight,” replied McLaughlin, meaning he wanted to buy one-eighth of an ounce (3.5 grams) of cocaine.

            “For you?” Grant asked, with a look of suspicion.

            “No,” replied McLaughlin, feigning embarrassment. “I need some cash.”

            On tape. The tension evaporated. “Well,” Grant said smiling understandingly, “it’s good to make some money.” He disappeared into his bedroom.

            Counting out loud for the benefit of the microphones, McLaughlin peeled off $300 (Rs 3,000). His first deal was on tape.

            Elated, McLaughlin hurried back outside. It had been the longest half-hour of his life.

            The next month was a blur of sleeplessness and sharp-edge tension for McLaughlin. Each day, he spent eight hours on patrol; then, to help make ends meet, worked a four-hour job as a school security guard. At night, he worked for IAD, making contacts with the dealers, setting up meetings, dashing to hastily arranged buys.

            At home, his wife, Adeline, fretted privately as she watched her husband’s stocky frame thin rapidly, his hands tremble. One sleepless night he rolled over in bed, only to find Adeline was awake too. “I’m scared,” he said simply.

            Then, on April 14, McLaughlin’s deepest fear was realized. After a second tape-recorded cocaine sale, Gregory Grant suspected he was being tricked. He found McLaughlin in the police-station. “Let’s go for a ride,” he demanded. “I want to talk to you.” Grant headed for his car, but McLaughlin balked, fearing a trap. “I’ll drive,” he offered.

            The threat. Instead of going to the location Grant had suggested, McLaughlin stopped his car at a small restaurant. Over breakfast, Grant accused McLaughlin of tricking him and his friends up. “We may blow up your house with you and your family inside,” he threatened.

            McLaughlin tried to brazen it out: “Hey, I just want that packet. My money is good anywhere.” He pretended to be angered. “If you don’t want to sell, forget it,” he yelled. “ I’ll deal elsewhere.” Grant was taken aback. Still muttering threats, he sullenly accompanied McLaughlin back to the police-station.

            McLaughlin immediately called Chandler, who agreed the threat was real. McLaughlin and his family would have to leave Chicago immediately and assume a new identity elsewhere.

            As McLaughlin drove his family south that night, Chandler decided to serve Grant with a search warrant. The search, on April 16, turned up incriminating evidence. Chandler hinted to Grant that, unless he agreed to co-operate, he could be saddled with all the charges. For the next two months, Grant made tape-recorded drug buys from a widening circle of drug dealing policemen. Meanwhile, from his sanctuary, McLaughlin was in constant touch with Chandler, feeding the IAD team with names and description and connections of suspects.

            Finally, the investigators decided to move before their secrecy –or a life –was lost. On the morning of June 11, 1982, 50 IAD officers and other police inspectors spread out and arrested 13 cops alleged to be drug dealers. Former Police Superintendent Richard Brzeczek has described the drug racket as the biggest scandal to have hit the department in his 19 years on the force.

            The arrests spelt the end of the investigation, but marked only the beginning of new tribulations for McLaughlin and his family. Isolated in a strange new town and given a new identity, they struggled for a feeling of stability. McLaughlin constantly feared for his own and his family’s safety. Indeed, one day Ricky noticed a strange man as he walked to school. Suddenly, the stranger stepped up to the boy and said, “We’re going to kill your father.” Ricky ran like mad and eluded his pursuer, but the worst fear had come true.

            On January 30, 1984, a jury convicted one of the accused policemen of possession and delivery of drugs. He faced a minimum sentence of six years in prison. Less than three weeks after the conviction, three men abducted McLaughlin in the city where he was hiding. They drove him to a deserted area, forced him out of the car, beat him to the ground, and then brutally stomped on his head. “ Cut his hand off, cut his hand off,” one of the trio yelled.

            Recalls McLaughlin: “ I came up fighting then. I took off running. I was bleeding everywhere and I heard a shot ring out behind me.” He made it to safety of a well-travelled street and called the police. The assault resulted in serious damage to McLaughlin’s eyes; he may have lost vision in the right one permanently. The attackers remain at large.

            Several other policemen have been found guilty or have pleaded guilty receiving sentences ranging from probation to three years. Gregory Grant was given five years’ probation and has been testifying at the various trials.

            Says Nancy Jefferson, a black member of the Chicago Police Board: “ Mac McLaughlin is one cop people in our neighbor hoods can look up to. It’s our children who have been the victims of these crooked policemen. And this man has made the world a little safer for them. God bless him.”

            Despite everything, McLaughlin hopes someday to return to law enforcement and is proud that his efforts have paid off. “ I want to go back to police work; it’s my job,” he say, a cop to the core.

”The advantage of being clever is that it’s easy to play the fool. The opposite is much more difficult”

                                                                                                                                                -Kurt Tucholsky