Heist

by Jeff Diamant

  He waffled on the heist idea three or four times from late August to mid-September. Then one day, while reviewing his and Tammy’s credit card bill, he did some quick math and realized that even if they met the minimum monthly payments, the bill would take thirty years to pay. Thirty years! And they could barely afford the minimum payments, given the power bills, phone bills, car insurance bills, and home payments they had to meet. He decided at that moment that if Kelly called again, he would go for it.

  Sure enough, she called a few days later, around September 16. “What would it take to convince you to do it?” she asked again.

  “I’ll need help moving the money, getting a new ID, and leaving the country,” he told her.

  “Are you serious?” She sounded incredulous.

  He said he was.

  “I’ve got a friend,” she said, “who can hook you up with a new ID.”

  • • •

  The October 4 shift was lasting longer than expected, due to delays involving pickups and deliveries. As it neared its end, David stealthily left the vault door ajar. The trainee didn’t know to check to make sure it was closed.

  David and the trainee left the warehouse. In the parking lot, David sat in his pickup truck smoking a cigarette and waving good-bye as the trainee drove home. At about 6:40 p.m., he went back inside.

  The walk-in vault was a fortified gray room, more wide than long, with shelves, cabinets, desks, and multiple pushcarts stocked with shrink-wrapped cash. The building was configured so vans could drive inside and pull up next to the vault. That way, outsiders couldn’t see money being loaded. In preparation for what lay ahead, David had backed an unmarked company Ford Econoline van near the vault entrance and opened the van’s back door.

  Moving the money into the van quickly proved an onerous task. Though much of the cash was already stacked on pushcarts in the vault, other stacks were on shelves or the floor, and they were heavy. David was thin—six-foot-one, one hundred sixty-five pounds—and heaving the stacks onto the cart, pushing the cart toward the vault door, and then emptying its contents into the van was exhausting.

  And once he started, he didn’t stop with one cartful. As beads of sweat formed under his red hair, he loaded up another cart and repeated the process. Seven p.m. came and went, and so did 7:20. Kelly called, using David’s own cell phone, to ask where he was already, because she and the others were waiting outside for him.

  “I’m busy,” he said. “I don’t have time to mess with you. I gotta go.”

  He knew they were nervous outside waiting for him, but he also knew he wouldn’t stop stealing until he had taken everything. There was no reason to leave anything, he felt. In the grand scheme of things, the prison sentence for stealing $20 million wouldn’t be much worse than for stealing just $500,000—maybe a few extra years behind bars. It wasn’t how much you stole that mattered most; it was that you had stolen in the first place.

  Each cart, holding about $2 million, was taking David seven or eight minutes to stack, push, and empty into the van, and there were about eight cartloads’ worth in the vault. He stayed at it until the vault was empty.

  Now, at 7:45 p.m., with all the money finally inside the van, his aching muscles could take a breather. But he wasn’t finished. He shut the empty vault and set its timer so the vault could not be opened for two or three days. He also stole both existing sets of vault keys and hurried into the manager’s office, where three TV security screens and two VCRs were visible. He realized his bosses would know he had worked that day and that he was missing, but maybe without a video they would think he’d been held at gunpoint and taken hostage, or even better, that he’d been killed. He ejected the two VCR tapes that he knew had recorded him stealing the money, took them, and prepared to leave.

  He called Kelly to say he was coming and hopped into the driver’s seat of the loaded Loomis van. The plan was to exit through the building’s electronic back gate, which consisted of horizontal metal plates that opened at the touch of a button. It should have been easy, but for some reason the gate didn’t open for him.

  His eyes widened and he stopped breathing as he realized that something as mundane as a malfunctioning gate might ruin their entire plan. He’d already done enough, he realized, to get himself fired and arrested, even if the gate prevented him from moving the money outside the building. He tried again to make the back gate rise, to no avail.

  He called Kelly, and a plan B arose—to exit through the building’s front gate instead. This was less desirable than the original plan, because after exiting the front gate he’d still have to deal with a chain-link fence surrounding that part of the building. In addition, if David was going to exit through the front gate, he’d have to move two other Loomis vans parked inside the building that blocked his way. He entered each one, turned the ignition, and drove a few feet so his path was open.

  He sighed with relief when the front gate rose, drove the van outside, and hopped out to open the chain-link fence. But nothing was coming easy. Now the chain-link fence was the problem, as he couldn’t manage to open it. He pushed. He tugged. Kelly and the others, in two waiting vehicles, watched and shook their heads.

  Finally, after minutes that seemed like hours, he received help from an unknown source. A black-haired man popped out of a Mazda 626 and approached the gate, twisting his body around so David wouldn’t see his face. David wondered if the man was Steve.

  There was no time for introductions. The man helped David swing open the gate. David drove the Loomis van out to the street, and the man hustled back to the Mazda where another, larger man waited. The three-vehicle caravan was ready. Kelly would lead in her pickup truck, David would follow in the Loomis van, and the Mazda would take the rear.

  They drove down Suttle Avenue, passing grassy Bryant Park. To the right, between the park’s trees, the thieves could’ve caught a glimpse of Charlotte’s skyline of bank buildings in the twilight, about two miles away. It included the sixty-story NationsBank edifice and the slightly smaller First Union Bank building, headquarters for the two banks that rightfully owned most of the money David was driving into the night.

  The Charlotte skyline didn’t catch their attention. They headed down Morehead Street to Freedom Drive, a main road that passed industrial buildings, gas stations, and fast-food restaurants toward Interstate 85.

  David pulled out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and maneuvered his non-driving hand to light it. In the course of just two hours, his life had dramatically changed, and now he couldn’t take back what he’d done even if he wanted to. He needed a smoke.

  Right about then, he noticed a Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police car in front of him. He shuddered, spitting the unlit cigarette onto the floor. If the cop stopped him, that would be it. David did everything he could to play normal and not draw attention. It worked.

  After two miles on Freedom Drive and then five more on Interstate 85 South, the three vehicles exited the highway onto Sam Wilson Road and turned onto a service road for industrial buildings. Those buildings included a printing business called Reynolds & Reynolds, their next destination.

  The gate of Reynolds & Reynolds opened for them. On a Saturday night, its emptied parking lot was as good as a private warehouse; no one was around.

  Once inside the printing company’s gate, the two men exited the Mazda. David got out of the Loomis van, leaving his company handgun and the two security videotapes but taking with him a massive key ring that held about 125 keys. He gave the key ring to the man who had helped him open the chain-link fence, placing the correct key for the Loomis van’s back door in the man’s hand. Then David hurried to the passenger door of Kelly’s pickup truck and hopped inside. She was in the driver’s seat, ready to go.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Teamwork

  Kelly drove back to Interstate 85, and David’s escape was under way. The plan was for her
to drop him off at Columbia Metropolitan Airport in South Carolina, a ninety-minute drive from Charlotte. The group had assumed that security guards at the nearby Charlotte airport—just ten minutes away—would already be looking for David, and that even if he managed to leave from there, the FBI would track down people using the airport that night, show them David’s picture, and find out what plane he took.

  He was ecstatic. The only life he had ever known was over, and he was about to come into more money than he could ever have imagined. On the drive to Columbia, the magnitude of his actions began to hit him. He held out wads of the stolen cash, gripping green stacks that totaled a year’s salary for him.

  “I’m richer with what’s in my hand right now,” he said, “than I’ve ever been.” He changed out of his uniform and laughed with Kelly when she joked, “I’m a rich bitch now!”

  His exuberance aside, David had an immediate problem, even assuming he could leave the country successfully that night. The vast majority of the millions he’d just stolen were back in the Charlotte area, in a van driven by a man he didn’t know, while a woman he loved was driving him south. How would David get his one-third share? The truth is, this actually didn’t worry him much.

  If that seems strange, it’s because he placed a great deal of trust in the notion of teamwork, which he’d say had been drilled into him in the army when he repaired helicopters during the Persian Gulf War. “Gimme a team of five guys and I can do anything,” he liked to say. If their plan succeeded, all three of them—David, Kelly, and Steve—would each have more money than they could ever need. For David Ghantt, teamwork was the way to go.

  Still, there was the matter of expenses and spending money until his share would arrive in Mexico. David had taken about $50,000 with him, but he wasn’t sure how he would sneak it onto a plane past airport security. Kelly had an idea, suggesting they stop at a convenience store to buy pantyhose. A snip here, a snip there, and David had a money belt. He stuffed twenty grand into it, and another five thousand into his cowboy boots. Kelly took the rest.

  Back on the road, they soon approached the Columbia airport. It was about 9:30 p.m. now, and Kelly gave David the number for a pay telephone located outside a convenience store just west of Charlotte in a small town called Mount Holly, where she lived. Kelly told him she would wait there for his calls at 1:00 p.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  The Columbia airport seemed quieter than it should have. After Kelly parked, the two of them walked toward the terminal. On the drive down, David hadn’t asked about his plane ticket, assuming that Kelly would just pull it out before he left her, or at least that he’d have a reservation waiting for him on a specific flight. After all, if he was sticking his neck out to steal a zillion dollars, the very least his cohorts could do was get him a ticket for that night. But from the moment they pulled into the parking lot, he began worrying the airport was closed for the evening, and it turned out he was right. Once again, the whole plan seemed about to fall apart.

  Kelly called Steve from an airport pay phone, and they decided that David’s fastest route to Mexico would be through Hartsfield International Airport in Atlanta. But Kelly didn’t want to drive the 240 miles to Atlanta and back in the middle of the night, and she didn’t know how to find David a bus station, so from a Waffle House pay phone, she called a cab to take him to a bus. A quick kiss, a quick good-bye, and he was gone.

  • • •

  As he stared out the window on his bus to Atlanta, David reflected on what had just happened. His life was forever changed, and it was exhilarating. Arriving at the Atlanta airport, he sought a connection to Mexico. He found a flight to New Orleans, where he could then grab an AeroMexico flight to Cancun.

  His plane landed in Louisiana before dawn on October 5, and he had time before his connection. Disheveled and sweaty from the previous night’s escape and stress, he checked into a hotel in downtown New Orleans, turned the air conditioner on high, and clicked on the television news, expecting to see his face or hear his name. But the theft hadn’t made its way to the news yet, probably because it was too early in the morning, he figured. He felt safe enough for the time being and decided to catch a few hours of sleep before his flight to Cancun.

  Rested, he took a cab from the hotel to the airport, where another moment of panic awaited. After checking in for his flight, he ordered a slice of pizza at a food court and sat down to eat. Enjoying the calm, he noticed an elderly woman staring at him. He didn’t stare back, but her look made him nervous. What was her deal? He pretended not to notice her and began to eat.

  She approached him. “Hey, I think I know you!”

  He stopped chewing. “Ma’am?”

  “Yeah, I know who you are!”

  “I don’t think so, ma’am.”

  “You’re, you’re… Wait a minute.”

  He couldn’t believe it.

  “You’re that tennis player! The German! Boris Becker!”

  Relieved, David exhaled and recited from his fake ID. “I’m Mike,” he said. “I’m in computer sales.”

  The woman left, and David’s heartbeat returned to normal. He finished his food and boarded the plane, able to pass unsuspecting police officers with $25,000 around his waist and in his cowboy boots.

  At the customs gate after he landed, the officer asked how long David would be in Mexico.

  “Two weeks,” he answered.

  He hopped in a cab outside the airport. David’s Spanish consisted mainly of the words “por favor” and “cerveza,” for “please” and “beer,” so he asked the cabdriver in his native tongue to find him a hotel.

  “Cheap or ’spensive?” the driver asked.

  “’Spensive is okay,” David said.

  He should treat himself, he figured. The first part of the heist was a success and he was on his way. All he needed was for his coconspirators in North Carolina to follow the plan.

  The Key to Success

  In his thirty years of life, Steven Eugene Chambers had been a bookie, a tax cheat, and a loan shark, but he had never been into this kind of cash. Few criminals ever had.

  For several hours after the theft on October 4, 1997, Steve’s well-furnished mobile home near Lincolnton, North Carolina—about forty-five miles from Loomis Fargo—was Heist Central. It was where most of David Ghantt’s accomplices counted the money while David fled the country, and it was Kelly’s immediate destination after saying good-bye to him in Columbia.

  Steve had assumed control of the stolen money shortly after David stole it, from the moment in the Reynolds & Reynolds parking lot when David entered Kelly’s pickup and left for the airport. He had waited in his Mazda outside the Loomis Fargo building while David was inside stealing the money, and he was not alone; with him was his cousin Scott Grant, one of two last-minute recruits Steve brought into the plan. Kelly waited nearby, alone in her pickup.

  Steve had recruited Scott and another man, Eric Payne, with the promise of $100,000 for each. Scott had said he would help only if there were no guns. Eric, who’d known Steve since they worked at a sock factory as teenagers, insisted he not touch anything. Steve assured them there would be no guns and no need to leave fingerprints. And the job itself would be a piece of cake.

  • • •

  Steve stayed cool during most of the night’s excitement and chaos. When David was late coming out of the Loomis building, Scott asked nervously, “What’s gonna happen if he don’t come?”

  Steve calmly answered, “He’s coming, he’s coming.”

  Twenty minutes later, when David couldn’t open the front gate, Steve directed his cousin to help. When Scott protested, Steve said, “You have to. He can’t do it alone.” So Scott left the car and hustled to the gate, remembering not to let David see his face.

  Steve’s Mazda had taken up the rear of the thieves’ three-vehicle caravan from Loomis Fargo to Reynolds & Reynolds, where Eric Pay
ne was waiting with a van rented earlier in the day from Budget. As the caravan neared Reynolds & Reynolds, where Eric was an employee, Steve called him so Eric would open the parking-lot gate for them when they arrived.

  Steve had caught a glimpse of David before the redhead left with Kelly. Then, along with Eric and Scott, Steve began the next essential task of the heist—transferring the mounds of loot from the Loomis Fargo van to the rented Budget van. The plan then called for abandoning the Loomis vehicle nearby in a secluded area and driving the loaded rental van to Steve’s home.

  Right away, they had cause for alarm after David left with Kelly. Scott hadn’t held onto the exact key that David placed in his hand, and now David was gone and Scott had a key ring filled with about 125 keys, only one of which would open the back of the Loomis van.

  In the dark, Scott tried to insert one key after another into the slot. Plenty fit but none would actually turn to open the lock. Steve cursed as Scott continued to fumble with the keys, because the ability to empty the money there and transfer it to the Budget van was an essential piece of the plan. If they couldn’t open the back door they might have to abandon the van somewhere with the money inside it, because they certainly couldn’t risk being spotted with it the next day after news of the crime broke.

  Some frantic minutes later, after dozens of tries, Scott finally found the right key. There was no time to celebrate. He opened the back door.

  The vision silenced them. Plastic bags of money in shrink-wrap filled the cargo space almost to the top. Outside of the movies, they had never seen anything like it. Scott’s and Eric’s jaws dropped.

  “Unload it,” Steve said.

  He directed Eric to hop inside, but Eric refused, not wanting to leave fingerprints. So Steve pushed Scott toward the vehicle. Once inside, Scott began passing stacks of cash to Steve and Eric, who placed them in the rented Budget van, inside fifty-five-gallon blue barrels that Eric had taken from the printing company’s loading dock.