Undercover: How I Went from Company Man to FBI Spy -- and Exposed the Worst Healthcare Fraud in U.S. History [NOOK Book]

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Prologue

Tuesday, May 8, 1997

Fort Myers, Florida

He drove a dark, nondescript Chevy, its interior strewn with coffee

cups and gum wrappers. The four-door sedan badly needed a wash, but I

recognized it right away and slid into the front passenger seat. There on

the floor lay a 10-millimeter Glock, snug in its brown leather holster. I

grimaced and gingerly shifted my feet to avoid touching it. I adjusted the

air-conditioning vent to find relief from the stifling tropical heat. The

driver flashed me a reassuring grin and stepped on the accelerator as we

sped out of the Wal-Mart parking lot. We were in Fort Myers, Florida, and

today’s mission was to tour each Southwest Florida site that would be

targeted. I wondered why this was necessary, but my handler explained

that in his experience, guessing only leads to mistakes. He obviously had

a lot of experience.

Although the tourist season was over, the traffic was unusually slow

for a Tuesday afternoon. The familiar flickering of red emergency lights

indicated an accident scene ahead. After we maneuvered past the sheriff ’s

squad cars at the crash site, we arrived at Gulf Coast Hospital, located at

a busy intersection. Ford pulled the car into an empty space in the parking

lot and produced a yellow legal notepad.

Then he said, ‘‘Tell me everything you know about these offices, John.

Where are the executive offices and the financial documents?’’

As I spoke, he drew small diagrams, mapping the layout of the admin-

istrative suites. When he was satisfied that he’d gleaned all the information

he needed, he tossed the notepad into the backseat, restarted the car,

and headed northeast toward East Pointe Hospital in nearby Lehigh

Acres. After briefly discussing the administrative office layout, we returned

to Fort Myers.

‘‘Any idea when you’ll execute the raid?’’ I asked on our way back.

‘‘Might be another two or three weeks,’’ Ford replied, vowing to warn me

beforehand.

Then he cautioned, ‘‘After the raids, you might get a few phone calls

asking if you know anything.’’ He advised me to say that I was paranoid

about talking on the telephone and to arrange a meeting.

‘‘Then, we can fit you with a wire and record the meeting,’’ he said,

halting to gauge my reaction. ‘‘Are you OK with that?’’ I nodded. This is

getting interesting, I thought.

Ahead I could see our next stop: Southwest Florida Regional Medical

Center. Southwest is a sprawling, four-story, white and blue stucco building,

one of the 350 hospitals then owned and operated by the U.S. healthcare

giant Columbia/HCA Healthcare Corp., the world’s largest for-profit

hospital chain. Ford turned into the hospital’s parking lot and stopped

near several cars parked at the side of the building. I pointed out a red

Buick Regal I recognized, and Ford promptly grabbed the two-way radio

wedged into the car’s console.

He began relaying the license plate numbers of cars I recognized to a

dispatcher. The red car was registered to Jay Jarrell, the chief executive

officer for Columbia/HCA’s Fort Myers division. Another was owned by

the division’s office secretary, who was just entering the building. I sat

there quietly, observing Ford.

My God, they don’t take any chances, do they? I thought to myself. After

noting the plate numbers, Ford asked me the locations of the administrative

offices in the building. He was particularly interested in the location

of the offices of the hospital’s chief executive and chief financial officers.

Did I know which computer files should be downloaded? Did Columbia/

HCA store contracts and other documents in obscure or remote sites

around the hospital? I told him what I knew, and he rapidly filled the

pages of his notepad. Only a few minutes later, the office secretary reappeared,

entered her car, and drove slowly toward us. As she passed our

vehicle, I ducked, hoping she hadn’t noticed me. I did, however, find

myself enjoying my new role as spy.

Heading north a few hundred yards to Swamp Cabbage Court, we

veered into the lot at the Central Billing Office at the end of the cul-desac.

We spent a few minutes there while Ford recorded some additional

notes, then proceeded to an offsite record storage facility located not far

from Southwest Florida Regional Medical Center. Once he completed his

detailed note taking, he swung back into traffic and deposited me back at

the Wal-Mart parking lot.

Once there, FBI Special Agent Joe Ford, my handler and the man the

U.S. Justice Department assigned to lead the investigation into my case,

reached into the backseat, fumbled with a few papers, and finally produced

an envelope with my name on it. Inside, he said, was an application.

‘‘You’re a natural, John. I think the FBI could really use a guy like

you. Think about it, OK?’’ The idea was thrilling and I was tempted to

pinch myself: The FBI wanted to recruit an ordinary accountant like me.