The hate next door, p.17
The Hate Next Door, page 17
“What are you looking at?” taunted Samuel Compton, a shaved-head brute of six feet and change.
Cole had tried to look away. He was five feet nine and weighed 130 pounds. He wore glasses and had a pacemaker. He’d been born with a heart defect, and for the first year of his life, he’d fought to live while his father stayed awake each night to watch him and make sure he didn’t stop breathing.
When Cole didn’t answer, Samuel Compton marched the short distance between them and punched Cole straight in the face. Compton was wearing brass knuckles. Cole’s glasses snapped and flew off into the night, his nose and right eye socket fractured. Before he truly understood what had just happened, he was on the ground and blood was running down his face onto the pavement. But this kid had been fighting for life since the day he’d been born, and he wasn’t done yet. He crawled back to his feet and ran.
All six skinheads chased after. One knocked him back to the ground and then several started kicking. A “boot party.” For fun. The group, said witnesses after, cheered and laughed the whole time.
It didn’t matter that their victim was White. To bridge that gap, they called him a “wigger” throughout. Kicking with bare feet can lead to fatal injuries. Cole’s attackers wore boots. Steel-toed boots. “No… Please…” Cole got out, his attackers would later admit in court. “I was just waiting—”
The kicking continued.
There were fractures of his calvarium (skullcap) and facial bones. Brain contusions. Intra-cerebral hemorrhage. Deep gashes to his forehead and left eyebrow. Blood covered both his eyes, so the first police officers to arrive couldn’t even tell if they were open anymore. Forensics labs typically find sole-imprint patterns in the adipose, a soft tissue between the head and skull. You can actually see the imprints, like an X-ray captured in the bruising. Cole had been kicked so hard, there were no such patterns; it all bled together into one shape.
Earlier that same day, Cole and his father, Cole Sr., had argued over some car payments Cole was behind on. It’s why he was looking for a second job. These two always got along, but their last discussion had been heated. This fact would haunt the boy’s father for the rest of his life. If Cole thought of it in his final moments, we would never know.
Earlier that same day, I’d been invited to go out drinking with these same killers. “Packy! Bro… We’re going to the pool hall tonight… Let’s hang out, bro!”
I’d declined.
How things would have changed had I agreed to join them…
I think about it every day.
Cole’s upper thorax and diaphragm were crushed. There were fractures in his lower jaw and forearms, showing he’d tried to defend himself. Teeth were missing. His liver ruptured. There were lacerations to the back of the head and fractures of the parietal and temporal bone—all in the arched pattern of a wide steel-toed boot. His thoracic vertebrae and hyoid bone (spine and neck) were cracked. External and internal blood loss would kill him. The blood stain would remain on the sidewalk for too many weeks.
The last kick was described in court as if they’d kicked a football. Stepped back and eyed an imaginary goal and then came at Cole’s head with those steel-toed Doc Martens. The group cheered. And then they ran.
* * *
It was mid-October and the weather was beautiful. Tawni and I were out for dinner with friends. We spoke of the things normal people speak of and had just ordered our food when my cell phone went off.
“Hey, Matt,” a Phoenix homicide detective, Paul Dalton, said.“Need a favor.”
He told me of Cole’s murder and that, according to witnesses, the suspects were White men “with loads of tattoos.” He’d been told I was the guy who would be able to help identify them. And, sure enough: one of the suspects had “CRACKER” tattooed on the back of his head.
“Chris Whitley,” I said. The kid I’d sat behind and first met at a National Alliance meeting. A guy I’d shared beers with a dozen times since.
“They weren’t kidding about you,” the detective said. “How fast can you get here?”
I started making my phone calls to get all the approvals from the powers that be (it takes far more calls and authorizations than you’d ever think for a Mesa detective to help a Phoenix detective ten miles away). I kissed Tawni and left her as the third wheel at the restaurant. I was already in Phoenix when I was given—unenthusiastically by my superiors—the approval to assist.
I first drove to the apartment where Whitley and his friends had been living, hoping to catch them there. I sat outside in my truck and waited until, eventually, Phoenix PD showed up and cleared the house, but nobody was inside.
Entering the apartment, I wasn’t surprised by what I found. On the wall hung a swastika flag. Beneath it, a pair of the shiniest spit-shined Docs I’d ever seen. Hate music blared on the stereo in the empty apartment.
I was fully debriefed on what had happened.
The group—Chris Whitley, Sammy Compton, Justin Larue, Brandon Miller, Cassandra Wood, and Kelly Coffman—had all been inside the bar, River City Pockets, playing pool. At some point, Cassandra got into a fight with another random barfly and ended up breaking her orbital socket. An enormous Black security guard, a collegiate offensive lineman no less, proceeded to throw all six out. Sammy, humiliated, was the first out the door and he’d spotted Cole Bailey.
After attacking Cole, of course, like most “White nationalists” and “street soldiers,” they all ran like cowards. Brandon, I was told, had already been caught, driving away from the scene, blood still on his boots, and had been arrested for murder.
The other five were still on the run.
I sorted through all the names of all the members of Unit 88 whom I’d met or knew from the National Alliance meetings, and one who kept coming to mind was Jason Keith, a.k.a. Slick. Slick had just been released from prison and had moved to Apache Junction, an area at the far east end of Phoenix. Having been raised in Phoenix, I said to myself, “If I wanted to get out of town but didn’t have the means to do so, the furthest place I would go would be Apache Junction.” This area was full of White boys, tweakers hooked on crystal meth, and actual meth labs—a perfect place for this particular crew to easily hide.
I called the Phoenix detective and shared my suspicions. Due to the late hour and lack of manpower, he said he wasn’t able to follow up on it that night. So, I started making calls to my own guys in Mesa to see if they could help. Of course, I got the whole “It’s not a Mesa homicide, Matt. Who will pay for the overtime?” routine and was unable to get my squad together.
The following morning, sans approval, I went to Apache Junction myself and checked Jason’s house. As I suspected, my five skins had been there the night before but had left earlier in the morning as news of the murder spread across town. I’d missed them by hours.
My phone burst with calls from both law enforcement and the White supremacist underworld. Jerry Harbin was calling anxiously to know if I’d (as Packy) heard anything as I pumped him for information of my own. I was consumed. I reminded my supervisors: “This is murder. An innocent kid was murdered. If we can help, does it really matter whose case it is?”
I needed some quick backup and called new friends: the FBI.
* * *
All FBI field offices have task forces that partner with local law enforcement. The cops selected are paid by their PD, but the FBI pays any overtime and provides a nice car, fancier guns, and the opportunity to work special cases. It’s a sought-after gig, and when the FBI came calling with their Desert Hawk Fugitive Task Force, I applied and was selected. I was now putting in between sixty and eighty hours a week.
It was grueling but rewarding. It had also given me new friends.
Some of my partners from the FBI’s Fugitive Task Force joined in on the pursuit of Cole’s killers and pulled over Josh Fiedler and his girlfriend to have a little chat; they questioned him on what he was doing and if he’d seen Chris or Sammy. Of course, Josh had “no idea” what they were talking about, and he was released with a citation for driving on a suspended license.
The hunt continued.
Phoenix PD stayed aggressive on this one and it felt good, but we knew the suspects were on the run and time was not our friend. Phoenix PD decided to get creative and contacted America’s Most Wanted.
This popular program was credited with capturing more than a thousand criminals, including seventeen on the FBI’s “Ten Most Wanted” list. It was a great break to get their attention on this one. The program just needed to know more about the case, so the producers asked the Phoenix team if I would participate.
I had grave and immediate concerns about being a part of any media, especially TV. But I didn’t even ask for approval from my Mesa supervisors. If it was good enough for the Phoenix guys, it was good enough for me.
The production crew flew out to Phoenix, popped up a studio in a hotel room, and everything was set.
Before filming started, however, I had to know a few things. “You guys realize I am still undercover in this group, right?” I voiced. “I really don’t want to be burned now.” They hadn’t known. This is not going well, I thought.
The producer—Mary, a wonderful person who soon became a family friend—made a quick phone call and then promised they’d hide my identity by covering my face and altering my voice.
I had so much to lose and still wasn’t keen on any of it but agreed to proceed. It was unnerving: the lights, cameras, the crew, and mics—trying to strategically answer the questions, but not entirely blow my cover. I know I wasted far more tape than they’d planned to use because I was either looking down or at the wrong spot during the interview. But we got through it.
We recorded in December, but the episode wouldn’t air until February. Two months to wait. Now, I truly felt like it had been a waste of my time and a threat for no return.
Meanwhile, just before the new year, I got a call from Phoenix detective Dalton. Chris Whitley, a main suspect, was back in town and being set up by a “friend” of his, Patrick Bearup. (Bearup was a skinhead and the son of a longtime local officer then running for sheriff.) Bearup had reached out to Cole Bailey Sr., the victim’s father, and arranged to set Chris up for $500.
Cole Bailey Sr. had called Phoenix PD and set up the meeting at—no surprise—a local Denny’s restaurant. There, Patrick collected his $500, and Mr. Bailey, along with two friends of his own, walked into the Denny’s to speak with Chris. We never found out what Cole’s father said. I can only imagine.
Shortly after they met, members of the Fugitive Task Force, who were already seated inside the restaurant, arrested Chris. I watched as he came out of the restaurant handcuffed and carrying a “doggy bag” with his half-eaten hamburger and fries. He was taken to the Phoenix PD to be interviewed. I followed and set myself up in the interview monitoring room.
There were no secret mics or earpieces where I could speak to Detective Dalton during the interview. Instead, I’d watch and listen, take notes, get frustrated, and then Dalton would come out on “breaks” to debrief with me and pace how we were doing. Even though Chris wouldn’t confess, he was still booked on charges of second-degree murder.
Meanwhile, a warrant had been issued for Cassandra Wood’s arrest in connection to the original bar fight that led to the death of Cole. Perfect, I thought; I’ll find and arrest her and interview her about the murder.
I’d heard a rumor that after Cole was killed, Cassandra had resolved to put her life straight and, apparently, being a mechanic was part of her new dream. I’d done some low-level mechanic work back as a teen and knew Arizona Automotive Institute was the first place to check. The AAI was a school with a history of taking every high school dropout, tweaker, and broken person trying to “get their lives together”—and some did, but the clientele could be… rough. Cassandra Wood-type rough.
I drove through the student parking lot looking for her older blue Ford Bronco. I parked and waited. Half an hour went by and sure enough, Cassandra and her blue Bronco pulled up.
I called Detective Dalton and told him I had her, and he asked if I could get her to Phoenix PD to be interviewed. Following procedure, I needed backup for the arrest and called my new friends with the FBI Fugitive Task Force again. Shortly after, Danny got there. Danny always had some wild idea to get the job done and he didn’t disappoint this time either: he came up with the plan that I’d pose as Cassandra’s “beneficiary” to see how much she still owed in tuition. Knowing the school would need to get Cassandra’s permission to talk with me, Danny was going to wait by the receptionist door and arrest her before she even made her way into the bursar’s office. No cover blown for Packy; she’d never even see me.
It worked like a charm. I did my thing, Danny did his, and Cassandra Wood was off to the Phoenix PD to be booked on her warrant and interviewed by Detective Dalton.
But, she had nothing to say either.
Meanwhile, the America’s Most Wanted show finally aired. Sammy Compton and Justin Larue were the last two people connected with the murder we hadn’t pulled in. Sammy had been seen bouncing around all over Arizona and California for months and was picked up in Bakersville, California, only days after the episode aired. Larue was still MIA, but the show had found one more.
A month later, I got the call from Paul telling me that Brandon—the first skin they’d arrested the night of the murder—had been released from jail. All his charges were dropped.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I couldn’t believe it.
Paul explained that the only witness who actually made a statement had moved to Texas and was refusing to return for trial. Not only was he refusing to return, but the witness had also recanted his statement and was now saying he had no idea what’d happened that night, that he did not see anything.
Someone had gotten to him.
* * *
I couldn’t let Brandon go and couldn’t get this case off my mind. One night, I’d started looking through some old pictures and happened upon one I’d forgotten I had: Brandon and his small little crew of thugs. I’d taken it years before when they were thrown out of The Nile Theater in Mesa. Yup, Brandon was one of the first skins I’d ever talked to. I stared at the old photo in amazement. I couldn’t get him in jail that night long ago, but now I was determined to get him rearrested on these murder charges.
Fine. If the only witness had taken off to Texas and wouldn’t come back, I would go to him. I reached out again to the FBI and briefed my FBI supervisor. My boss was a great guy, incredibly involved in his work, and I was confident I could quickly get this approved. I quickly learned otherwise.
First, they told me, the FBI budget was to be spent only on official “FBI cases,” not local charges. Second, if there was an FBI office close to the witness, they were to handle the interview. Third, of course, I got the dreaded “It’s not that big of deal, Matt.” It was “only one” local murder.
I continued to argue. “Even if we brief the local agents, they’ll have no clue how to interview someone about a skinhead murder.”
My supervisor looked at me blankly. “They’re FBI agents for a reason, Matt. They can interview just as good as you. Write up the lead and send it.”
I did as I was told. The lead written and sent to Texas. Protocol says the interview should have been completed in thirty days. It took three months, a lot of phone calls, and a few threats to even get the interview done. I never received a copy of that report; I doubt there was ever one written.
I did finally get ahold of the FBI agent, who explained simply: “The witness didn’t want to talk… So, we left.”
“Nice,” I said. “You should be real proud of your work.” I hung up.
* * *
The more Tawni learned as she worked beside me, the more the ineffectiveness of local law enforcement and the FBI perplexed her. Much more than even I was…which was saying something. “There’s so much good that could be done,” she’d say.
I tried reassuring her that she just didn’t understand. She agreed and was happy about it. “Why would I want to understand? Then, I might condone it also.” Tawni was an outsider realizing “business as usual” often stood directly in the way of getting the job done. It made no sense to send an agent from another state, one who wasn’t going to take the time to truly understand the case, to interview important murder witnesses. This one was a real blow for us both.
Disheartening to her. For me, it was crushing.
* * *
Justin Larue, the final suspect, was finally picked up in Washington in July on a DUI warrant, headed to work on a crab boat. He was held on Cole’s murder warrant and extradited back to Phoenix.
Ultimately, Sammy and Chris both got more than twenty years for Cole’s murder. Larue got sixteen. Cassandra Wood got probation for the original bar fight. The other skinbyrd got nothing. And Brandon, caught fleeing the scene, also didn’t serve a day for the crime.
JT
JT Ready, I learned, was now running for the Arizona House of Representatives. His chief platform, of course, was cracking down on undocumented immigration, which posed a threat, he advocated, to the entire U.S. health care system. He also wanted to improve the education system by addressing “this mass illegal influx of foreign students who do not even embrace the same language and culture as Americans and who spread tuberculosis, whooping cough, lice, and other third-world biological diseases to our children.”
His language let everyone in Phoenix know who and what he was about: “We need some can-do, kick-butt American Patriots to get back in office. Now, I might be the first one to advocate this, but I firmly believe in having a mine field across the border… It is 100% effective.” He’d also attempted to copycat David Lane’s infamous fourteen words by coining his own eighteen, which he openly spouted at close-knit rallies and gatherings: “The purity of the Aryan Race is the most precious resource nature has to offer all humankind.”
