Within Arm's Length: A Secret Service Agent's Definitive Inside Account of Protecting the President by Dan Emmett Page A
Authors: Dan Emmett
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investigation of counterfeit currency, also investigates credit card and bank fraud. Even though check forgery cases are rare, these new types of investigations keep every field agent more than occupied. In a sense it is a shame that the check forgery cases have all but gone extinct: They were how every new agent was broken in, and they offered what amounted to basic training in the field of investigations. The new Secret Service agent of today will never know the down-in-the-gutter experience of working them.
The danger these cases presented to the agent far outweighed the importance of the cases themselves. Investigating federal crimes in rural America was as dangerous as working in a large city, and it was easy to imagine that an agent could be made to disappear in this setting.
In the mountains of North Carolina, for example, you frequently worked alone. Many of the people who lived in extreme rural North Carolina existed in their own world and did not recognize federal law or the legitimacy of an agent’s authority. While an agent had complete legal authority to be on a person’s property in order to ask for cooperation in an investigation, many of those who needed to be interviewed believed that agents were trespassing.
To ensure his own safety, the wise agent would befriend a local deputy to accompany him on these cases. Each deputy knew almost everyone in the county, and the chances of being shot by a check forgery suspect were far less with the deputy along. This sometimes backfired—a deputy who was related to or friends with the suspect would call ahead and warn of the agent’s visit. It seemed that almost everyone in the extreme rural areas of North Carolina was related either by blood or marriage. It was almost the norm rather than the exception to arrive at the residence of a suspect to find no one home, even though the suspect was unemployed.
On my first day of working these cases, Paul and I interviewed one or two payees and obtained some handwriting samples. Most of these individuals were living in deplorable conditions that smelled of stale urine, and each seemed to have an army of mongrel dogs that guarded the mobile home or shack he resided in. I learned the lesson of the rural dog the hard way.
Paul and I had pulled up in front of a mobile home off a dirt road with a typical narrow dirt driveway. The first advice Paul offered was always to back the car in rather than to park nose first—for an expedient getaway if things went wrong. The second was to dress appropriately for such assignments. I was dressed in a three-piece pinstriped suit I incorrectly thought appropriate for criminal investigations, while Paul was dressed in a sports jacket with wash-and-wear pants. It was on this day that I discovered an agent needed two different sets of work attire: one for dress-up events such as protection, the other for days when getting dirty is a distinct possibility.
As we exited Paul’s car I heard distant barking and saw the fast approach of a large, mud-caked mongrel. The owner who had seen our arrival stood in the doorway of his aluminum castle and told us not to worry: “The dog don’t bite.” He did not say anything about not jumping on a rookie Secret Service agent. As the dog ran toward us, he decided that I would be the best person to soil. He happily jumped on me, his front paws leaving a bounty of mud and who knows what else on my starched white shirt and suit and tie. Having now had his fun, the owner called the dog back. Paul was having a bit of fun, too, holding back laugher over my predicament.
Paul identified us, stated our business, and said that we needed some handwriting samples. The dog’s owner agreed to provide them. Inside, at the kitchen table, as I slid a form in front of the man to complete, a large drop of tobacco juice dripped from his mouth, staining the handwriting form. Seeing my quiet but noticeable disgust, Paul could barely contain himself. When we got back into
The danger these cases presented to the agent far outweighed the importance of the cases themselves. Investigating federal crimes in rural America was as dangerous as working in a large city, and it was easy to imagine that an agent could be made to disappear in this setting.
In the mountains of North Carolina, for example, you frequently worked alone. Many of the people who lived in extreme rural North Carolina existed in their own world and did not recognize federal law or the legitimacy of an agent’s authority. While an agent had complete legal authority to be on a person’s property in order to ask for cooperation in an investigation, many of those who needed to be interviewed believed that agents were trespassing.
To ensure his own safety, the wise agent would befriend a local deputy to accompany him on these cases. Each deputy knew almost everyone in the county, and the chances of being shot by a check forgery suspect were far less with the deputy along. This sometimes backfired—a deputy who was related to or friends with the suspect would call ahead and warn of the agent’s visit. It seemed that almost everyone in the extreme rural areas of North Carolina was related either by blood or marriage. It was almost the norm rather than the exception to arrive at the residence of a suspect to find no one home, even though the suspect was unemployed.
On my first day of working these cases, Paul and I interviewed one or two payees and obtained some handwriting samples. Most of these individuals were living in deplorable conditions that smelled of stale urine, and each seemed to have an army of mongrel dogs that guarded the mobile home or shack he resided in. I learned the lesson of the rural dog the hard way.
Paul and I had pulled up in front of a mobile home off a dirt road with a typical narrow dirt driveway. The first advice Paul offered was always to back the car in rather than to park nose first—for an expedient getaway if things went wrong. The second was to dress appropriately for such assignments. I was dressed in a three-piece pinstriped suit I incorrectly thought appropriate for criminal investigations, while Paul was dressed in a sports jacket with wash-and-wear pants. It was on this day that I discovered an agent needed two different sets of work attire: one for dress-up events such as protection, the other for days when getting dirty is a distinct possibility.
As we exited Paul’s car I heard distant barking and saw the fast approach of a large, mud-caked mongrel. The owner who had seen our arrival stood in the doorway of his aluminum castle and told us not to worry: “The dog don’t bite.” He did not say anything about not jumping on a rookie Secret Service agent. As the dog ran toward us, he decided that I would be the best person to soil. He happily jumped on me, his front paws leaving a bounty of mud and who knows what else on my starched white shirt and suit and tie. Having now had his fun, the owner called the dog back. Paul was having a bit of fun, too, holding back laugher over my predicament.
Paul identified us, stated our business, and said that we needed some handwriting samples. The dog’s owner agreed to provide them. Inside, at the kitchen table, as I slid a form in front of the man to complete, a large drop of tobacco juice dripped from his mouth, staining the handwriting form. Seeing my quiet but noticeable disgust, Paul could barely contain himself. When we got back into
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