Pubdate: Thu, 17 Aug 2000
Source: Dallas Observer (TX)
Contact:  P.O. Box 190289 Dallas, TX 75219-0289
Feedback: http://www.dallasobserver.com/feedback/letters_to_editor/
Website: http://www.dallasobserver.com/
Author: John Gonzalez

THE ENFORCER

Baylor grad Keith Bishop played in three Superbowls. Ten years later, he's 
become a star again -- this time, by fighting Dallas drug dealers.

By John Gonzalez

Cloaked in darkness, 10 Drug Enforcement Administration agents close in on 
a rickety trailer in rural Navarro County. They're about 55 miles south of 
Dallas just off Interstate 45 in a typically barren, woodsy section of 
North Texas, unspectacular in its rustic appeal--or its drug problem. Like 
any other county in any other state, whether replete with big cities or 
septic tanks, Navarro has a fair share of degenerates mixed among its 
40,000 or so upstanding citizens. Somewhere inside the trailer are four to 
six troublemakers who are currently nurturing a most unstable, potentially 
explosive blend of methamphetamines in a do-it-yourself lab. The obvious 
objective is to refine the intoxicating chemicals for sale to street 
pushers at an impressive profit.

This, of course, is why the DEA, with the assistance of the Navarro County 
Sheriff's Office, is here.

Slowly, carefully, the raid team makes its way toward the trailer's door. 
Only a stream of cold breath on this chilly evening six months ago gives 
notice of their nighttime arrival. Among the party crashers is Special 
Agent Keith Bishop. He is an eight-year veteran of the DEA--not that the 
experience quells his anxiety. It's a prerequisite, the heightened 
awareness and accelerated heartbeat--as common a companion as the 
all-black, flame retardant clothes and boots, or weighty handcuffs and 
retractable baton.

"You never know what to expect once you go through the door," Bishop says 
months later, recalling the operation. As his eyes narrow and focus, it's 
as though he's there again, in Navarro County, readying to bust down the 
door instead of recounting tales of the sortie from this nondescript room 
in this uninteresting office building that the Dallas DEA calls home. "It's 
a real team effort. There's a lot of trust that goes into an operation. You 
have to have complete faith in your group because everyone has a different 
responsibility. Everyone who goes in reacts off of what the first guy 
through the door does."

On this particular seizure attempt, Bishop is slotted to be one of the 
first four guys through the entrance. Attached to his hip is a Glock .45 
caliber pistol; slung over his shoulder is an M-16 fully automatic assault 
rifle; protecting his chest is a bullet-resistant Kevlar vest. Notice 
that's not bullet-proof--DEA agents wear bullet-resistant jackets because 
they're lighter and allow for more maneuverability, though the vests don't 
have the stopping power of the other models. Lucky them.

But he isn't worried about being vulnerable. Bishop, in fact, thinks none 
of that stuff--neither the Kevlar nor the firearms--will be needed. Still, 
the adrenaline whips through his veins and his senses are fully alert. He 
lives for this rush, or maybe the rush lives for him. After all, he's a 
constant catalyst for action. His whole life has been spent this way, doing 
things the rest of us only dream about or catch on TV. Here, now, he seems 
more than 10 years removed from his former occupation as an All-Pro 
offensive lineman with the Denver Broncos. One who went from being a 
relatively unknown sixth-round draft pick out of Baylor University in 1980 
to a starting guard on three AFC Championship teams before retiring in 
1990. One who let fly, from usually pursed lips, the most famous words on 
the most famous drive in playoff history. One who protected the invaluable 
right arm of John Elway throughout the latter-half of the '80s and in three 
Super Bowls. One who was as revered for his pleasant disposition as he was 
feared for his enormous ability and stature.

Professional football, to be sure, was exhilarating in its own right--the 
travel and fame and adoration of 60,000-plus screaming fans--but ultimately 
it was just a game. Miss a block, what's the big deal? What's the worst 
that could happen? A few people grumble? His teammates are pissed? The head 
coach chews him out?

It wasn't like this, where he's a Tom Clancy character come to life, where 
one mistake could prove disastrous. Miss a bad guy with a loaded weapon and 
things could go horribly awry. For Keith Bishop, that kind of misstep might 
mean the difference between kissing his wife, Mary, and his three children 
goodnight, or becoming a statistic. Or, just as grimly, watching a dear 
friend and co-worker suffer the same undesirable fate.

It's funny. He was a celebrity not long ago, a flesh-and-blood deity in 
Denver, as were most of the Broncos. He could have retired to a ranch in a 
neighboring suburb, could have bought a car dealership or coached a college 
team or wasted away on a veranda sipping lemonade and milking the glory 
years for all their worth. It's an existence so many of us fantasize about 
while we're stuck on congested roadways or arguing with incompetent superiors.

If only I had the money and the time, I'd...

Keith Bishop could have made our fantasy a reality. But that would have 
been a hollow, shallow existence, more death than life. Only now has he 
found true purpose, working to put drug dealers away and trying his hardest 
to rid countless communities of a particular ill.

In a very real way, Bishop is saving lives--and risking them, as he is 
about to be reminded.

~~~

As the agents announce themselves to the vagrants inside the trailer, they 
hear clamoring but no audible response. No one bothers to answer the door 
(if you were making a bunch of illegal narcotics and someone yelled 
"Police!" outside, would you play Suzie Homemaker and see who'd just come 
knocking?).

Needless to say, the raiding party has to double as its own welcoming 
committee.

"Yeah," says Jimmie Spencer, a captain with the Navarro County Sheriff's 
Department, who regularly works with the Dallas DEA and Bishop and was 
present that night, "we had to go and open the door ourselves."

That, Spencer says, is when things got animated.

Once inside, the agents order the suspects to stay where they are and raise 
their hands. They comply. That is, most of them comply. While the others 
stand motionless, one of the "chemists" chooses a more proactive option, 
grabbing a nearby rag and setting it aflame.

"He was trying to blow us all up, the lab and all of us," Bishop says. No 
doubt some of his graying, thinning hair comes compliments of the incident. 
"All that stuff is very combustible, not just the chemicals, but the vapor. 
If there had been ether where he was aiming that rag..."

He trails off, but you know the rest. There's no ref here, no one to call a 
penalty for unnecessary roughness by a meth freak. The consequences could 
be dire.

Fortunately, as the suspect does his best to flambé the unwanted guests and 
everyone else present, Bishop notices the individual and immediately 
responds. At 6-foot-4, 275 pounds, the 43-year-old still has the quickness 
that made him one of the best linemen in football nearly a decade earlier. 
Bishop swiftly reaches the would-be pyro and "detains" him (which is 
probably DEA-speak for "ass-whuppin' ") before the trailer home goes 
kaboom. No one was there with a stopwatch, but you suspect it would have 
made for an impressive time in the 40. Good thing, too, because if Bishop 
had been a second or two too slow, they might all be fricasseed.

"That situation kind of aroused our attention," Spencer, who's been with 
the Sheriff's Department for nearly 27 years, says matter-of-factly. 
"There's always that chance that something could go wrong. Luckily, we've 
all come out OK. DEA does one thing: It takes great precaution in 
protecting their agents and accompanying law enforcement. They're highly 
trained."

Maybe, but that wouldn't make the average Joe sleep any more soundly if 
he'd almost gotten killed on a drug raid. Too much drama. But Keith Bishop 
isn't most of us, he's always been special in one way or another. He says 
he doesn't think about that stuff. Says he doesn't let it bother him. Says 
if he did, it would affect his job and the livelihood of his group.

"It's a team effort," Bishop repeats through gray-blue eyes. Wearing a 
baby-blue button-down shirt, blue jeans, and reptile-skin cowboy boots, he 
looks and talks like the Midland native he is, though his wit and 
intelligence belie any stereotype you can think of about country boys. "In 
those situations, you revert back to your training. Hopefully, you've 
trained well and you've developed good habits. You hope your team has, too. 
There's a lot of trust that goes into it. It's not about one person, it's 
about the team."

~~~

It's a cliche, that team thing, but you excuse it because, well, in Keith 
Bishop's world it's not rhetoric, it's truth. Always has been.

While most NFL players worry about contracts and endorsements, television 
appearances, and statistics, Bishop managed to avoid all that hubbub. Some 
of it had to do with the anonymity associated with the position he 
played--how many high-profile offensive linemen can you name off the top of 
your head?--but most of it had to do with the kind of person he is. Ask 
around and you quickly discover that Bishop was the anti-neo-jock, that he 
worried about the Broncos and his family more than he worried about 
himself. Strange, especially seeing how plenty of athletes would gladly 
Gillooly their mothers for an extra hundred grand in signing bonuses.

It's that quality, that us-first-me-never attitude, that no doubt endeared 
him to his teammates, the Denver faithful, and his coaches. In a 1997 
Denver Post story, Adam Schefter wrote that "there was a reason offensive 
line coach Alex Gibbs loved Keith Bishop; though he had limited skills, 
Bishop was a massive overachiever and a two-time Pro Bowl selection."

Neither of which defines his career on the field. Rather, Bishop will 
forever be remembered for one particular sequence of one particular game.

In 1986, with 4:25 remaining and 98 yards between Denver and the end zone, 
the Broncos had the weight of the world, or at least the mile-high 
community, on their shoulders in the AFC championship game at Cleveland. 
Things seemed bleak at best, hopeless at worst. The team was tight, unsure, 
nervy. To compound their problems, the Dawg Pound (the Browns' notoriously 
vocal cheering section) began throwing batteries and eggs at the Broncos. 
Both found their mark, intermittently smashing against Bishop's helmet.

With chaos surrounding him and plenty of tension in the huddle, Bishop 
broke a glacier's worth of ice in the huddle with a joke, saying "We've got 
'em right where we want 'em." Everyone laughed. Funnier still, his 
statement proved prophetic. The Broncos, thanks to some theatrics by Elway, 
moved smartly down the field for a game-tying score that eventually 
propelled them to their first Super Bowl. It was such an incredible 
comeback that the feat is simply and widely referred to now as "The Drive." 
(Meanwhile, in the Mistake by the Lake, they still hold support groups for 
disconsolate fans.)

After that, all anyone wanted to talk about was "The Drive" and "The 
Quote." Did you really say that, Keith? Huh, huh, did you say it, huh? Come 
on, you didn't really say it, did you, huh?

Lots of press for a solid but otherwise unnoticed offensive lineman. Lots 
of opportunity to lose sight of himself and bask in the warm glow only a 
camera crew's lights can afford. He could have done it with a little help, 
could have sold out and parlayed the celebrity into serious coin and a 
famous mug. Surely a lot of us would have been tempted.

Not Keith Bishop. Not his style.

Instead, he answered questions in a polite Texas drawl and kept to himself, 
all the while delving into his newfound "hobby."

~~~

Some of us paint, some listen to music or jog or lift weights. Some of us 
do drugs or drink or go whoring. Again, Keith Bishop's not most of us. He 
didn't do any of that as stress relief. He rode in police cars.

Now, upon hearing that, what with him being an NFLer and all, you'd think 
he was getting a lift to the Pokey. (Considering all the trouble players 
and former players like Rae Carruth and Michael Irvin have had, the boys in 
blue are more chauffeur than peace-keeper to the National Football League 
these days.) But no, it was nothing like that. He was merely interested in 
what they did, wanted a first-hand look, a behind-the-scenes COPS episode 
for himself.

When Bishop was playing, NFL teams began using off-duty police officers to 
serve as plain-clothes, unarmed bodyguards of sorts. The Broncos employed 
several of these, including now-Deputy Chief Dave Abrams, Sgt. Mark Lewis, 
and technician Kenny Overman. In time, the trio was taken on the road, 
acting as liaisons to security details in other cities. Through the course 
of their travels, and during home games at Mile High Stadium, each of them 
became friends with Bishop, who, according to Spencer, "never meets a 
stranger." Being curious about law enforcement, Bishop asked if he could 
tag along one night. His new pals were only too happy to oblige.

"I was working night shift back then," says Lewis, who has been in Denver's 
Metro SWAT for 13 years, "so he'd come along usually on a Monday because 
they'd have off the next day. If anything major happened while we were out, 
he'd sit in the back seat.

"But he was always very professional. He always wanted to know how we did 
things. He'd inquire about the ins and outs, how paperwork got done or how 
it went through the court system. And when we'd see him after a game, he'd 
ask us about such-and-such a case, wanting to know what happened, who got 
probation or jail time. He was very good with specifics about cases. He was 
always interested, especially with the victims. He wanted to know how they 
were doing, if they were OK. He was concerned about people. You could just 
tell that."

He wasn't the only Broncos player to garner such special treatment--Steve 
Watson and Billy Brian, who now works for the FBI, also tagged along at 
times--but he was the most frequent addition to Denver's Finest. Once or 
twice a month he'd hitch a ride with Lewis or Overman or someone else and 
pick their brains. Most of it was routine--bar brawls or domestic 
disturbances and the like--not quite the sexy stuff you see on NYPD Blue. 
Regardless, whether he knew it or not at the time, Bishop was going through 
an informal training that would funnel his post-football career into 
something altogether different.

"It was kind of like for us, he was so excited to see what we do, and we 
were so excited to see what he does, so we all got along great," says 
Lewis, 50. "You could see that he respected us. He never touted himself as 
a pro player. He never tried to big-time us. You could see the respect was 
mutual. It was great to know that we got that kind of acknowledgment from 
him, and then for him to follow up and go into the DEA, that was very 
rewarding for us."

And so it was for Bishop. Eventually.

~~~

You don't just up and join the Drug Enforcement Administration like you 
would your local Blockbuster. They don't just hand you a badge and a gun 
and a book of clever one-liners (for after the really good busts) and send 
you on your merry way. Even for applicants with a professional athlete's 
pedigree, there are painstaking steps to go through.

Upon retirement in 1990, and inspired by Lewis, Overman, and Abrams, Bishop 
decided to pursue a career in law enforcement. His father, George, used to 
discuss the frightful effects of drugs with his son, used to tell him about 
the plague they visit on people, how they cause society to deteriorate from 
within. Those talks, coupled with the anti-drug stance of his Midland Lee 
High School coach, Jim Acree, made the DEA a good fit in Bishop's opinion.

There was only one problem. He didn't have a college diploma--the DEA 
requires its agents to have a four-year degree. When Bishop entered the NFL 
draft nearly 10 years earlier, he was 15 credit hours shy of a bachelor's 
in education. But, due to time elapsing and course requirements changing, 
when he returned to Baylor to finish school, he was informed that he owed 
27 hours.

While he polished off the remaining course load, Bishop served as a 
volunteer assistant coach with the Bears football team. At the same time, 
five days a week he'd run and lift weights, preparing for possible 
acceptance into the DEA's strenuous training program in Quantico, Virginia.

"I slimmed down to about 240 pounds," says Bishop, whose square jaw and 
thick neck give him a don't-mess-with-me look. "I was in the best shape of 
my life." (His playing weight was a muscular 280 to 285 pounds.)

The hard work didn't go unrewarded. After earning his degree and undergoing 
a nine-month background check, he shipped off with 40 others for 14 weeks 
of training courtesy of the DEA. It wasn't easy. Each prospective agent had 
to pass aptitude tests ranging from a two-mile run in under 10 minutes, 30 
seconds (you're not that fast) to push-ups to sit-ups to firearms. If that 
and the lack of sleep and physical exhaustion weren't enough, the DEA 
instructors caught wind of the fact that Bishop was a former NFL star. 
Unlike his friends in Denver's Metro SWAT, the boys at Quantico didn't 
think it was such an endearing quality.

"They got on me pretty good," Bishop laughs, remembering the verbal abuse. 
"Afterward, we got to be friends, and they told me about why they did it. 
They had the agency's best interests at heart. They wanted to make sure I 
was sincere in wanting to join the DEA."

~~~

Today, after eight years with the DEA, Bishop is seen as one of the key 
figures in the Dallas branch office. He's had his share of run-ins and 
close calls, like the Navarro County raid and an incident during a car 
stop. After a lengthy surveillance of a suspect, agents targeted a vehicle 
with a good sum of money in the trunk and pulled it over. When Bishop and 
his team approached the car, wearing full gear, the woman in the driver's 
seat put her hand inside her purse but stopped when the DEA shouted to 
cease her movement--good thing, too, because she was going for a pistol.

"You're not thinking 'Oh, I could have gotten hurt there,'" Bishop says, 
already forming 5 o'clock shadow at a little past 10 a.m. "It's more 'I'm 
upset that someone might have forced me to kill them in order to defend 
myself and my group.' I would have to live with that for the rest of my 
life. That's the hardest part."

So far, he hasn't been forced to fire his gun. Primarily, he works with 
wiretaps, helping to coordinate joint efforts between his agency and local 
law enforcement. In 1997, he worked on Operation META, which targeted the 
Amezcua-Contrara drug cartel from Mexico. It was the largest 
methamphetamine sting in DEA history. Bishop, local police and sheriffs 
departments, the FBI, customs, and DEA branches that had wires in 17 cities 
from Los Angeles to Newark, New Jersey, were involved in the investigation. 
By the time it was all over, Operation META resulted in the arrest of 121 
members of the trafficking ring and the confiscation of 1,765 pounds of 
marijuana, 1,100 kilograms of cocaine and 133 pounds of methamphetamine. At 
the time, the street sale for the bounty, using Dallas-area drug prices, 
would have been approximately $20 million (the cost of narcotics has since 
gone down, making it a buyer's market for all you interested parties out 
there). It's the type of effort that would have been difficult to organize 
without proper cooperation.

"Nowhere in law enforcement are egos bigger than in narcotics," says Dallas 
narcotics detective Paul Ellzey, who worked on Operation META. "And when 
you have local guys dealing with Feds, the right hand doesn't always know 
what the left hand is doing, know what I mean? But at least in Dallas, with 
Keith, there was an open door policy. There always is with him. Everything 
is on the table. With other agents, they don't always let you know what's 
going on. With Keith, it's not like that at all. I've worked narcotics for 
23 years and bar none, he's probably the ace No. 1 guy. He has an 
outstanding reputation."

"He's one of those guys who always says what 'we' did," agrees Dallas 
sergeant Rod Bray of the Interdiction Group, who has frequently worked with 
Bishop. "He doesn't mind the long hours. He'll fall out of bed at four in 
the morning, do 'round-the-clock investigation, put in his 12-to-18 hours 
with everyone else, do his paper work the next day and then ask if you need 
a hand."

Bishop's motivation has served him well. He recently received a promotion 
that will make him a staff coordinator (a supervisory position) with DEA 
headquarters outside of Washington, D.C., in Crystal City, Virginia. It's a 
big step.

"As far as we're concerned, we're losing a very talented agent," says Mike 
Dromgoole, assistant special agent in charge at the Dallas DEA office. 
"It's great for the DEA, though. It's a position a lot of the senior guys 
want. Keith is probably two or three years ahead of what you'd expect for 
that type of move, especially for somebody without any prior law 
enforcement experience."

Whereas most of us would have careened off the track and smacked into the 
wall on turn three, he's had no trouble negotiating the learning curve. 
Already he's moving up, already he's proved more worthy than the rest.

But, like we said, Keith Bishop isn't most of us.
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