The hate next door, p.20
The Hate Next Door, page 20
He’d added a second “I” into the team’s objectives.
GITEM was now GIITEM, and the new extra “I” was for Immigration. The responsibilities of this special state-wide unit would now include deterring “border-related crime.” He wanted GITEM to become an elite squad targeting…undocumented immigrants.
“So, what I want now is to get everyone’s opinions on how we can make GIITEM an even better, more rounded organization. Because remember, I’m in charge of the funding… and want to make sure we use the money appropriately.”
Nobody in the room responded. It’d been a monologue, and everyone was still processing the new “I.”
Pearce’s message was clear: If he wanted to add another “I” to GITEM, he would. Refuse, and he’d cut all funding for all of it. It was bullying politics at its best, and the man known for distrusting “Jews” and “Arabs” and fearing a “more Latino America” was now threatening all budgets to shore up law enforcement along the border.
When the conversation finally turned to the actual gangs, he only spoke of the Latino gangs. I took it as an opportunity to bait him.
“Mr. Pearce,” I said, raising my hand, “I’ve worked a lot with GITEM and they are great… But they only work Latino gangs. Or Black gangs. If we are adding objectives to the unit, why not add a squad that specifically works White boys. You know, skinheads and vigilante militia members?”
The room went silent, except for Terry, who whispered beside me, “Oh fuck, Matt. No.”
It was like watching one of those slow-motion ballistics test firings, the bullet approaching so very slowly until it finally hits the rubber block and the whole thing explodes out in every direction in a matter of frames.
“What… did you say?” the state senator, or rubber block, asked.
“A squad made for neo-Nazis and skinheads. And for those militias committing serious crimes on our border.”
“‘White boys’ and ‘neo-Nazis’? Our problems, my friend, are not with White boys and skinheads. Or the militias. They are with these illegals coming across and killing our officers. GIITEM is here to arrest Mexican gangs and illegal aliens.” He’d already moved on.
“Excuse me, but…” I held up my hand again. “I thought GITEM was a state task force created to combat gangs. All gangs. A White-boy squad would take some very violent individuals off the street, sir.”
“GIITEM is not, and never will be, the thought police,” he said. “It will never investigate these so-called skinheads.”
“Matt…” Terry whispered again next to me. “Maybe let’s not.”
I kept going. “I’ve worked three homicides recently,” I said. “Within the same local skinhead crew, sir. These are not merely ‘thought crimes.’”
“White gangs, if there are any, don’t do nearly the damage illegals do.”
“Again, sir. I can show you the morgue pictures of those who’d disagree. And what about the unsolved murders on the border? The militias who hunt illegals?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Me? I’m an Arizona detective who was invited here to share my professional opinion on our gangs.” OK, not entirely true. “And that’s what I am doing. But let’s get this clear, as I’ve taken enough of your time. You’re telling me, in front of all these people, that White gangs, in whatever form, are not a priority and never will be as long as you’re a part of GIITEM?”
His response floored me. All of us, really.
“GIITEM is my baby,” Pearce said.
Huh?
“And we will be focusing on immigration,” he reminded us all. “Thank you all for coming. This meeting is over. ‘I’ for Immigration!” He grinned and raised a fist jocularly.
“How ’bout ‘I’ for idiot, Mr. Pearce?” I grumbled.
There were many smirks but dead silence throughout the room. I looked around and surveyed all the guys in suits. They had to know I was right, but I also had to admit it was probably a reckless thing to say. Pearce moved about the room and shook some hands.
“Dude…” Terry pulled on my shirt. “You’d better go.” She could see I was getting mad, and it wasn’t a look she’d often seen. But, at this point, I was tired of being the invisible guy who only took it all in. White crimes and vigilante crimes were “my baby” and people needed to start listening.
Clint, an officer from Phoenix, sidled over. “I totally agree with you, Matt.” Then: “Good luck.”
I finally decided Terry was probably right and made for the exit, but then Pearce walked up to me. “Who are you?” he asked again.
“Matt Browning. An officer who’s spent a lot of time in these organizations. Undercover. And you’re dead wrong about them not committing crimes. Real crimes.”
Pearce moved closer, inches away, trying to intimidate me.
I wouldn’t allow it. “You’re no different from a lot of people, Senator Pearce,” I said. “You don’t look at the problem in full. You look at only what you want. And so, you’re wrong. These White guys are also a real threat.”
His face was beet red, spittle collecting at the sides of his mouth. His assistant stepped between us, his back to me so he was facing Pearce. “We need to go,” the aide said. Terry jerked on the back of my shirt, trying to pull me away also.
All I knew was that any more of this conversation might get me into real trouble, so I thanked Pearce for inviting me to his “immigration meeting” and left.
Part of me had still thought politicians were middle ground, wanting the best for everyone. Russell Pearce wiped out whatever youthful naivete I’d had left. Before I’d even returned to the office, my commanding officer had already been called. I was told never to return to the capitol building again. Ever.
THE VIKING SON
JT Ready finished in second place, one shy of claiming the open seat on Mesa’s city council.
With each political loss, JT’s rhetoric grew more hostile and direct, including advocating a third U.S. political party known as “White People’s Party.”
That spring, he organized and led an anti-illegal-immigration group, America First, in a protest held in front of the Mexican consulate in Phoenix. There, he told The Arizona Republic, “We are advocating that the government of Mexico should be designated a ‘threat nation’ because they are openly subverting our laws and sovereignty.”vii
Months later, Ready finally landed a spot in mainstream politics.
He won a post as GOP precinct committee person in a west Mesa district—running as the only candidate in a primary. His duties now included helping local GOP candidates with marketing efforts, organizing fundraisers, and assisting with voter registration.
During this time, Ready also distributed racist and anti-Semitic materials throughout Mesa Republican Party meetings. He also visited Omaha, Nebraska, to march beneath swastika banners beside brown-shirted members of the National Socialist Movement (NSM), a neo-Nazi group he’d soon join. In Omaha, Ready, billed as an “Arizona Republican activist,” gave a speech proclaiming America was a “White, European homeland” and “That’s how it should be preserved if we want to keep it clean, safe, and pure.”
He’d also created an online profile, “VIKING SON,” on a neo-Nazi social networking website—New Saxon, run by the NSM. VIKING SON’s profile pics featured Ready wearing a kilt, bulletproof vest, and him “hunting illegals” through a pair of binoculars. His listed “turn-ons” included “a woman who loves our Race,” Kultur (which is German civilization), “Heritage, History and Future.” He’d listed The Turner Diaries as his favorite book and Prussian Blue—a neo-Nazi pop duo made up of two blond-haired, blue-eyed fourteen-year-old sisters—as his favorite band. (The girls have since renounced the movement.)
A typical post on this profile could read: “The jew [sic] itself knows it is a parasite. I have had them admit as much to me and laugh in my face… But a parasite cannot carry on in its parasitic nature if it is exposed for what it really is. Their whole house of cards comes tumbling down for all to see. Like in 1933 Germany. Just because it has two legs does not change its nature any less than a six-legged parasite stops sucking blood. There have been many pogroms when the host people stop being victims of these vampires. Another pogrom is approaching.” viii (A pogrom is defined as the “organized massacre of a particular ethnic group, in particular that of Jewish people.”)
Ready next attended the National Vanguard’s Winterfest gathering in Phoenix in December replete with mead, lit swastikas, and shouts of “Valhalla” and “White power!”
At long last, Ready’s actions finally bubbled up to the radar of Arizona U.S. Congressmen John Shadegg, Trent Franks, and Jeff Flake. All three beseeched the chair of Mesa’s Republican Party to expel Ready immediately.
Yet Ready retained his office until his term ran out later that year.
PACKY EXPOSED
Despite warnings to keep away, I was eventually invited back to the State House. With my chief’s blessings, I’d been asked to participate on a panel called “Improving the Tone of the Immigration Debate.”
State Representative Kyrsten Sinema (now a U.S. senator) was then sponsoring a legislative meeting on the topic of how hate fuels violence at the border and asked me if I would lend my expertise to the discussion.
Arizona did have more than four hundred and fifty thousand undocumented immigrants at the time;ix there was clearly a need for real discussions and solutions, but ones decidedly less inherently prejudiced and, ultimately, more humane than what JT Ready and others like him were putting forward. It’d been more than a year since my run-in with Pearce, who’d been invited to the panel but had decided he wouldn’t attend. Pity. In attendance, however, would be other state legislatures and representatives from the Anti-Defamation League.
My only goal this day was to get people to talk and think about what was going on so real changes could be made. I planned my remarks carefully and even wrote down notes, which I almost never do. Tawni got me a new tie to wear, and when my mom heard what was going on, she got invited to come along also.
It sounds a little ridiculous now: my mom tagging along, a new tie. But I was excited. Inspired by my previous encounter in the State House, I even thought I could make a difference. I’d also be back in the same building my great-grandfather and great-uncle had served in, in state/territorial legislatures. After all, I was still a fifth-generation Arizonan, still proud of our state.
When I arrived, the lawmakers were in attendance as expected. But the gallery was also open and there were close to sixty people, regular citizens, in the audience. I’d been told the meeting would be closed to the public and all media would be outside, so there was no chance I’d appear on any news shows and blow my cover. I strongly debated leaving but figured this was a rare opportunity to talk directly to many lawmakers and pushed through.
I could tell most private citizens in attendance were anti-immigration, close-the-border types. Some even had signs: “American Jobs for American People” and “Invaders Go Home,” or “Return to Sender” or “Return Them Back with Birth Control.” There was also a smattering of “We are ALL Immigrants” and “No Human Being Is Illegal” mixed within the signage.
I thought to myself: I hope this will be something I’m proud of. Then looking at Tawni, who smiled and gave a quick wave, I knew Matt—no matter what happened next—would be all right.
Now, Detective Browning and Packy Von Fleckenger?
Those two guys, I was soon to learn, were on borrowed time.
* * *
My presentation was a short talk about how hate groups and antigovernment extremists were fueling the fire of hate along the border and how they’d infiltrated the border militias. Throughout the speech, I had zero political agenda. I just knew what was happening was wrong and that some violent people needed to be stopped. I discussed a few homicides and how the rhetoric and provocative language of the far right were being used as a battle cry for racist-minded individuals to harm Mexicans.
I started to—
Then everything changed. The door opened, and in walked Jerry Harbin and four other members of the National Alliance. With them was JT Ready.
It was the end of Packy Von Fleckenger.
* * *
All those years spent standing beside these same men, drinking a beer, folding flyers, pretending to be one of them. Now, they would know me for who I really was.
I paused, took a deep breath, and then just kept going. What else could I do? Years of undercover work had taught me to always just push through. Just keep going and you’ll figure it out. So, I kept talking, taking questions, and doing what I was there to do: speak truth, hoping someone who could do something would finally listen.
JT stood at the back door, glaring murderously at me. His face was an angry red, his breath coming in short quick bursts. Jerry, in contrast, didn’t move at all, as if he was still stunned and still trying to process it all. They both knew they’d been had. An undercover cop had worked beside them for years, had been included in their most-inner circle. Eventually, both men turned and exited back outside through the double glass doors.
We finished our panel an hour later. The crowd cleared out, many visibly unsatisfied, as if their concerns had been ignored. Others openly grumbled about the things I’d said. The legislators themselves proved more contented, excited about how well the seminar had gone and even hopeful for the future.
“How do you think it went, Detective?” Representative Sinema asked me.
What was I supposed to say? That I’d just ruined years of work and probably put my life at risk because I didn’t know this was an open meeting? “Thank you so much for doing this,” I managed. “It was great.”
Tawni knew I was nervous. I didn’t want people there to know we were married, so she went outside with my mom.
As I walked out, the media gathered around, but I walked right past them to my truck on the other side of the park in front of the capitol, looking behind every tree and car as I went. I made it to the truck and drove the longest, slowest cruise I could back to my office.
There, my commander was standing outside my office waiting for me. “We need to talk.” He dragged me into his office.
Apparently, news of the meeting was already spreading across town. Websites, news articles, talk radio. The media attention was immediate, and it was—shockingly—focused on me. I didn’t get it. I thought I was the least important person there.
But JT thrived on media attention, and journalists were quick to oblige. This militant neo-Nazi accused me of spouting my own political agenda in support of undocumented immigration and argued I’d overstepped my badge. Summarizing: “How dare Matt Browning label American patriots concerned about our borders as domestic terrorists?!” It was this take, his take, that went out to the Valley that day.
The result? Within a matter of hours, half the city was mad at me for implying any border activists were connected to hate groups and that Arizona had a neo-Nazi problem. I’d only spoken the truth, but it was one that didn’t fit their narratives—so, truth be damned.
* * *
After work, I headed to our oldest boy’s lacrosse game.
Tawni called. “You may want to turn on the radio.” She gave me the channel. They’d somehow gotten audio from the meeting and taken two phrases of mine—“Arizona has the most violent, racist skinheads” and “It is terrorism; it’s domestic terrorism”—and kept looping it like some kind of rap song with booming voices.
“It is terrorism; it’s domestic terrorism…”
“It is terrorism; it’s domestic terrorism…”
“Arizona has… Arizona has… Arizona has the most violent, racist skinheads.”
“It is terrorism; it’s domestic terrorism…”
Someone on the radio staff, maybe the host himself, had taken the time to make this. The host had completely joined in the camp of me being a Chicken Little, grossly exaggerating the existence of White pride adherents in the Valley.
Tawni called into the radio station posing as a random concerned citizen in support of me. “When was the last time you saw a cross burning on the streets of Phoenix?” the show’s host challenged. “When has there been a lynching in your neighborhood?” As if these were the only two manifestations of racism. But the more the host pushed back, the more Tawni had an answer. She knew her stuff; he didn’t. After their call, the announcer was flustered and, to his credit, said as much.
JT then used the power of the internet to claim that I promoted the lie that “all” border activists, constitutional study groups, tax protesters, and White Heritage Club members were “domestic terrorists.” What I’d argued was that the anti-immigration movement was attracting extremists and domestic terrorists. That I’d seen it firsthand. That the movement had become a battle cry for extremists and neo-Nazis now in the ranks of the Minutemen; that the National Alliance and skinhead crews were heading to our southern border. And that such forces were “domestic terrorism.”
All that day and into the next, Tawni lived online, tracking all the comments on a dozen different sites and chat boards. Newspaper articles and the comments that followed were written by regular folk, extremists, and law enforcement members alike. Some of the hate-filled comments began to get into my head, and Tawni begged me not to even read them.
Eventually, though, she called me in to look at her computer. JT was online, openly asking people to “take Browning out to the desert” and “bury him.”
I called my chief and the next morning was in his office with a stack of printed-out threats being made toward me. He already had his own stack in hand. “You’re done on the street,” he said. “For a while. Grab a different car, anything you need, and you can do my intel work for me directly. Can’t have you getting hurt.”
In a career driven largely by ego and the desire to do your job better and faster than the next person, being pulled off the road was torture. I stood, furious, and left. I needed more manpower, and with me out of commission, we now had less. I swapped cars and went home, wishing I had eyes in the back of my head. Awaiting the trigger man.
GITEM was now GIITEM, and the new extra “I” was for Immigration. The responsibilities of this special state-wide unit would now include deterring “border-related crime.” He wanted GITEM to become an elite squad targeting…undocumented immigrants.
“So, what I want now is to get everyone’s opinions on how we can make GIITEM an even better, more rounded organization. Because remember, I’m in charge of the funding… and want to make sure we use the money appropriately.”
Nobody in the room responded. It’d been a monologue, and everyone was still processing the new “I.”
Pearce’s message was clear: If he wanted to add another “I” to GITEM, he would. Refuse, and he’d cut all funding for all of it. It was bullying politics at its best, and the man known for distrusting “Jews” and “Arabs” and fearing a “more Latino America” was now threatening all budgets to shore up law enforcement along the border.
When the conversation finally turned to the actual gangs, he only spoke of the Latino gangs. I took it as an opportunity to bait him.
“Mr. Pearce,” I said, raising my hand, “I’ve worked a lot with GITEM and they are great… But they only work Latino gangs. Or Black gangs. If we are adding objectives to the unit, why not add a squad that specifically works White boys. You know, skinheads and vigilante militia members?”
The room went silent, except for Terry, who whispered beside me, “Oh fuck, Matt. No.”
It was like watching one of those slow-motion ballistics test firings, the bullet approaching so very slowly until it finally hits the rubber block and the whole thing explodes out in every direction in a matter of frames.
“What… did you say?” the state senator, or rubber block, asked.
“A squad made for neo-Nazis and skinheads. And for those militias committing serious crimes on our border.”
“‘White boys’ and ‘neo-Nazis’? Our problems, my friend, are not with White boys and skinheads. Or the militias. They are with these illegals coming across and killing our officers. GIITEM is here to arrest Mexican gangs and illegal aliens.” He’d already moved on.
“Excuse me, but…” I held up my hand again. “I thought GITEM was a state task force created to combat gangs. All gangs. A White-boy squad would take some very violent individuals off the street, sir.”
“GIITEM is not, and never will be, the thought police,” he said. “It will never investigate these so-called skinheads.”
“Matt…” Terry whispered again next to me. “Maybe let’s not.”
I kept going. “I’ve worked three homicides recently,” I said. “Within the same local skinhead crew, sir. These are not merely ‘thought crimes.’”
“White gangs, if there are any, don’t do nearly the damage illegals do.”
“Again, sir. I can show you the morgue pictures of those who’d disagree. And what about the unsolved murders on the border? The militias who hunt illegals?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Me? I’m an Arizona detective who was invited here to share my professional opinion on our gangs.” OK, not entirely true. “And that’s what I am doing. But let’s get this clear, as I’ve taken enough of your time. You’re telling me, in front of all these people, that White gangs, in whatever form, are not a priority and never will be as long as you’re a part of GIITEM?”
His response floored me. All of us, really.
“GIITEM is my baby,” Pearce said.
Huh?
“And we will be focusing on immigration,” he reminded us all. “Thank you all for coming. This meeting is over. ‘I’ for Immigration!” He grinned and raised a fist jocularly.
“How ’bout ‘I’ for idiot, Mr. Pearce?” I grumbled.
There were many smirks but dead silence throughout the room. I looked around and surveyed all the guys in suits. They had to know I was right, but I also had to admit it was probably a reckless thing to say. Pearce moved about the room and shook some hands.
“Dude…” Terry pulled on my shirt. “You’d better go.” She could see I was getting mad, and it wasn’t a look she’d often seen. But, at this point, I was tired of being the invisible guy who only took it all in. White crimes and vigilante crimes were “my baby” and people needed to start listening.
Clint, an officer from Phoenix, sidled over. “I totally agree with you, Matt.” Then: “Good luck.”
I finally decided Terry was probably right and made for the exit, but then Pearce walked up to me. “Who are you?” he asked again.
“Matt Browning. An officer who’s spent a lot of time in these organizations. Undercover. And you’re dead wrong about them not committing crimes. Real crimes.”
Pearce moved closer, inches away, trying to intimidate me.
I wouldn’t allow it. “You’re no different from a lot of people, Senator Pearce,” I said. “You don’t look at the problem in full. You look at only what you want. And so, you’re wrong. These White guys are also a real threat.”
His face was beet red, spittle collecting at the sides of his mouth. His assistant stepped between us, his back to me so he was facing Pearce. “We need to go,” the aide said. Terry jerked on the back of my shirt, trying to pull me away also.
All I knew was that any more of this conversation might get me into real trouble, so I thanked Pearce for inviting me to his “immigration meeting” and left.
Part of me had still thought politicians were middle ground, wanting the best for everyone. Russell Pearce wiped out whatever youthful naivete I’d had left. Before I’d even returned to the office, my commanding officer had already been called. I was told never to return to the capitol building again. Ever.
THE VIKING SON
JT Ready finished in second place, one shy of claiming the open seat on Mesa’s city council.
With each political loss, JT’s rhetoric grew more hostile and direct, including advocating a third U.S. political party known as “White People’s Party.”
That spring, he organized and led an anti-illegal-immigration group, America First, in a protest held in front of the Mexican consulate in Phoenix. There, he told The Arizona Republic, “We are advocating that the government of Mexico should be designated a ‘threat nation’ because they are openly subverting our laws and sovereignty.”vii
Months later, Ready finally landed a spot in mainstream politics.
He won a post as GOP precinct committee person in a west Mesa district—running as the only candidate in a primary. His duties now included helping local GOP candidates with marketing efforts, organizing fundraisers, and assisting with voter registration.
During this time, Ready also distributed racist and anti-Semitic materials throughout Mesa Republican Party meetings. He also visited Omaha, Nebraska, to march beneath swastika banners beside brown-shirted members of the National Socialist Movement (NSM), a neo-Nazi group he’d soon join. In Omaha, Ready, billed as an “Arizona Republican activist,” gave a speech proclaiming America was a “White, European homeland” and “That’s how it should be preserved if we want to keep it clean, safe, and pure.”
He’d also created an online profile, “VIKING SON,” on a neo-Nazi social networking website—New Saxon, run by the NSM. VIKING SON’s profile pics featured Ready wearing a kilt, bulletproof vest, and him “hunting illegals” through a pair of binoculars. His listed “turn-ons” included “a woman who loves our Race,” Kultur (which is German civilization), “Heritage, History and Future.” He’d listed The Turner Diaries as his favorite book and Prussian Blue—a neo-Nazi pop duo made up of two blond-haired, blue-eyed fourteen-year-old sisters—as his favorite band. (The girls have since renounced the movement.)
A typical post on this profile could read: “The jew [sic] itself knows it is a parasite. I have had them admit as much to me and laugh in my face… But a parasite cannot carry on in its parasitic nature if it is exposed for what it really is. Their whole house of cards comes tumbling down for all to see. Like in 1933 Germany. Just because it has two legs does not change its nature any less than a six-legged parasite stops sucking blood. There have been many pogroms when the host people stop being victims of these vampires. Another pogrom is approaching.” viii (A pogrom is defined as the “organized massacre of a particular ethnic group, in particular that of Jewish people.”)
Ready next attended the National Vanguard’s Winterfest gathering in Phoenix in December replete with mead, lit swastikas, and shouts of “Valhalla” and “White power!”
At long last, Ready’s actions finally bubbled up to the radar of Arizona U.S. Congressmen John Shadegg, Trent Franks, and Jeff Flake. All three beseeched the chair of Mesa’s Republican Party to expel Ready immediately.
Yet Ready retained his office until his term ran out later that year.
PACKY EXPOSED
Despite warnings to keep away, I was eventually invited back to the State House. With my chief’s blessings, I’d been asked to participate on a panel called “Improving the Tone of the Immigration Debate.”
State Representative Kyrsten Sinema (now a U.S. senator) was then sponsoring a legislative meeting on the topic of how hate fuels violence at the border and asked me if I would lend my expertise to the discussion.
Arizona did have more than four hundred and fifty thousand undocumented immigrants at the time;ix there was clearly a need for real discussions and solutions, but ones decidedly less inherently prejudiced and, ultimately, more humane than what JT Ready and others like him were putting forward. It’d been more than a year since my run-in with Pearce, who’d been invited to the panel but had decided he wouldn’t attend. Pity. In attendance, however, would be other state legislatures and representatives from the Anti-Defamation League.
My only goal this day was to get people to talk and think about what was going on so real changes could be made. I planned my remarks carefully and even wrote down notes, which I almost never do. Tawni got me a new tie to wear, and when my mom heard what was going on, she got invited to come along also.
It sounds a little ridiculous now: my mom tagging along, a new tie. But I was excited. Inspired by my previous encounter in the State House, I even thought I could make a difference. I’d also be back in the same building my great-grandfather and great-uncle had served in, in state/territorial legislatures. After all, I was still a fifth-generation Arizonan, still proud of our state.
When I arrived, the lawmakers were in attendance as expected. But the gallery was also open and there were close to sixty people, regular citizens, in the audience. I’d been told the meeting would be closed to the public and all media would be outside, so there was no chance I’d appear on any news shows and blow my cover. I strongly debated leaving but figured this was a rare opportunity to talk directly to many lawmakers and pushed through.
I could tell most private citizens in attendance were anti-immigration, close-the-border types. Some even had signs: “American Jobs for American People” and “Invaders Go Home,” or “Return to Sender” or “Return Them Back with Birth Control.” There was also a smattering of “We are ALL Immigrants” and “No Human Being Is Illegal” mixed within the signage.
I thought to myself: I hope this will be something I’m proud of. Then looking at Tawni, who smiled and gave a quick wave, I knew Matt—no matter what happened next—would be all right.
Now, Detective Browning and Packy Von Fleckenger?
Those two guys, I was soon to learn, were on borrowed time.
* * *
My presentation was a short talk about how hate groups and antigovernment extremists were fueling the fire of hate along the border and how they’d infiltrated the border militias. Throughout the speech, I had zero political agenda. I just knew what was happening was wrong and that some violent people needed to be stopped. I discussed a few homicides and how the rhetoric and provocative language of the far right were being used as a battle cry for racist-minded individuals to harm Mexicans.
I started to—
Then everything changed. The door opened, and in walked Jerry Harbin and four other members of the National Alliance. With them was JT Ready.
It was the end of Packy Von Fleckenger.
* * *
All those years spent standing beside these same men, drinking a beer, folding flyers, pretending to be one of them. Now, they would know me for who I really was.
I paused, took a deep breath, and then just kept going. What else could I do? Years of undercover work had taught me to always just push through. Just keep going and you’ll figure it out. So, I kept talking, taking questions, and doing what I was there to do: speak truth, hoping someone who could do something would finally listen.
JT stood at the back door, glaring murderously at me. His face was an angry red, his breath coming in short quick bursts. Jerry, in contrast, didn’t move at all, as if he was still stunned and still trying to process it all. They both knew they’d been had. An undercover cop had worked beside them for years, had been included in their most-inner circle. Eventually, both men turned and exited back outside through the double glass doors.
We finished our panel an hour later. The crowd cleared out, many visibly unsatisfied, as if their concerns had been ignored. Others openly grumbled about the things I’d said. The legislators themselves proved more contented, excited about how well the seminar had gone and even hopeful for the future.
“How do you think it went, Detective?” Representative Sinema asked me.
What was I supposed to say? That I’d just ruined years of work and probably put my life at risk because I didn’t know this was an open meeting? “Thank you so much for doing this,” I managed. “It was great.”
Tawni knew I was nervous. I didn’t want people there to know we were married, so she went outside with my mom.
As I walked out, the media gathered around, but I walked right past them to my truck on the other side of the park in front of the capitol, looking behind every tree and car as I went. I made it to the truck and drove the longest, slowest cruise I could back to my office.
There, my commander was standing outside my office waiting for me. “We need to talk.” He dragged me into his office.
Apparently, news of the meeting was already spreading across town. Websites, news articles, talk radio. The media attention was immediate, and it was—shockingly—focused on me. I didn’t get it. I thought I was the least important person there.
But JT thrived on media attention, and journalists were quick to oblige. This militant neo-Nazi accused me of spouting my own political agenda in support of undocumented immigration and argued I’d overstepped my badge. Summarizing: “How dare Matt Browning label American patriots concerned about our borders as domestic terrorists?!” It was this take, his take, that went out to the Valley that day.
The result? Within a matter of hours, half the city was mad at me for implying any border activists were connected to hate groups and that Arizona had a neo-Nazi problem. I’d only spoken the truth, but it was one that didn’t fit their narratives—so, truth be damned.
* * *
After work, I headed to our oldest boy’s lacrosse game.
Tawni called. “You may want to turn on the radio.” She gave me the channel. They’d somehow gotten audio from the meeting and taken two phrases of mine—“Arizona has the most violent, racist skinheads” and “It is terrorism; it’s domestic terrorism”—and kept looping it like some kind of rap song with booming voices.
“It is terrorism; it’s domestic terrorism…”
“It is terrorism; it’s domestic terrorism…”
“Arizona has… Arizona has… Arizona has the most violent, racist skinheads.”
“It is terrorism; it’s domestic terrorism…”
Someone on the radio staff, maybe the host himself, had taken the time to make this. The host had completely joined in the camp of me being a Chicken Little, grossly exaggerating the existence of White pride adherents in the Valley.
Tawni called into the radio station posing as a random concerned citizen in support of me. “When was the last time you saw a cross burning on the streets of Phoenix?” the show’s host challenged. “When has there been a lynching in your neighborhood?” As if these were the only two manifestations of racism. But the more the host pushed back, the more Tawni had an answer. She knew her stuff; he didn’t. After their call, the announcer was flustered and, to his credit, said as much.
JT then used the power of the internet to claim that I promoted the lie that “all” border activists, constitutional study groups, tax protesters, and White Heritage Club members were “domestic terrorists.” What I’d argued was that the anti-immigration movement was attracting extremists and domestic terrorists. That I’d seen it firsthand. That the movement had become a battle cry for extremists and neo-Nazis now in the ranks of the Minutemen; that the National Alliance and skinhead crews were heading to our southern border. And that such forces were “domestic terrorism.”
All that day and into the next, Tawni lived online, tracking all the comments on a dozen different sites and chat boards. Newspaper articles and the comments that followed were written by regular folk, extremists, and law enforcement members alike. Some of the hate-filled comments began to get into my head, and Tawni begged me not to even read them.
Eventually, though, she called me in to look at her computer. JT was online, openly asking people to “take Browning out to the desert” and “bury him.”
I called my chief and the next morning was in his office with a stack of printed-out threats being made toward me. He already had his own stack in hand. “You’re done on the street,” he said. “For a while. Grab a different car, anything you need, and you can do my intel work for me directly. Can’t have you getting hurt.”
In a career driven largely by ego and the desire to do your job better and faster than the next person, being pulled off the road was torture. I stood, furious, and left. I needed more manpower, and with me out of commission, we now had less. I swapped cars and went home, wishing I had eyes in the back of my head. Awaiting the trigger man.
