Oath of Office

PROLOGUE

O ath of Office is dedicated to the memory of my father, Carey Thornton, Sr., who taught me the value of education and to never forget my history. Pop, or the Old Man as we sometimes called him, taught us to never be ashamed of our history and to pass it on from generation to generation. Pop had eight years of formal education, but he had the wisdom of a tenured college professor. He knew his history and the history of our struggle inside and out. Pop was not ashamed to give a history lesson at any time to anyone who would listen. In our case, we had no choice but to listen as Pop told us how things were when he was a kid, and that we’d better take advantage of what he put in front of us.

Pop proclaimed our marching orders daily and constantly let us know that the lack of understanding of those orders could be the difference between a life of freed slavery and the good life in a house with automatic heat and cooling. I can still hear Pop’s preaching, Boy, get that education and get all you can. That’s the one thing nobody can take from you. We would hear that over and over in a generation when you didn’t question advice from the old people. You didn’t ask them to repeat it twice, you just did what they told you to do. At a very young age, Pop made sure that we understood the meaning of his marching orders.

Unlike some fathers of today, he did not shield us from the not-so-nice things in life. He would show us what happens to those who didn’t have an education. Many of the unfortunate were his friends, while others were people we met on the street. Pop always emphasized it was not their fault that they missed out on a good life. He said the denial of a good formal education made life a struggle for many of them. Pop had worked hard to move north, and he did his best to keep a roof over our heads. He proclaimed our job was to get a good education and to do our very best for those behind us.

Pop would often take us around his friends while they were just shooting the bull in the barbershop and sometimes on the street corners. During those days, adults didn’t curse or swear in the presence of children, but they would boast and lie to one another like crazy. One thing they all had in common was a hell of a case of the I wish I hadda. They all wished they had had the opportunity to travel here or there. They wished they could have driven this car or that car. They wished they could have had the means to buy their wives this coat or that appliance. Regardless of how serious the case of I wish I hadda turned out to be, they would always turn to me and say, Young man, you get that education and you can get anything you want. In those days, every adult we met drove education into us. Friends and family had me repeating that I wanted to be a lawyer or doctor before I knew what I was saying. I only knew that the grown folk said lawyers and doctors made a lot of money, and that was good enough for me.

Pop and his friends despised how they were treated in the South, and they despised the people responsible. They detested being denied educational opportunities and the right to a good life. Those old guys gave prejudice a new meaning and they preached against their oppressors every day. More than anyone in the world, they all detested J. Edgar Hoover and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. When I was very young, I couldn’t understand how they detested anyone so intently, but I learned they all carried a lot of unpleasant history with Hoover and law enforcement.

Needless to say, it was a shock to Pop when I told him I had been accepted to the FBI Academy in 1979. He felt the FBI was contrary to everything he had ever taught me. He preached about how Hoover had treated blacks in the South, and that it would be next to impossible for any black man to get through the academy. Pop raved about how rotten and disrespectful the police had been toward people of color, and that I should try another occupation. Pop told me, You’re going to throw that master’s degree right down the sewer with the FBI. Don’t do that to yourself, Son.

For the first time in my life, I went against Pop’s covenant of obedience to his advice. One day, I had to listen. I listened for hours as Pop and my mother — whom we called Moms — gave the most heart-wrenching sermon of their lives, trying to convince me not to join the FBI. I just sat and looked from one parent to the other as the words poured out of their souls. My gaze suddenly fixed on my father. He saw the way I looked at him and quickly turned away. He knew what I had seen in his eyes. For the first time in my life, I saw something I never wanted to see, nor did I ever see it again. I had seen hurt — not hurt coming from my disobedience, but hurt that came from a lifetime of wanting better things for his people and at this moment thinking that it was not to be. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally spoke. Pop, I said, I know the history of the FBI with black folks in this country. But if we’re ever going to change any of those things, I can be more effective from the inside. If I can make it in and bring in others, then the Bureau will someday be better for everyone. I’m not sure Pop ever bought my logic, but I let my better judgment rule my thoughts and went on with my decision to join the FBI.

My aunt, Ida Harris, got word from Moms that I was planning to go to the FBI. She was in her early seventies at the time and had been very active in the civil rights struggle in St. Louis for a number of years. She had taken part in a number of historical movements in St. Louis, including the historic March on Jefferson Bank in August 1963. This movement took place around the same time as Martin Luther King’s March on Washington. However overshadowed, this march was the biggest thing to happen in St. Louis in years. Aunt Ida was one of the focal points of this historic march and led the protestors proudly. During this period, black people could deposit their money into Jefferson Bank but had little representation as employees. The march was successful and the bank agreed to open jobs to colored people. Aunt Ida often told us how she and my older brother took off running when the police showed up with dogs. She said, I had made my point and I just didn’t want them to let the dogs loose on me and Bruce. I had seen too much of that stuff in the South as a little girl.

Aunt Ida despised J. Edgar Hoover with a passion. When I was a child, she would sit us down and tell the stories about growing up in the South. She told us about the hot cotton fields where she picked cotton as a little girl and the horrible conditions under which she was forced to work. She said, Those grown white men would come out to the fields and look around for young, pretty girls. They’d always grab the prettiest ones they could find and just use them all day. Those dogs would bring them back late in the afternoon, after they were through with them. The little girls would be all messed up and crying to their mamas. Those dogs would just put them back to work in the hot fields. The law or no one would ever do anything about it. Those little girls would just keep having all those mixed babies no one wanted. That’s why I want y’all to get a good education so you can make things better for our people. I found the stories about the South fascinating, and as a young man, began to wonder what happened to all the offspring who were fathered in those hot cotton fields of Mississippi. My Aunt Ida and her twin sisters had very fair complexions and very coarse, dark, straight hair. I recalled asking them about their father one day. They told me to Shut up and stay in a child’s place. You don’t ask grown folk about their private business. Needless to say, I never heard any of those old folks talk about their natural fathers.

When Aunt Ida got the word that I was going to the FBI Academy she said, Boy, have you lost yo’ mind? I went through the same explanation as I did with Pop, and somehow it didn’t matter to her either. Joining the FBI was the first time in my life I had defied my parents and family. But I felt I could make a difference and help people.

Aunt Ida preached to us many times about her struggle to vote when she was young. She was one of St. Louis’s biggest advocates for voting rights for everyone. She voiced her displeasure about Hoover and the FBI whenever she had the chance. She asked me, How in the world can you even think about the FBI? Your daddy and granddaddy were beaten just a few years ago, trying to vote. She added, Our folks had to pass a stupid test and pay money to white people just to get a chance to vote. Hoover and them knew ‘bout it and just turned their heads on your people. Boy, please get on your knees and talk to Jesus!

I told her I understood what she was saying and that I wanted to make things better for people in this country. I said, I’m going to make you proud. Just support my decision this time. And no, I haven’t forgotten my history. In fact, I know my history well and I want to be a part of it.

After I completed training at the FBI Academy, Moms told me Pop was starting to get used to the idea of me being in the FBI. She said that Pop had actually bragged to his friends about me. The first time I showed them my FBI credentials, they both actually stood proudly and smiled. Although they were still very suspicious about law enforcement and especially the FBI, they told me to be careful and not to take any unnecessary chances.

I wasn’t as successful with Aunt Ida. She wasn’t ready to accept me as an FBI agent. She sat me down one afternoon as I was visiting her and told me a troubling story. She said she had gotten on her knees every night and prayed to God while I was in the academy. I said, Thank you for your prayers. I really needed all the help I could get at times.

She told me, I prayed every night that you wouldn’t get through that academy and become a member of that racist FBI. I didn’t want any nephew of mine to be associated with Hoover. But I guess God knows best. Be careful in those dangerous Detroit streets.

Aunt Ida passed away in 1985, never really accepting the idea of blacks in the FBI. But the life she fought for and her history guided her thoughts. I decided long ago that I couldn’t let others deter me from doing my best and representing my family in the FBI. I wanted to show Aunt Ida that the FBI was different from what she had known years ago.

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The old guys always talked about their admiration for Jewish people and how they raised their children. They always said the Jewish people proclaimed that no Jewish child would ever forget his history, nor would he be ashamed of it. Jewish people keep their history in front of their families every day. The Jewish people’s knowledge of their history was the driving force that kept them striving to succeed as a people. The old guys would say, Jewish kids go to school with a goal in mind. You do the same, son. I’d always respond with the customary, Yes sir.

They told me they were preaching to me so that I wouldn’t forget to prepare for a rainy day. Moms said over and over, Son, you’ve gotta prepare for that rainy day, because as sure as I’m sitting here, it’s gonna come. Prepare yourself in school and the water will just roll off your back. Thanks to the older folks in my neighborhood and to my parents, I was taught black history long before I learned it in school. In fact, by the time I reached college, black history classes were just becoming popular. Before the early seventies, the only black history taught in my school were the stories of Booker T. Washington and Eli Whitney’s cotton gin. Most kids didn’t know very much about Dr. Martin Luther King while he was alive. He actually became popular after he was killed in 1968. Prior to his death, many Americans viewed Dr. King as a rabble-rouser who kept things stirred up. When the 1970s arrived, he was finally starting to be revered as a hero. In other words, I learned black history at home, where it was taught correctly, untainted and without negative opinions.

Pop had his own twist on U.S. history, which was much different from that taught to us in school. For example, Pop always refused to buy us fireworks on the Fourth of July. We were sometimes the only kids in the neighborhood who didn’t have fireworks. He said that black people had nothing to celebrate on the Fourth of July. Pop said during the 1700s, most blacks in America were slaves and an integral part of the agricultural economy. When England had control over the United States, there was always a hope of slavery being indentured. He felt that there was always a hope that after slaves worked off their passageway, they would be freed one day. Pop said, When the United States got loose from England, my great-great-grandparents had no hope of ever being free people. For black folks, the Fourth of July is the same as a Welcome to Permanent Slavery Day. I ain’t celebrating my entry into permanent slavery and you ain’t either. Right, wrong, or indifferent, I never heard the Fourth of July discussed in that manner in school. That’s why Pop said we should know our true history.

Pop was not too fond of celebrating Thanksgiving either. He always said, I’ll take the day off and cook chitterlings, but I feel sorry for the Indians. They were here first and just got tricked out of their land and culture. I won’t be a part of celebrating them getting ripped off. Pop was a hell of a street-corner historian and always told us he could back up his history with facts. He said, You should get the real history in school, but they won’t teach it. There’s more to us than Booker T. Washington and Eli Whitney’s cotton gin.

One of Pop’s good friends lived to be 107 years old. Jeff Kimble — whom we called Mr. Jeff — said he knew President William McKinley personally. He said they grew up as boys in the same area of Monroe, Louisiana. I was no older than four or five years old when I heard Mr. Jeff telling my Pop, They only killed William ‘cause they found out he was a colored man. At the time, I had no idea what they were talking about. I later found out that President William McKinley was assassinated and he may have been a mulatto from Louisiana. I‘m still not sure if history recorded that, but Mr. Jeff talked about him all the time and said they were old friends. In reality, Mr. Jeff was my first history teacher and told stories much more interestingly than any teacher I ever had in school. He talked about things I never heard my teachers talk about, and he based each story on his personal facts. Needless to say, Mr. Jeff only had three years of formal education but could match historical facts with any college professor. He just told us, Y’all git your education and be prepared for the rain. When I was a boy, they would let us do nothing but work in those hot fields. School was only for the white and sometimes the light. (Meaning light-skinned colored folks.)

Mr. Jeff’s wife, Miss Corine, was our first family doctor. Although she never had formal medical training, she could whip up a potion to cure anything we developed. Her potions tasted like poison, but they always seemed to work. Miss Corine was our best alternative, not having medical insurance. Whatever was in her potions, none of us were ever hospitalized as children with any serious illness. Whenever we hurt, we’d generally have to visit with Miss Corine. However archaic her potions, she lived to be eighty-nine years old, and we stayed fairly healthy as children. She may have lived longer had she not developed pneumonia after being burned in a fire.

Pop didn’t play when it came to school. Although he didn’t have the slightest idea how to help us with complex mathematics, he’d always say, If you sit there long enough and follow the teacher’s directions, you’ll catch on. For whatever reason, that method always seemed to work for me. Pop’s directions, as well as the constant reminders of his marching orders, were the catalyst that kept me focused in school throughout my life. His rules were the same for all of us. After high school or whenever you ceased to be a student, you had three choices as far as he was concerned. He’d say, Boy, you’re going to the army, to college, or to work. Either way, you’re going to do something. The idea of living at home and taking it easy was never an option.

In my case and that of my oldest brother, we took all three options. Besides, with only a three-room apartment, it really wasn’t conducive for entertaining company anyway. A kitchen, living room, and Pop’s bedroom didn’t provide space for dating or entertaining the ladies. The one television set was always on the channel that Pop wanted to watch. I now thank God that the set didn’t always work and we had to read for recreation. I would sit down with a book and travel all around the world, whenever I felt like going somewhere. I’d take pride in Pop asking me what I was reading. Since he was stationed in Europe during World War II, I would always ask him to enhance my books with true accounts of Italy, Germany, and France. He would make all the books literally come true and I’d be encouraged to read more.

Once when I was young, the television set was outta fix for two years. We couldn’t afford to get it repaired on our meager budget. So for entertainment, I just read more books. Living with Moms and Pop was just uncomfortable enough to make you want to get out and get your own place one day. Pop made sure your incentive to be a man was always present under his roof.

During those days, it was considered fatal to have a teacher call your home because you may have misbehaved in school. Parents felt as hard as they struggled to move north and to provide you a home, a child’s classroom behavior was expected to be nothing less than exceptional. Those few times when my parents received calls from teachers became very memorable around my home. I remember receiving a telephone call one night at about 9:30. It was my older brother’s fifth grade teacher. The ringing of the telephone was startling, because during the week, the lights were out in Pop’s house at 8:30.

For the telephone to ring so late at night meant something serious had happened. When Moms told Pop a teacher had called about my brother misbehaving in class, I remember Pop simply saying, I’ll handle it. At the time, the three of us slept in a foldout sofa bed and I was in the center. Generally, the guy who jumps in bed first gets the warm spot in the middle.

Pop grabbed his strap, which he pronounced strop, and went to work on my brother’s rear end. He swung that thing so wildly that I got a fair amount of his licks. When Pop was giving out punishment, your instructions were to stay put, i.e. you’d better not run, grab the strap, or try to move out of the way. As Pop swung the strap on my brother’s rear end, he preached the marching orders over and over. He preached about the whippings he had to take from white people, the times he was called names, the jobs he has been denied due to a lack of education, and how he was struggling to provide for our future; and to think that one of his sons would go to school and act a fool with a teacher was unacceptable. Moms watched until she felt my brother had learned his lesson and grabbed the strop from Pop. My brother was ordered to dry up and go to sleep. Under normal circumstances, the whipping would have been a tag-team butt whipping for all of us, but the lateness of the hour saved us this time. Moreover, the drying up was only limited to a few moments. If he continued to cry, there would definitely be a round two. Needless to say, education was serious business around my home.

Pop would often say that the children of today needed a good old-fashioned whipping to start them respecting teachers and taking advantage of education. However, because of present laws, children can’t be whipped any longer, thus a lot of factors that kept us in line when I was a boy went down the toilet. If the same laws were in place thirty years ago, everyone I knew would have ex-convicts for parents. Practically all of our teachers would have been put in jail. But as Pop always preached, Teachers loved you and you learnt anyway. They’re just preparing you for the rainy day, which will come one day. You’ll need that umbrella or you’ll get wet. In fact, Pop emphasized that we had to fear parents and teachers a little in order for them to keep us in line.

Not only were my teachers role models, but they also treated us like their own children. Although some of my teachers were stunningly attractive, they were still ladies and someone you respected. Looking back over the years, I’m glad I feared my parents and teachers. Thanks to that fear, I followed my marching orders a lot closer than many of my peers, many of whom are no longer living today due to straying from their teachings. Some of my peers who are still living today aren’t doing so well, because they strayed from their parents and failed to plan for the rain.

One old guy told me at a very early age, Know your history and don’t be ashamed of it. One day you’ve got to pass it on to the young folk. Pop would always say that many so-called professional folk keep their history quiet just to get along…just to blend in. Another old guy told me, Don’t be ashamed of our history ‘cause one day you’ve gotta write about it. We want it proud and accurate. Be as proud of our history as that Jewish guy.

As for my advice from Moms and Pop about being careful and not taking any chances, I redefined the phrase, taking chances, over the next twenty years or so as an agent with the FBI. But my adherence to the FBI’s Oath of Office, Pop’s marching orders, and faith in Him never faded. That faith guided me through a successful career; having never received one scratch or injury in the line of duty. This is my story and I thank Moms and Pop for giving me a birthday.

Close friends, my family, and I reveal the perception of the Federal Bureau of Investigation as seen in this book. Throughout my career, I’ve found their opinions of the FBI so fascinating that I began to catalogue their questions and my responses. Because many of them were the products of urban environments, I soon realized they felt the same way about law enforcement as most of the criminals I’ve arrested. Over the years, after interviewing many criminals, I found their upbringing and the conditions under which they lived were in many instances no different from my own childhood experiences. The biggest difference between them and me was the presence of Moms and Pop in my life.

Most importantly, I remembered the many lessons my parents taught me as a child. I’ve carried those lessons with me throughout my life and used them as a basis to guide my career with the FBI. I also examined their unique style of child rearing in the face of the poverty and racism under which we lived. Despite a multitude of obstacles and disapprovals from my family, I defied their advice and became an agent with the FBI. I realized early in my career that my FBI Oath of Office and Pop’s marching orders were basically the same.

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Chapter One

- MY THANKS TO HIM: LESSONS LEARNED -

"Y ou are about to embark on the most fascinating career an individual could ever wish for in his life. None of you will ever have to look for a job again; you have reached the pinnacle that every person in the world should envy. You are about to enter the FBI Academy, and soon you’ll be FBI agents. You have been chosen from thousands seeking to join you from all around the world. You are sitting where you are because you are special, you are unique, and you are the best-qualified in the nation. Look around the room, ladies and gentlemen. Be proud to know that no one can match your accomplishments.

Let it be known that your friends and family are extremely proud of you and will henceforth brag about your accomplishments, your assignments, and the contribution you’re making to our country. The tall, stately agent then bellowed, "Congratulations, ladies and gentlemen, you have made it to the FBI Academy! Be proud of yourself and what you have achieved up to now.

I want you to know that this does not automatically make you FBI agents. You have a long, grueling sixteen weeks ahead of you. Unfortunately, the weak will not be among you on graduation day. Look around again. Will you be among the proud to receive those credentials sixteen weeks from now?

As I looked around, I first noticed that everyone seemed to look alike or at least cut from the same mold. Every new agent recruit in the room donned the traditional dark suit, shiny dark wingtip shoes, and white dress shirts. Although it was 1979 and hairstyles were fairly long, the new agent recruits had relatively conservative hairstyles. Moreover, everyone seemed fairly studious and ready to show the next person he was there because he was the best of the best.

More than anything else, I noticed only one other person who looked like me, and he was sitting in the far corner of the auditorium. We made eye contact and exchanged the traditional What’s up, brother? greeting from across the room. Although we didn’t formerly talk, nor were we introduced, we knew we’d have to depend on one another before this ordeal was over. We had that unspoken I got you covered conversation without ever saying one word.

The Bureau executive then swore us in to this elite organization and told us to get to know one another. He said we had a long ride to Quantico, where we’d begin our initial training in a few hours. Gentlemen, this time without acknowledging the women present, you have just taken the most serious oath of office any man can ever undertake. Take it to heart and understand you are the elite thirty new agent recruits in the nation. We have searched the country over and we’ve invited you to join our ranks. Being among the best in this elite group, I quietly counted and realized there actually were only twenty-nine of us. But I knew that the way to stay on their good side was to let them think they’re right. That separated the smart from those with plain old good common sense.

I could hardly believe that I had made it through the grueling testing and screening the FBI had put me through the past six months. I couldn’t help but think of the things that happened to me as a youngster that not only would have prevented me from being here, but also may have landed me in jail for a long time. By the grace of God, I’m here and doing something positive.

I couldn’t forget about the time when a fight in the seventh grade could have landed me in jail along with my brothers. I recalled standing in line, waiting for the bus, when a tall, skinny guy walked up from behind and thumped me in the head so hard I cried. I charged that guy and cried as I went into him with both fists. But he was just too big for me to fight. Each time I moved in with lefts and rights, I caught a shot to the head. I just kept going at him but I couldn’t get to him. I just kept fighting and crying as hard as I could, to no avail.

Out of nowhere came my older brother, who was still shorter than the big guy but a lot tougher. He moved in with the swiftness of Muhammad Ali and connected blow after blow to the bully’s head until he went down. He beat that big guy within an inch of his life for picking on me. As he whipped him, he told him over and over not to ever hit his little brother again. He dusted me off and we boarded our bus for home. Little did we know the tall guy was a member of one of west St. Louis’s most vicious street gangs, the Termites.

The Termites were comprised primarily of school-dropout street thugs. Most of them had done time in reform school and had felony juvenile records. For the most part, the only reason they weren’t in prison was because they were under eighteen years old. The Termites were also known to carry weapons. During those days, the weapon of choice was a switchblade knife, and they carried the reputation of cutting guys within an inch of their lives.

We thought everything was over, until a few days later, when about ten of the Termites boarded the bus we were on and got off at our stop, the corner of Clara and Ridge. We knew there was trouble, because although we were bused downtown to Vashon Elementary School, the Termites all lived in the area of Hodiamont and Page, and seldom attended school. Hodiamont and Page was quite a distance from our neighborhood. On this particular day, they all showed up at school and hung around the building without going to class. The teacher riding our bus, Mr. Russell, was terrified and knew something bad was about to happen. He just sat and said nothing.

As we made the long ride home, they kept shouting from the rear of the bus that they were going to get the Thornton boys. It was a long ride that afternoon, and Mr. Russell was more frightened than we were. We were afraid but refused to show it. We had instructions from Pop to always stick together. So despite any assistance from Mr. Russell, we stayed together. When we got off the bus, Mr. Russell knew something was wrong but refused to get involved. He quickly jumped into his car, which was parked on Clara Avenue, and drove off. Mr. Russell left us all alone with the huge crowd of gang members walking behind us. I was shaking like a leaf.

I walked ahead of my two brothers by a few yards as we headed home that afternoon. Bruce — my older brother and the best fighter among us — was only a few steps ahead of the Termites gang members who closely followed and taunted him. We all refused to run; we just walked fast. On this day, we took a shortcut up the alley between Clara Avenue and Temple Place. I wanted to tell Pop as soon as I could that the gang was following us home. When I got near our backyard, I began screaming to Pop. Pop was down on his luck at the time and unemployed. Luckily, he was home when we arrived. I shouted, Daddy! That gang is after us and they are about to grab Bruce! Pop grabbed his pistol and threw a shotgun and a rifle down the steps to me as soon as I opened the rear door.

By this time, the huge crowd was taunting my big brother from the rear of the house. They had not yet entered the yard but were just getting in a position to surround Bruce. I threw the shotgun to Harold, my middle brother, and started running toward the crowd with the rifle to help my big brother. I was so mad, I was crying and I couldn’t focus on anyone because of my tears. But I was determined the Termites would pay the price for following us home.

After seeing the guns, the gang ran away down the alley. I was chambering a bullet into the barrel of the Remington .22 rifle and still trying to focus. I loaded the round, got down on one knee, and aimed at the escaping gang members, but I couldn’t focus through my tears. I wiped my eyes again, took aim through the rear sight, and began a slow squeeze of the trigger, anticipating a target. Although I couldn’t make out a target, I could see guys running down the alley away from us. I was determined to shoot at least one of them, and continued to apply pressure to the trigger. As soon as I wiped my eyes a final time and cleared my vision, the last gang member had just rounded the corner out of my sight. I was so angry that I didn’t get a shot off, I started to shoot up in the air. I heard my mom scream at me to put the gun away. I lowered my aim and walked back to the house, disgusted that the round intended for the Termites was still chambered.

If I had fired into the crowd of angry gang members, there is no way I’d be taking my oath of office for the FBI. I would probably have been sent to reform school for protecting what I thought was my honor. But for the grace of God, go I……

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Ladies and gentlemen, please place your tray tables in the upright position and prepare for landing. A flight attendant will make their final rounds to pick up anything you’d like disposed. At that moment, I realized I was deep in a dream, reliving events I had experienced years ago. I felt like a new recruit again on my first day at the academy. It seemed as though I could still hear that speech as I sat in the main auditorium at FBI Headquarters in September 1979. I could still see the scared faces of the new recruits as we waited in wonderment, not knowing what to expect next. I started to smile when I remembered the chiseled frames, the baby faces, and everyone seeming anxious to show he was going to be the leader. Little did they know, I was the leader, and as far as I was concerned, I was the best.

But moreover, I remember how I felt that day in west St. Louis, when I was so angry I wanted to shoot into a crowd of gang members to protect my brother.

I thought to myself, what an amazing dream and how blessed I am to be here today. Now, I’m going back to my hometown to visit Pop, who is gravely ill in Veteran’s Hospital. For some crazy reason, Pop didn’t believe any hospital existed other than Veteran’s Hospital. He always said he was going to get everything coming to him from his service in the military. Although some of his wounds never healed, he felt it was the government’s responsibility to handle his medical care as long as he was alive.

Pop was eighty-four years old at the time and was suffering from a blockage of the small intestines. He always felt this condition was a result of an injury he sustained while fighting in Germany during World War II. He often told us stories about his service during the war and spoke proudly about his service to the United States. However, his proud service tour and wounds were overshadowed by the treatment he received when he returned to this country after the war. He’d often say, As much as we did for this country, over there the colored soldiers had to ride behind German prisoners on the transport trains. We even had to eat separately from white soldiers, even though the Germans shot at all of us with the same bullets. Pop was our personal historian on World War II. He told us stories and history we’d never get from textbooks.

But now, Pop was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life. I felt it was my job to carry on his legacy and to not let his service to this country be forgotten by our family.

As we made our initial approach, I could see the Gateway Arch and I recognized The University of Missouri (St. Louis) just ahead of us. I couldn’t believe how it had grown since I was a student; back then it consisted of only a few buildings. I couldn’t believe how much the campus had expanded in nearly thirty years. I only hoped some of the vermin that taught there back in the 1960s and 1970s were no longer around.

The day was hot and steamy as I waited for the shuttle to take me to the rental car company. I quickly realized I had overdressed and was going to be uncomfortable. I don’t know why, but I really expected to see lots of people I knew at the airport. But that wasn’t realistic; I hadn’t visited St. Louis in years. People move, people change, things change.

As I drove to the hospital, I traveled east on Interstate 70 through north St. Louis, past the old neighborhood. I noticed how it too had changed. Many of the previously gorgeous homes were in disrepair. Although it was early afternoon, there were scores of young men milling around with seemingly nothing to do. As I slowly drove through the streets, it appeared they stopped what they were doing to stare at me. I knew from years working street crime, staring was a tactic used by thugs to make you uncomfortable. Little did they know, I was use to that old street corner tactic, and it didn’t work. People who didn’t know any better would just identify the neighborhood as a tough area and leave. I just viewed them as lost people with nothing better to do. I returned their stares; after all I was in the neighborhood first.

I decided to drive to my old school, since I was early for visiting hours at the hospital. When I got to Penrose and Kingshighway, I parked the car and walked onto the schoolyard at Scullin School, where I once attended. Two police squad cars sat at the far end of the schoolyard. It seemed as if they were discussing the issues of the day. Both of them just stared at me. That caused me to relive how I felt about police when I was a kid.

I recalled living in the same neighborhood as a youngster, with fear and hatred for the police. During those days, they used kids as their recreation. Just for kicks, the police would pick us up and put us in the rear of their police cruisers for what they called a ride. They would always tell us they were checking our records to make sure we didn’t have outstanding warrants. After we sat in the cold paddy wagons until we almost froze to death, they’d say we were clean but we had to take a ride. They would take us north of Highway 70 for a few blocks and put us out to walk. They knew that part of town had white gangs who roamed the streets, looking for action. They would laugh as we ran like hell to get out of the neighborhood and back south of Highway 70. If you couldn’t run fast enough or got cut off, the white guys would catch you and give you a good butt kicking. The police wouldn’t help — they would laugh and drive away. When I was a kid, everyone hated the police, and for good reason.

I stood and reflected on the first time I walked onto Scullin’s schoolyard. It was the spring of 1963. I was twelve years old and had come to Scullin School as a seventh-grade transfer student. I remembered standing in the schoolyard with my brother, and no one would speak to us. We just assumed they were waiting to see if we were as tough as everybody thought we looked. We carried that you better not try me look. It seemed to work for us on that first day at the new school.

I saw kids playing and taking turns on the swings. We never had swings at our other schools. Playground equipment was only installed where white kids went to school. I couldn’t believe I was finally going to get a chance to play on a real swing. I figured if recess lasted much longer, I’d get a chance to try out a real steel-based swing set. I inched closer, while a short, bald-headed kid sat on the chain railing waiting for his turn on the swing set.

Suddenly, a ruffian-looking guy walked up to him and pushed him backward. This guy jumped on the little kid and started punching him like a crazy man. The little bald-headed kid cried and screamed, but no one came to help him. He was completely defenseless and the tough kid was having a ball beating him up and laughing. I couldn’t take it any longer. I couldn’t stand to see the little kid getting beat up by someone who was nothing more than a thug. After all, I was fresh off Easton Avenue and if I couldn’t whip the thug, my brother would come to my rescue, and we’d kick his butt together.

I jumped in the middle of the fight, which was none of my business, and hit the tough kid with a series of combinations to the head and body. Although he was bigger than me, he felt the series of hard blows and knew he had more than he could handle. The tough kid surrendered without much of a defense. I told him to leave the little kid alone and take off. I picked the little bald-headed guy off the ground and walked him to the swing for his turn. I told him I was new to the school and the bully wouldn’t bother him anymore. That same little bald-headed kid became a lifelong friend, and we have never been far apart since. That fight was one of the first times of many that I stuck my nose into something that wasn’t my business. I guess that was a precursor for my motivation to join the FBI.

********

As I walked into Veteran’s Hospital, it had the typical stench of most hospitals. As much as I hated the place, I had no choice because I knew Pop was waiting to see me and was depending on me to handle things. When I found Pop, he was somewhat groggy. Several of his buddies were sitting around the room. One had brought his grandson with him. It had been several years since I had seen some of Pop’s buddies; two of them and the child I didn’t know. I said, Hey, Mr. Thomas, how are you doing?

He said, Fine, son, this is Bill and Joe. This is Joe’s grandson, Randy. We all exchanged greetings and shook hands. Mr. Thomas then said, This is Carey’s youngest boy, the FBI agent. Son, where are you living now? he asked.

San Juan, Puerto, I said.

They all said in unison, San Juan what?

I later explained to them that I had lived in Puerto Rico for the past three years. Mr. Thomas said Pop told them I was out of the country, but he was very secretive about where I lived and what I was doing. Pop always felt I was working on a big secret mission, and it was his job to keep it as quiet as possible. I told them I was supervising a special operations squad and it was only a secret to people on the island. The kid and one of the older guys were then full of questions, which I tried my best to avoid. Luckily, Pop finally woke up and saved me from the barrage of inquires about the FBI.

He said, Hey, when did you get here? Where’s Elsie?

I just came in from the airport and she’ll be here tomorrow. She’s still visiting with her folks in Virginia. But how do you feel?

I could see by the way Pop was moving around in the bed that he didn’t feel well. He had no fewer than six tubes in him. It really hurt to see him in that condition because I knew he hated hospitals. More so than hospitals, Pop hated most doctors because he felt they just wanted to experiment on poor people and practice good medicine on the rich people.

Pop said, Moms just left before you got here. She was here all morning. They want to cut on me, but I still haven’t talked to the doctor but once since I got here three days ago. I just don’t like it, but they said my intestines have a blockage. I could see Pop getting weaker as he tried to explain his condition to me.

Just try to get some rest. I’ll get with the doctor and see what they plan to do. We’ll get to the bottom of this before anything happens, I said. I could see that Pop had lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw him. He was very weak and it was obvious to all of us that he needed immediate medical attention if he was going to make it. It really hurt, seeing Pop in his condition. He started to slowly drift off to sleep.

Young Randy said, Are you really an FBI agent? That sounds like a really cool job. What do you do every day? Did you really grow up here in St. Louis?

One of Pop’s friends then asked, How long have you lived down there? Can you speak that Spanish stuff like the Puerto Ricans?

I was accustomed to this line of questioning, after being an FBI agent for such a long time. Although I didn’t feel important, most people treated us like celebrities. I sometimes got the treatment of an entertainer or professional athlete. Everyone wanted to know something about you. It sometimes seemed hard for the public to imagine that someone who worked for the FBI was a regular, everyday guy. But most agents, including me, enjoyed the attention. I used the attention, often as a means of getting to some of our young people, because I knew, for once, I had their undivided attention.

Randy was a typical teenager. He was about fourteen years old and dressed in the typical fashion of his time. His pants were baggy and he sported a big chain around his neck. His grandfather said, "Before you answer that, please explain to him how you got to where you are. My daughter and I have been trying to talk to him, but he thinks everything comes so easy. He skips school so often, we just don’t know what to