There was an elevator, used by guards only, behind his office. We rode it down and he escorted me past the guard in the small foyer and unlocked the barred doors. I walked through as the guard looked on curiously but without comment, and strolled down the walkway leading to the curb and the parked car. Jean was behind the wheel, her hair hidden under a man’s broad-brimmed hat and wearing a man’s coat.
She giggled as I climbed in beside her. “Hot dog! We did it!” she gurgled.
I smiled. “See how fast you can get the hell away from here,” I said, grinning from sheer jubilation.
She peeled out of there like a drag racer, burning rubber and leaving tire marks on the pavement as a memento. Away from the center, she slowed to avoid attracting the attention of any cruising radio patrolman, and then drove a meandering course through Atlanta to the bus station. I kissed her good-bye there and took a Greyhound to New York. Jean went home, packed and moved to Montana. If she was ever connected with the caper, no one was inclined to press charges.
It was a very embarrassing situation for the prison officials. It is a matter of record in FBI files that Combs and Rick sought to cover themselves, when they realized they’d been had, by reporting I had forcibly escaped custody. However, the truth, as the sage observed, soon outed.
I knew I would be the subject of an intense manhunt, and I resolved again to flee to Brazil, but I knew I would have to wait until the hunt for me cooled. For the next few days, I was certain, all points of departure from the United States would be under surveillance.
My escape made the front page of one New York paper. “Frank Abagnale, known to police the world over as the Skywayman and who once flushed himself down an airline toilet to elude officers, is at large again…” the story commenced.
I didn’t have a stash of money in New York, but Jean had loaned me enough to live on until the hunt for me died down. I holed up in Queens and, two weeks later, took the train to Washington, D.C., where I rented a car and checked into a motel on the outskirts of the capital.
I went to Washington because I had several caches in banks across the Potomac in Virginia, and Washington seemed to offer a safe haven, with its huge and heterogeneous population. I didn’t think I’d attract any attention there at all.
I was wrong. An hour after I checked into my room, I happened to glance out the window through a part in the drapes and saw several police officers scurrying to take up positions around this section of the motel. I learned that the registration clerk, a former airline stewardess, had recognized me immediately and had telephoned the police after an hour of fretting and wondering whether she should get involved.
Only one thing weighed in my favor, and I didn’t know it at the moment. O’Riley, on being informed that I was cornered, had told the officers not to move in on me until he arrived to take charge. O’Riley, whom I had met briefly after my arraignment, wanted this collar himself.
But at the moment I was on the verge of panic. It was late at night, but both the front and back of this section of rooms was well lighted. I didn’t think I could make it to the safety of the darkness beyond the lighted parking areas.
I knew, though, that I had to try. I slipped on my coat and fled out the back door, but held myself to a walk as I headed for the corner of the building. I had taken only a few steps, however, when two officers rounded the corner of the building. Both pointed pistols at me.
“Freeze, mister, police!” one barked in a command right out of a television police drama.
I didn’t freeze. I kept walking, right at the muzzles of their guns, whipping out my billfold as I walked. “Davis, FBI,” I said, surprised at my own coolness and the firmness of my voice.
“Is O’Riley here yet?”
The pistols were lowered. “I don’t know, sir,” said the one. “If he is, he’s around front.”
“All right,” I said crisply. “You people keep this area covered. I’ll check and see if O’Riley is here yet.”
They stood aside as I passed them I didn’t look back. I walked on into the darkness beyond the parking lot.
Not even the wiliest fox can elude the pack consistently, not if the hounds are persistent, and where Frank Abagnale was concerned the hounds of the law were not only persistent, they were exceedingly angry. Insult one policeman and you have insulted all policemen. Embarrass the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and you have embarrassed Scotland Yard. Humiliate a traffic cop in Miami and you have humiliated the California Highway Patrol. Frank Abagnale, for years, had insulted, embarrassed and humiliated police everywhere with regularity and maddening insouciance. And so police everywhere sought him day and night, without respite, and as much to vindicate themselves as to serve justice.
Less than a month after Abagnale evaded capture in Washington, D.C., two New York City detectives, munching hot dogs in their parked squad car, spotted him as he walked past the unmarked vehicle and accosted him. Although he denied his identity, within two hours Abagnale had been positively identified and was given into custody of FBI agents.
Within weeks, Abagnale was inundated with state and federal complaints charging forgery, passing worthless checks, swindling, using the mails to defraud, counterfeiting and similar offenses, leveled by authorities in all fifty states. Various U.S. attorneys and state prosecutors vied for jurisdiction, each claiming to have the most damaging case or cases against the prisoner. All the liens against Abagnale had validity. Although the cleverness and intelligence Abagnale had exhibited in the course of his criminal career was undisputed, he had been more bold than deceptive, more overt than discreet. A multitude of witnesses was available to identify Abagnale in one or the other of his roles, to accuse him in one or the other of his transgressions. Had all the charges against Abagnale been tossed into the air and one caught at random, the evidence in that case would have been overwhelming.
Abagnale was not unaware of his predicament and the knowledge caused him undue mental anguish. He knew he was going to serve time in some state or federal prison, perhaps several terms in several different prisons. He could not expect any American prison to be as humane as Malmo Prison. His great fear was that he might be incarcerated in an American version of Perpignan ’s House of Arrest. His trepidations were not allayed when an arbitrary decision was made by federal authorities to bring him to trial in Atlanta, Georgia. More than in any other U.S. city where officials had cause to dislike him, Abagnale felt he was least popular in Atlanta.
However, he was represented by able counsel, and his lawyer struck a bargain with the United States Attorney that Abagnale eagerly endorsed.
In April 1971, Frank Abagnale appeared before a federal judge and pleaded guilty under Rule 20 of the United States Penal Code, a plea that encompassed “all crimes, known and unknown,” that Abagnale had committed in the continental United States, whether a violation of state or federal statutes. The presiding judge entered an order of
nolle
prosequi
(no prosecution) in all but eight of the hundreds of charges pending against Abagnale, and sentenced Abagnale to ten years on each of seven counts of fraud, the terms to run concurrently, and to two years on one count of escape, the term to be served consecutively.
Abagnale was ordered to serve his twelve years in the Federal Correctional Institution in Petersburg, Virginia, where he was taken that same month. He served four years of his term, working as a clerk in one of the prison industries during those years at a “salary” of 20¢ per hour. Three times during that period, Abagnale applied for parole and each time was rejected. “If we do consider you for parole in the future, to what city would you like to be paroled?” Abagnale was asked at one point during his third appearance.
“I don’t know,” Abagnale confessed. “I would not like it to be New York, since I feel that would be an unhealthy environment for me, considering past events and circumstances. I would leave it to the parole authorities’ discretion as to where I should be paroled.”
Shortly thereafter, and for reasons Abagnale has never attempted to fathom, he was paroled to Houston, Texas, with orders to report to a U.S. parole officer there within seventy-two hours of his arrival and, if possible, to find gainful employment within the same period of time.
Frank Abagnale quickly learned, as do most freed prisoners, that there is a post-prison penalty society inflicts upon its convicts. For some, this penalty is simply a social stigma, but for the majority such post-prison punishment comprises much more than just slurs and slights. The ex-convict seeking employment invariably finds his quest much more difficult than does the hard-core unemployed, even though he may possess a needed or wanted skill (often acquired in prison). The employed ex-convict is the first to lose his job during economic downturns necessitating worker layoffs. Too often, the very fact that he is an ex-convict is sufficient reason for firing.
Abagnale’s post-release problems were compounded by the fact that the bureaucrat selected to supervise his parole was hostile and antipathetic. The parole officer bluntly apprised Abagnale of his feelings toward his ward.
“I didn’t want you here, Abagnale,” the hard-nosed official told him. “You were forced on me. I don’t like con men, and I want you to know that before we even start our relationship… I don’t think you’ll last a month before you’re headed back to the joint. Whatever, you had better understand this. Don’t make a wrong move with me. I want to see you every week, and when you get a job, I’ll be out to see you regularly. Mess up, and I’m sure you will, and I’ll personally escort you back to prison.”
Abagnale’s first job was as a waiter, cook and managerial trainee in a pizza parlor operated by a fast-food chain. He did not inform his employer that he was an ex-convict when he applied for the job because he wasn’t asked. The job was colorless, unexciting, and made even less appealing by the periodic visits of Abagnale’s dour parole officer.
Although he was an exemplary worker, and one often entrusted with the banking of the firm’s cash receipts, Abagnale was fired after six months when company officials, checking more closely into his background in preparation for naming him a manager of one of the chain’s shops, learned he was a federal prison parolee. Abagnale within a week found employment as a grocery stocker with a supermarket chain, but again neglected to tell his employer that he was an ex-convict. After nine months, Abagnale was promoted to night manager of one of the firm’s stores and top management officials began to pay personal attention to the well-groomed, handsome and personable young man who seemed so zealously dedicated to company affairs. Obviously he was an executive prospect, and the firm’s directors commenced to prepare him as such. Abagnale’s grooming as a grocery guru, however, abruptly ended when a security check disclosed his blighted past and he again was given the boot.
In ensuing months, the discouraging procedure became repetitively familiar to Abagnale, and he began to contemplate a return to his former illicit lifestyle, feeling now that he had a justifiable grudge against the establishment. Abagnale might actually have returned to his felonious career, as have so many ex-convicts frustrated by similar situations, save for two fortuitous circumstances. First, he was removed from the supervision of his antagonistic parole officer and placed in the hands of a more rational, unbiased steward. And second, Abagnale shortly thereafter took a lengthy and introspective look at himself, his situation and what the future might or might not hold for him.
“I was working as a movie projectionist at the time,” Abagnale recalls today. “I was making good money, but there I was, five nights a week, sitting in this small room, with nothing to do, really, save to watch the same movie over and over again. I thought to myself that I was smarter than that, that I was ignoring and wasting real talents that I possessed.”
Abagnale sought out his parole officer and broached a plan he had formulated in the lonely projection booth. “I think I have as much knowledge as any man alive concerning the mechanics of forgery, check swindling, counterfeiting and similar crimes,” Abagnale told the officer. “I have often felt since I was released from prison that if I directed this knowledge into the right channels, I think I could help certain people a great deal. For instance, every time I go to the store and write a check, I see two or three mistakes made on the part of the clerk or cashier, mistakes that a bum check artist would take advantage of. I have concluded that it is simply a lack of training, and I know I can teach people who handle checks or cash vouchers how to protect themselves against fraud and theft.”
With the blessings of his parole officer, Abagnale approached a suburban bank director, outlined what he had in mind and detailed his background as a master bilker of banks. “At the moment I have no slide presentations or anything,” said Abagnale. “But I’d like to give a lecture to your employees for one hour after closing. If you think my lecture is worthless, you owe me nothing. If you think it is beneficial, you pay me $50 and make a couple of calls to friends you have in other banks to tell them what you think about my talk and what I’m doing.”
His first appearance as a “white-collar crime specialist” led to another appearance at a different bank, and then to another and yet another. Within months Abagnale was in widespread demand by banks, hotels, airlines and other businesses.
Today, three years later, Frank Abagnale is one of the nation’s most popular crime authorities, with offices in both Houston and Denver, a highly-trained staff, and gross revenues approaching $3 million. He still leads a life on the fly, constantly criss-crossing the nation to present seminars, give lectures or to appear on various television panels. Frank Abagnale leads a very satisfying life.
More importantly, he now realizes why he first embarked on a criminal voyage and why he is not now adrift on that dismal cruise.
“If I did not do what I do today-if I had stayed a pizza cook, a grocery executive or a movie projectionist-I might very well be back in prison today,” Abagnale muses. “Why? Because there’s no glamour, no excitement, no adventure and nothing to fulfill my ego in those vocations.
“What I do today, on the other hand, fulfills all my needs. I get up in front of thousands of people, and I know they’re listening to what I say. That’s an ego trip. I appear on dozens of television programs annually. To me, that’s a glamorous life. It’s an adventuresome life, because I’m constantly being challenged by white collar criminals who come up with new gimmicks to defraud clients-and I know they’re out to put me down as much as they are to make a bundle.
“Actually, I haven’t changed. All the needs that made me a criminal are still there. I have simply found a legal and socially acceptable way to fulfill those needs. I’m still a con artist. I’m just putting down a positive con these days, as opposed to the negative con I used in the past. I have simply redirected the talents I’ve always possessed. Today, if I walked into a crowded room and wanted to impress the people therein, I could impress them more by saying, ‘I’m Frank Abagnale, the impostor,’ than if I were to be the old Frank Abagnale, posing as a pilot, a doctor or whatever.”
Frank Abagnale, in reality, is still a bumblebee personality, flying where he isn’t supposed to fly at all, and making a pot of honey on the side.