One day James showed up at the house real early. He was ghost pale. I couldn’t imagine why. We had stopped doing the robberies after about two months or so. We later found out it was 21 banks — about $165,000. We hadn’t done any in a couple weeks. James had a newspaper in his hand. When he motioned me upstairs, I knew it had to be serious. He started tearing through the pages of the paper but I saw what he was trying to show me right away. They had composite drawings of the both of us. The one of James was eerily accurate — I felt the fear in me — and they had tied the robberies together, which was new. The story said it was two guys working together, taking turns going in and driving the getaway car, which was also new, and really scary. The story said the suspects might be brothers, which was horrifying. Most frightening of all was that the authorities were offering $2,500 for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the culprits. Everybody we knew had heard me bragging. Any one of them, with a couple of exceptions, would take that $2,500 and run, no problem.
But my composite was the biggest reason yet for me to remain cocksure I’d never have to pay any price for the robberies. The witnesses had seen me as 5’9” to 6’0” with an olive complexion, boldly suggesting, even, that I might speak with a Spanish or Cuban accent. In my mind, I was practically pardoned. Being so naïve was a comfortable place; I rested there. But James was a different story. The paper had him so good he might as well have posed for the drawing. The artist had gotten every detail, from his thin lips and lazy eye, all the way to height, weight, and almost unnaturally red hair.
About a week and a half later, James showed up early again. “Man, I’m broke,” he said. “We’ve got to do another bank.”
I was not broke. I was good, and I was back at work at a warehouse making nine bucks an hour. For a 20-year-old kid in 1980, that was okay. I had a vehicle, my little girl was about five months old, and my wife was recovering slowly and painfully from Toxic Shock Syndrome. We were going to be OK. There was no way I intended to rob another bank. I felt like I had just dodged a huge bullet. But, instead, I said, “We aren’t using my car,” banking on the fact that he was too much in love with his car to dispose of it after a robbery. I was wrong, of course.
“Bro, I’m wanted for parole violation, probably for the robberies, and I’m going to lose this ride anyhow,” he said. “I got some stolen plates we can put on before we head to the bank.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
A perfect bank for robbing has some very important musts. It must have two opposite entrances. It must be on a main thoroughfare, but just in front of a neighborhood. It must be federally insured, and the parking area cannot be restricted in any way. Full access from at least two sides, preferably three.
At some point in our search for the right bank, we found ourselves at a traffic light, waiting for it turn green, when James says to me in a frantic voice, “Bro that cop just recognized me, I know him, and he’s busted me before. He’s turning around!”
