McGowan Michael - Ghost: Thirty Years As an FBI Undercover Agent

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To my incredible wife you are and for everything thank you

To my challenging but wonderful children rub some dirt on it. Part II thanks for making me bonkers.

To thousands of past, present, and future FBI street Agents hope this helps and I hope you laughed a little bit thank you for allowing me into your special club it was the highest honor and privilege ever to walk among you the toughest, smartest, and funniest club in the world hang tough be safe and Godspeed.

April 10, 1994, started no differently than dozens of days before it. My internal clock roused me before dawn in the bedroom of our modest three-bedroom home in Swedesboro, New Jersey, and my brain immediately started reminding me of the things I had to accomplish that day at workevidence tapes to review, transcriptions of phone surveillance logs to check. The life of an FBI Special Agent assigned to a Drug Squad was always busy with cases to investigate, paperwork to fill out, and trials to prepare for.

Today wasnt going to be any different. Or so I assumed. What stood out that morning as I lay in bed under the queen-sized comforter next to my beautiful wife, Samantha, was the fact that at this point in my young career as an FBI Agent and father, my life seemed damn near perfect.

Professionally things couldnt have gone better if Id written the script myself. I had what I considered to be the best job in the world, protecting Americans and our way of life from those who would do us harm. Id served as an FBI Special Agent for seven years and as a uniformed policeman for several years before that. During my first major undercover operation, my dedicated colleagues and I spent two years penetrating an international drug smuggling operation, which ended on the night of October 15, 1992, when we seized forty-six kilograms of high-grade Pakistani heroin, valued at $180 million. It was the largest heroin seizure ever in Philadelphia history, and still ranks as one of the top ten heroin seizures of all time.

It had been an enormous coup. And the kicker was that we obtained the heroin without paying one cent of U.S. taxpayer money. Thats right. We had convinced the bad guys to front us the drugs. In other words, the bad guys expected us to pay them back, which we did in a sense, but not with moneywith arrests halfway around the world in Pakistan.

In the blink of an eye, Id gone from an unproven new FBI Agent to Golden Boy. High-level management types, who didnt know my name or those of my colleagues before, were now heaping praise and awards on us. A year and a half later as the case moved toward trial, we still couldnt do any wrong.

In terms of my personal life, Id had the luck and good sense to marry an incredible woman, who was strong, kind, and who shared the same blue-collar values that I had: work hard, take care of your family and loved ones, create a better life and a wider range of opportunities for your children.

When I kissed Sam and slipped out of bed, she sighed as if to say, I love you. Be safe. I had total confidence that while I went to play cops and robbers in the big city of Philadelphia, she would attend to the needs of our three children with boundless energy, spirit, and love.

With the lights off, I padded down the hallway in bare feet to look in on them. First, our two sons, Russell and Michael, ages eight and six. Their small bedroom formed a picture of everyday American life Norman Rockwell might have painted. Beds pressed together and sleeping so that their heads were inches apart, baseball gloves and other sports gear on the floor, a half-finished Lego construction tilting in the corner, shelves crammed with plastic guns, dirty clothes, coloring books, and Ninja Turtle figurines.

Around a corner, I peeked in the little bedroom of our three-year-old bundle of joy, Paige. Her fat cherub cheeks magically taking in and exhaling little breaths of air; a soft black and white blanket tossed haphazardly across her chubby legs. Was it my imagination or did she wink at me when I gave her a quick peck on the cheek and brushed the golden curls away from her eyes?

Silently I moved to our tiny, cold bathroom and slipped on my gym clothesrunning gear and Everlast Boxing T-shirt cut at the sleeves to show off my guns. FBI American Eagle backpack in hand, I crept downstairs, collected my car keys, and passed the dark shadows of the wooden rocker in front of the TV, the expensive new couch we would be paying off forever, and the toys on the floor. It might have struck some people as suburban chaos, but I wouldnt have changed a thing.

Outside, still hours before dawn, I noticed in the moonlight that the lawn needed cutting and the front flowerbox with red geraniums had to be rehung, and mentally added them to next weekends chores, which would have to be worked around baseball practices, karate lessons, other kids activities, and Sams weekend job as a bartender. Its the way she had worked her way through college. Now we needed the cash to supplement my modest salary. Nobody got rich working as an FBI Special Agent, nor did I get overtime for the long hours.

I wasnt complaining. Nor did Sam. Life was good. Wed recently purchased our first house on a cul-de-sac in a nice development surrounded by young families like oursa schoolteacher across the street, a construction worker next doorour kids were happy and healthy, we were both gainfully employed, and my career trajectory was pointing up.

Feeling good, I fired up the fire-red Pontiac Trans Am in the drivewaya recent government seizure from some flashy drug dealer. It wasnt ideal for surveillance, but got me places fast, when needed. I checked to see that my formal FBI dudsbusiness suit and tiehung from a hanger in back. Then I went through my FBI backpack. Inside were two handgunsa duty-issued 9mm Glock and my Smith & Wesson 6906handcuffs, and flashlights. In tan manila folders were FD-302s (interview summaries), court orders and applications, rough-draft transcripts of phone calls, and handwritten interview notes, which would be needed in various upcoming criminal trials. My badge and credentials were stuffed in a front pocket for easy access. They afforded me powerful legal and law enforcement powers and significant personal and professional responsibility.

In a separate plastic bag I carried my normal work clothes. Since I was assigned to a Drug Squad they consisted of a comfortable pair of jeans, an oversized Phillies baseball shirt long enough to conceal my firearm in public, and a pair of black running shoes. Working drugs, I needed to dress to blend in on the street with shoes that allowed me to run like hell if chasing a suspect. I also worked SWAT, which explained the long gun locked in the trunk.

At 4:45 AM, traffic was light on 295 heading north. KYW 1060 all-news radio reported that the downtown Coventry Market Deli was closing after fifteen years, and that the Phillies had downed the Reds 21 on a Pete Incaviglia homer in the ninth inning.

My head was elsewhere, on the massive amount of prep work I had to complete for the upcoming trial. I mentally organized the order of witnesses, the FBI diagrams needed, and considered the legal tricks and maneuvers defense counsel would likely deploy. Rumor had it that the Pakistani defendants might be pleading guilty. That could make much of what I was planning unnecessary, but I was determined to be prepared nonetheless.