Sunday Star Times
February 8, 2004

Undercover officers risk deep damage
by David Fisher

Undercover work places cops in an anti-women world of drugs and distorted values. Few officers leave it unscathed.

Clint Rickards was always a survivor.

Others who worked in the dangerous field of undercover policing still carry the scars. Many have left the police force; some with mental health problems, others struggling with drug dependency they blame on the job.

Yet Rickards survived and built an impressive career. "How did Rickards find it in himself to carry on, when we reached the end of our endurance?" his former colleagues ask.

They were brave young men and women, the police officers who joined the undercover programme. It was sold to them as an elite unit, its members a "cut above" other officers. The law was changed to allow them, in some circumstances, to take cannabis and its derivatives, so they could survive deep cover.

The country called and they answered, with pride. When they accepted the offer to go undercover, many say they had an idealistic ambition to keep New Zealand safe. Their idealism literally went up in smoke; their training involved smoking cannabis so they could learn to operate while under its influence.

Rickards' rise to assistant commissioner from the turmoil of the undercover programme was greeted with wonder by former officer Deane Tully. "I'm surprised he got that far." Tully met Rickards in Wellington in May 1985, for a quick undercover operation dubbed "Whetu". The aim was to buy drugs from a dealer who sold cannabis and hash oil. It would have been one of Rickards' last jobs before his posting to Rotorua.

Rickards looked the part, says Tully. Built like a tank on legs, tattoos up his arms. "He was a mean-looking dude", whose reputation as an undercover operative preceded him.

The pair hung out for a few days at a pub where the deal was to happen. It never did; the pair spent the time drinking and talking.

During that time, Tully got the impression Rickards was "pretty blown out by the whole undercover thing and didn't know what he was going to do".

Tully, who left New Zealand to start again, says he would never have joined the undercover programme had he known then the effect it would have on his life and police career.

The sentiment is common, even if the reasons vary. Some speak of a lack of psychological support after exiting the programme. For Wendy Heath, it was the "hypocrisy" of breaking the law by drug-taking to enforce it, the dirty feeling of befriending people then betraying them.

The immersive environment carried dangers. Long periods spent undercover, drinking alcohol and smoking dope on a daily basis and surrounded by people whose ethical and moral codes were substantially different, added to the burden.

The police environment was male-dominated to the detriment of women, says Heath.

Joining the force in 1975, she found the "macho" culture in the police even greater than that of the criminal world.

"The macho side of things gets emphasised more in the police than it does in the wider community."

But those who worked in the undercover programme were even more exposed. In the public bar scene, which they frequented, women were treated poorly.

"We used to refer to the (undercover guys) as the Black T-Shirt Brigade."

The basis of the undercover programme was unsound, Heath says. She remembers the moment she put on her uniform again after a period undercover. "It was awful. It felt like it didn't fit properly anymore. . . and I don't mean physically. The undercover programme was based on a simple premise - go out there, make friends with people, get them to trust you, then betray them."

Heath came out from undercover, applied for the CIB and transferred there after six months back in uniform. Even then, she left in 1991.

"You risk becoming a hypocrite if you stay on," she says.

Another former undercover officer, Wayne Haussmann, was jailed for importation of heroin after picking up a drug habit while working undercover.

Undercover work "changes your perspective on all aspects of policing, and life in general. You end up doing all the things you joined the police to stop other people doing," he says.

Haussmann joined the force in January 1974 and left in 1986, the year of his conviction. He went undercover not long after joining the force and stayed under for two years.

"I'm disappointed at undercover and the way it has affected me. (When) I joined. . . I had a desire to do my bit. I was quite zealous back then."

He says he can't comment on the Nicholas allegations but says in his opinion undercover work can affect an officer's view of women.

"Some of us were in scenes with a lot of working girls. . . hookers. For a lot of us undercovers, women were second-class citizens. They are treated differently in the (criminal) scene to how I was used to treating women. Women were there to be used.

"(The attitude was) women didn't count the same, they were there for the guys' use."

Haussmann says like drug use, adopting the same attitudes was a matter of self-preservation for officers when working undercover.

If he had stepped away from the pack, he would have placed himself in danger. However, he says he "stood out because I was different with the ladies".

Being undercover meant taking life as close to the edge of the law - and sometimes common sense - as possible. Many operatives crossed the line.

Haussmann is one of those who went so far over he would inevitably get caught.

But there are former undercover officers who still serve in the police who also crossed the line - in the name of duty.

Some still cross it, according to their disenchanted former colleagues. As Haussmann says, they are "smoking their dope and getting on with life". They are also wrestling with the scars of their undercover experience.

Haussmann: "Man, it would be lovely to sort it out differently."