I was living at the residence of the individual whom you have previously seen in these pages (He was the liaison between Colombian cocaine smugglers, and Cuban & American distributors/dealers), when I received a telephone call from a female looking for my roommate. I somewhat boldly referred to myself as my associate's attorney, and later found out that the caller, formerly a bible college classmate of his, was currently a police officer, who wondered aloud why her friend had his lawyer living with him. Good question.  

We hit it off right away, the cop and the renegade attorney, perhaps because we both, down deep, found our government's intrusion into the right of its citizens to ingest chemical substances improper and unacceptable, as children of the nineteen sixties often did. The relationship was to last for seven years, and during that time my money laundering activities, which were tactfully not ever overtly displayed, were conducted outside our joint residence in the tiny Miami suburb of Coral Gables.

Whilst she could accompany me on summer trips to Jamaica, her work schedule generally ruled out the Colombia and European visits. It became a bit more complicated when, after a summer-long visit by her two adolescent children, who lived with their father, turned unexpectedly into a full-time role as parent of teenagers. learning parenting backwards is truly a character-building experience, as well as an exercise in patience.

Thereafter, should a police officer of her acquaintance need to retain an attorney in civil matter, or even defend himself in a criminal case, I found myself filling that slot, as I had become friends with many of these people, and saw that they rarely had advocates on their behalf.

One time in particular, a judge who did not want to disclose that he was carrying a concealed weapon, declined to go through the courthouse metal detector, and seriously insulted the security guard who attempted to stop him. I sued the judge for damages, to make a point, notwithstanding that many lawyers warned me not to do it. All I wanted was an apology in writing, which I soon got.

Another time, I represented a police officer charged with pocketing a small item from the scene of an eviction. Whilst Internal Affairs was very antagonistic towards me, the judge gave the officer the same fair treatment he would give anyone, and the punishment was minimal.

Notwithstanding my legal practise, I still maintained my regular travel schedule:

• Pick up cash from drug clients, preferably in large bills.
• Purchase a ticket on the Thursday 1730 flight Miami-St. Maarten American Airlines flight shortly the same day the flight departed (first class, of course).
• Dress like a tourist/potential casino gambler, in Hawaiian-style print shirt, sloppy and disheveled.
• Pack up the cash into a battered carry-on bag (no rubber bands, thank you) and/or shirt, and boldly walk right through the metal detector, knowing that it couldn't exactly discern the paper on my person. Get on board without incident.
• Disembark in Sint Maarten, the only true Western Hemisphere country were there is no customs, due to the fact that the island, divided as it is into French and Dutch portions, has deemed customs an inconvenience since the seventeenth century. It therefore does not exist.
• Spend the night in an anonymous Dutch or West Caribbean hotel on Frontstreet in Philipsburg, stowing the cash in the crawl space over the water closet. The bearer cheques and negotiable instruments never left my side. Time to go to the casino for some recreational activity, but do not overdo it; People may be watching.
• Travel over to the French side the following morning, to the port of Marigot, and take a short water taxi  to Anguilla's port of entry, the aptly-named Blowing Point .
• Meet my regular Anguillian taxi, and make the deposits at the bank in the Valley, Anguilla's sleepy capital.
• Return to St. Maarten and pick up an item of jewelery for my sweetheart, as it costs 30% less in that competitive Caribbean offshore island.
• Return home Saturday morning, a laundryman swimming amongst a sea of returning American tourists, with absolutely no documents, or even proof that was in Anguilla. I presented my birth certificate as proof of nationality, my passport safely in my jacket pocket, only to surface when I hit arriving US immigration in Miami. Home again, without incident.

Once, I even used my knowledge of drug smuggling trade-craft to assist a legitimate client. A Netherlands Antilles businessman owned a luxury condominium that I had assisted him in acquiring. He rented it out to a couple who abandoned it months later. After obtaining an order of eviction (writ of Possession), I inspected the unit and found it fully furnished with certain unique features; there were camouflage uniforms in the  clothes closet and avionics left behind. I knew this to be operating equipment of drug smugglers, and my client soon had a fully furnished apartment to rent out at a higher rate. Oh yes, I did later turn over the aviation electronics and logbooks to US Customs, as an officer of court.

Next Week: More Caribbean operations.