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

The ghost in the office

The ghost in the office/ By Claire Safran

“Believe them or not, ghost stories carry a thrill, a chill, a fascination that is centuries old. This is the story of a modern-day apparition. It did not haunt the dark corners of an old house; it moved along the corridors of a streamlined office building. It was seen and heard by a group of average people who never thought the supernatural would happen to them. Whether it did actually happen or whether they imagined it, the effect on these men and women was real –terribly real.”

            Nick Ramon looked up from the papers on his desk and listened. There it was again. The sound of footsteps moving slowly past his office. A door opening along the corridor. Then the creak of a chair, as if someone had just sat down.

            Nick was working late again, anxious to finish a report. An hour ago everyone else had left the offices of the Community Development Corporation (CDC), a social-service agency in Brownsville, Texas. Had somebody returned?

            Pushing back his chair, Nick paced down the corridor, looking into each one of the suite’s ten small, windowless offices. They were empty –just as they’d been all those other times that he had heard noises. The front and back doors were locked. When Nick looked out of the window of the reception area, he saw only his car parked in front of the long, low slung building of office suites.

            “You’ve been working, too hard,” Nick told himself. Executive director of the CDC, Nick is a well-educated, level-headed man used to dealing with the hard facts and figures of low-income bousing construction. He knew that buildings creak, even fairly new ones like this, sighning with the wind and groaning as walls expand and contract with changing temparatures. Eventually, he felt sure, he’d find an explanation.

            A few months later, in October 1981, Nick ran a fund-raising festival in a Brownsville park, and afterwards he, his wife Karen, and four others returned to the office to stack the festival equipment and count receipts. It was close to midnight as they sat around the conference table. Suddenly Nick felt a presence, as if somebody was approaching the room. He remembered locking the entry door, but there, framed in the open door way, was a smoky, grey-black apparition. “ It was more than 180 centimetres tall,” he says. “ I could make out the thin oval of its head, the shape of shoulders; then it went straight down. If it had arms or legs, I couldn’t see them.”

            Nick blinked, but the apparition was still there. He glimsed the astonished face of his friend Ruben Quintanilla and asked, “Did you see that?” Ruben nodded. But the figure he later described was undefined, more like a shadow. When they looked back to the doorway, the apparition was gone. The group made a quick search through the offices, but found nothing.

            The next day Nick asked a collegue tp stand in the doorway and take different stances. The fluorescent lighting is the same day or night in those windowless offices, but the men could not recreate the spectre of the night before.

            The following day Nick called a staff meeting. Matter-of-factly he asked, “Have any of you had experiences here that you felt were unusual?”

            Quickly, half a dozen hands were raised. For three hours the staff members talked of sounds, of a strange cold that lingered in a back office, of a dank, musty smell –“Like sulphur,” someone said. “Like a dead person,” said another. Estela Von Hatten, Nick’s secretary, had felt someone standing behind her, only to turn around and find no one there. Yolanda Garcia had been in the women’s toilet when the walls seemed to move –and then a roll of toilet paper flew around the corner and hit her.

            Local lore. Brownsville sits at the border of two cultures, North American and Mexican, and many of its citizens accept the idea of life at the edge of two worlds, this one and the next. Stories are told and retold of restless spirits. When there are strange sounds, people say that a house has “problems.”

            None of the people at CDC had a ghostly experience before the organization had moved to its new quarters in June 1978. Since then half of them had been seeing and hearing strange things that the other half did not. Were they more “receptive?” they had felt embarrassed about telling others. Quietly, two or three secretaries had confided in one another, seeking reassurance that it was only a mischievous little spirit. Now they weren’t so sure. Nick had described the apparition as “greyblack,” and in ghost lore, that meant an evil spirit.

            Once it was admitted to and talked about, the strange activity seemed to increase. One day Yolanda felt the seat of her chair begin to shake. “Estela, come here!” she called in panic, and when Estela tried the chair, she felt the vibration too. Then the empty chair began to move, and the women ran from the room.

            Because the toilet was next to the “strangely cold” back office, the women began going to it in pairs, never alone. Before, staff members willingly worked overtime. Now nobody wanted to be alone in the office.

            As 1981 ended, Father Tim Ellerbrock was asked to come and bless the building. “ Let us pray for any lost souls wandering the world,” he told the staff. Then the priest went from room to room, blessing each office and sprinkling it with holy water. At the women’s toilet, he drew back. Was it propriety, or had he, too, felt something? Father Tim would say later of his visit, “I could sense a sad presence, something not at peace.”

            For some weeks after Father Tim came, there was calm. But early in 1982, at a barbecue in the rear car park after office hours, Ruben’s wife, Dalia, happened to glance over towards the building. “ Look!” she whispered to Ruben. She described a mist, “something trying to take shape,” at the back door. Ruben saw nothing, but he heard noises, “like someone picking up chairs and dropping them.” When they looked again, an office chair that had not been there before was framed in the doorway. “ He’s sitting there watching us!” Dalia whispered in horror. Then a bright light suddenly flashed in the corridor. The party ended.

            Unfinished business. “ The power of suggestion can be awesome,” says Nick Ramon. What he knew was logical struggled in his mind with what he was certain he had seen. He continued to look for explanations. Pulling away a ceiling panel, a staff member probed under the building’s roof. An electronics expert went over every bit of the building with a detector. They found nothing. Nick questioned Andy Cortez, the owner of the building. Cortez had long wondered why earlier tenants had moved out of that suite so quickly.

            If there was indeed a ghost in the office, whose spirit was it? The builing stands on the edge of the Media Luna, or Half Moon, section of town, site of a bloody battle in the 1846 – 48 Mexican—American war. A few years before, when a river-bed was being widened, skeletons of soldiers had been unearthed. Was one of them haunting the office? Some people believe ghosts are spirits of those who died suddenly and still have unfinished business in this world. Nick wondered about the building’s first owner, who was killed in a car crash, and the tenant who had shot himself to death in the car park.

            From the beginning Nick had worried about what would happen if word of the ghost spread. What would people in his profession think? Yet as morale fell and work suffered, he could no longer keep the story from his board of directors. When he finally told them, he could feel their scepticism. But the board gave him a vote of confidence. “We know you’ll find a way to handle this,” they said.

            But what could Nick do? An uncle in San Antonio told him about a local medium and psychic healer. Feeling sheepish, Nick went to see her. The woman placed her hands on his head. “Whatever is there has been there for a long time,” she told him. She advised him to place crucifixes in the offices. “And tell the staff to pray,” she said.

            New beginning. Nick had drifted away from his faith, but now, each morning before work, he recited the 23^rd psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd…” Slowly he built a new inner strength. He started to work late again. When he heard footsteps, he would look around, but he wouldn’t allow them to chase him from the office as before.

            “It knew that it could no longer terrify me,” Nick said. Instead, it seemed to turn against the other staff members who were still frightened. Now the strange events usually took place when Nick was away. A woman saw a shadow move past her, go through a wall, and then come out again. Organ music was heard. Someone else, shaken and scared, told of a cold hand that moved down her back.

            By the spring of 1982 nerves were rattled; friends snapped at one another. As head of the office, Nick had to act. In May he made a decision: they would move to new offices. Publicly, he talked about the need for more space. Privately, he hoped the move “would give people something positive to think about.”

            But as the staff busied themselves with the move, word of the ghost spread, finally reaching a local newspaper reporter. The story, published on a steamy day in June, brought crowds to stare at the haunted offices, and strangers came forward to say that they too had seen the phantom.

            Some wanted to contact the ghost, find out what it sought and put it to rest. Nick gave his permission for a retired US Army colonel to spend a few nights at the office. The colonel felt the ghost’s presence, but when he was unable to get it to speak, he grew frustrated. “If you don’t want my help,” he finally shouted, “then go to hell!” Immediately, he felt a cold terror and, even after he fled the office, the fear kept its grip. A week later he suffered a heart attack.

            Then a Brownsville preacher arrived at the offices, said a prayer and stamped his feet forcefully on the floor. He explained that he was trying to crush the head of a serpent, a form that Satan is said to take sometimes. Returning the next day, the preacher took off his shoe to display two punctured marks on his heel. “A snakebite,” he said.

            During the staff’s last week in those troubled offices, Nick called his people together in the conference room. They held hands around the table and prayed. “We are here at CDC to help the less fortunate,” Nick told them. “And we have to work as a team. Let us think good, positive thoughts. We are off to a new beginning.”

            On moving day, a few minutes after five o’clock, Nick and a co-worker were taping the last cartons when they heard a crash in the back office. They looked at each other. Another crash. Without a word, they left, closing the door and turning the lock on a haunted time.

            The ghost has not appeared to the new tenants of those offices. Nor has it followed Nick and his staff to their new offices, although it has left its mark on all of them. Nick has rediscovered his faith. His people now work together with a special intimacy; they have faced the unknown together. They have quarrelled and learnt how to forgive. They will always remember the moment of communion, when they held hands and prayed together.

            Was there truly a ghost who worked overtime? Buildings do creak and groan. Sounds do carry in the night. And shadows can become substance. Yet more than a dozen people believe they heard ghostly sounds and saw eerie sights. Whether it was a ghost or not, a spirit touched and changed their lives.

”We learn to walk by stumbling”

                                                                                                            -Bulgarian proverb