Louis Diaz - Dancing with the Devil: Confessions of an Undercover Agent

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR LOUIS DIAZ AND
DANCING WITH THE DEVIL

Few of us get to share the real world of a top-notch undercover agent. Dancing with the Devil not only provides an inside look at the cases, most of which made front-page headlines, but a haunting portrayal of the psyche of the guy who made them. Louie Diaz has bared all to tell a thoroughly gripping story.

Nicholas Pileggi, New York Times bestselling author of Wiseguy

Louie Diaz put his life on the line, going undercover to develop evidence that was crucial in the conviction of the thretofore untouchable narcotics kingpin Nicky Barnes. Dancing with the Devil recounts this story and many others in a graphic, colorful, and explosive first-person account of an extraordinary law enforcement career.

Robert B. Fiske Jr., former United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York

Louie Diaz took down the biggest heroin dealer in the country and did it under extraordinary dangerous conditions, but with extraordinary success. He demonstrated character, commitment, and courage at a time when heroin was killing thousands of American citizens. Louie Diaz turned the tide he is a hero.

Peter Bensinger, former DEA administrator

This work is a memoir. It reflects the authors present recollections of his experiences over a period of years. Some dialogue and events have been re-created from memory and, in some cases, have been compressed to convey the substance of what was said and what occurred. Certain names and identifying characteristics have been changed.

Copyright 2010 by Louis Diaz and Neal Hirschfeld

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Gallery Books trade paperback edition December 2010

GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com.

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Designed by Davina Mock-Maniscalco

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

ISBN 978-1-4391-4882-2
ISBN 978-1-4391-6326-9 (ebook)

For Iris, my parents, Henrietta and Alfonso,
mi abuelita Adela, and Benito and Mercedes.

For my wife, Maria Jose,
all my love and sincerest thanks
for giving me a second chance at life.

For my son and daughter, Louis John and Maria;
my grandchildren, James, Grant, and Julia;
my brothers, Rigel and Alfonso Jr.;
and the rest of my family and friends here and in Spain.
My eternal thanks to all of you for your love, support,
and belief in me.

THE MOMENT I SPOTTED the cars, I knew it was trouble.

Four of them bearing down on us, all coming from different directions. Dark-colored sedans, two or three guys riding in each. Two pulled in front of me and two zoomed up from behind, boxing me up like a take-home pizza.

No warning, just a cold stop.

I had known theyd be on the lookout for strangers, particularly strangers who looked like we did. Julio, my informant, was a tall, mulatto Dominican with a semicrippled left arm, a gift from the Dominican secret police. He was wearing denim pants, a dark work shirt, construction boots, and a black beret. I was dressed in a black polo shirt and denim vest embossed with the likeness of a black panther. The panther, set against a round, red background, had yellow death rays shooting out of its eyes. I also wore a black beret and big, heavy motorcycle boots. Together, we looked like major trouble.

We had been cruising Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn, looking for Julios connection, a heavy-duty gun and drug runner. Julio had planned to introduce me to him as a Mafia-connected Cuban who brokered big-money deals.

As soon as the four cars cut us off, I told Julio to put his hands on the dashboard. I placed my own on the steering wheel, taking care to keep them in full view.

Nothing would piss them off more than not being able to see our hands. I knew the drill.

Stay cool, I said to Julio. These guys are gonna toss us.

Out of the unmarked cars poured eight or nine plainclothes cops, all with guns drawn, all crouching in combat stances. Taking cover behind their car doors, they began yelling their jingle: Police! Dont move, motherfuckers!

After a minute, one cop moved to the passenger side and yanked Julio out. Another, the biggest of the bunch, moved to the drivers side and aimed his pistol at my left temple. Six feet-plus, 230 pounds, short-cropped hair, Irish from head to toe, he resembled the old-time heavyweight Jim Braddock. He looked a decade older than I did.

With my hands glued to the steering wheel, I quietly turned to him and said, Hey, not for nuthin, but Im on the job.

Eyeing me with about as much credulity as if I had declared myself to be Mother Teresa, he shouted to his backups, Hey, asshole over here says hes on the job!

Then he spat at me, Get the fuck outta the car!

I opened the door slowly and, with my hands up in the air, I stepped out. The moment I did, the cop grabbed me by my vest, whirled me around, and slammed me up against the side of the car. He banged my head on the hood and kicked my feet apart.

Listen, officer, I said, Im packing.

The cop shouted to the others, Hey, now this shithead says hes carrying!

Then he threw a couple of stiff shots to my head, rattling my brains around my skull. After that came half a dozen punches to my kidneys. I winced from the pain.

While I struggled to keep my wits about me, he patted me down and came up with my gun, which inspired him to throw a few more roundhouse blows to my kidneys. For several days after, I would piss blood.

Go easy, willya? I said with a gasp. Im a Fed. My credentials are in the trunk, under my spare.

The cop shouted to his backups, Now he claims hes a Fed! Then he yanked me off the hood and shoved me toward the rear of the car, his gun to my head. I stumbled to the trunk.

Screwing the barrel into the base of my skull, he said, Open it, motherfucker.

I used my key to open it. Shoving me into the arms of his backups, the cop began poking around under my spare.

Do me a favor, I said. Keep my creds outta sight. Im still working this area undercover.

Shut the fuck up, he replied. A moment later, he came up with my shield and my identity card.

Huh! he grumbled. Howdya like that? This guy is for real.

Please, can you just leave my credentials there? I said.

His response was to give me an ass-reaming, You fuckin Feds are all the same. High and mighty, think your shit dont stink. Too good to even give us a goddamn courtesy call, telling us that youd be working our turf.