Mr. Hahn tossed me right into the fray of trial work, especially motion practice. I would arrive in the morning and Marjorie, the head secretary, would hand me a file and say, “John, you’re due in Superior Court in thirty minutes. I’ve called you a cab. You can read the file on your way over.” And they were challenging cases. The first one I recall involved an Italian restaurant allegedly owned by the Mob and represented by partner Mark Sandground, who owned several restaurants including the Palm steakhouse and a southern French place called La Nicoise. I was always representing French chefs who had drunk too much and tried to fight the police who arrested them. I tried everything from spite fences to Teamster violence cases and gamy society divorces.
Then one day, while I was carrying a stack of law books, my back suddenly seized up, and I fell to the floor, writhing in pain. The doctor diagnosed a ruptured disc. I ended up spending eleven days in traction in the hospital so sedated I had little communication with the office. One Sunday after I had recovered enough to be released from the hospital but before I had returned to work, my wife, Regan, drove me to our office in the Colorado Building to see what my desk looked like. I scraped slowly along the sidewalk with a cane and rode the elevator up to our office, but when I got there, my key wouldn’t open the door. From the lobby I used the pay phone to call Marjorie at home. She said, “Oh, John, I’m so sorry. We didn’t want to upset you in your condition, but a terrible thing has happened. The firm has broken up again. The partners have hired lawyers and are suing each other.” Regan was seven months pregnant at the time. We had problems.
Providentially, Judge Keady called that very afternoon to check up on me. He had had a premonition. “John, I talked to Dean Parham Williams at the Ole Miss Law School and he has a slot made for you. It’s only a one-year visiting professor assignment, but you would be teaching evidence and constitutional law, your favorite subjects.” For the first time, I thought that maybe I just wanted to teach and get away from the stress and the endless “billable hours” of private practice. But I also had a sinking feeling. My hope had been to become a wealthy Washington lawyer and provide a really nice life for my wife and children. If I went back to Mississippi to teach, I would probably never make any serious money. I had offers from other D.C. firms, but my doctor told me the stress of law practice would probably put me back in the hospital. After agonizing over this decision for weeks, I just couldn’t make up my mind, so I retrieved a beautiful old silver dollar given to me by my grandmother. I turned it over in my hand several times and decided I would commit my life to chance. If it came up “tails” I would stay in Washington. If “heads” I would return to Mississippi. I flipped the silver dollar high in the air. When it came up “tails” I was sad. I realized that I did not want to stay in Washington. I wanted to go back home to Mississippi. The coin flip had indeed decided my fate, just not the way I planned.
I flew to Oxford to interview for the teaching job and pick out my textbooks. At 6:00 in the morning before my interview with Dean Williams, I was awakened by a telephone call from U.S. Attorney H. M. Ray. He explained his own plan decisively: “John, I know you from your days with Judge Keady. You don’t need to be a law professor. What you need to be is a trial lawyer. I’m offering you the best trial lawyer job in America, being a prosecutor in the most interesting U.S. Attorney’s Office in the United States. I will beat any offer Parham Williams makes you.”
The words had a prophetic ring, yet I feared being caught up in a federal bureaucracy. What would happen when Mr. Ray was replaced or retired? What if a real jerk came on as U.S. Attorney after I had been there too long to go anywhere else? H.M. insisted that I sign up for at least three years. After several agonizing hours, I agreed and told Parham that I still hoped to teach law in the evenings. The three years soon turned into thirty-three. I stayed with the U.S. Attorney’s Office until I retired in 2007 and still teach federal trial practice, criminal trial practice, and law and literature at Ole Miss every semester after more than twenty-five years. It was a good choice I’ll never regret.
I called my father to tell him I “might” take a job as a prosecutor in the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Oxford. He quickly warmed to the subject: “Is that like a district attorney?” I told him “That’s what they used to call them.” He was jubilant. “I’m proud of you son. It is absolutely wonderful you’re going to be a DA. They are not like those other lawyers. They do important work. When do you start?” I had to admit that for once I did not seek his advice in advance: “I started today.”
1
BANK ROBBERS I’VE KNOWN
My Favorite Crime
We once took an informal poll in my office for our favorite crime to prosecute. The result was unanimous: bank robbery. Why? Well, a bank robbery is fast-moving and exciting, and even though there is an element of force and violence, physical injury is pretty rare, although there is often emotional trauma to the tellers and other victims. There is also no confusion about whether a crime was committed. In a white-collar case, there is usually no doubt who did it; the only question is whether what the accused did was a crime and whether he or she knew it was a crime. With bank robbery, the issue is the opposite: It’s clearly a crime; the only issue is identity. Was the defendant the one who did it?
A bank robbery is also a kind of set piece, almost like a play with well-known roles and actors. There may be a getaway driver, a lookout, tellers trying to memorize the robber’s appearance or tag number, and occasionally a pursuing posse. The robber usually has a disguise, whether a ski mask, a lady’s stocking with eyeholes, even a Halloween mask. Normally there is a weapon, whether a pistol, bomb (real or fake), or a concealed sawed-off shotgun (that’s why it’s sawed off). Many robbers use some sort of demand note; others foolishly use their own voices, which can later be used to identify them.
Then there is the getaway vehicle or vehicles, usually a car, but occasionally a bicycle or even a scooter, which moves more easily through modern urban traffic. I have even experienced occasional old-time bank robbers who rely on foot speed. Others pick a rural bank near a swamp or a drainage ditch and hide their getaway car on the other side to fool old-fashioned tracking dogs.
Most bank robbers use what is known as a “switch car,” i.e. a second car parked in a secluded spot not too far from the bank where they can ditch the first getaway car, whose tag number might have been recorded by an eyewitness. Bank robbers often steal a car just before the robbery to use for the immediate getaway, then ditch it and drive away in their own car (unobserved, they hope). I am always amazed how often amateur bank robbers borrow a car from a family member, making the family member an unwilling but crucial witness against them at trial.
One challenge that amateurs never seem to think of is how to safely spend the robbery proceeds, referred to in the trade as “the loot.” Tellers keep stacks of marked bills to give to robbers. They are not really marked; the serial numbers are just recorded at each teller’s counter. Those large-denomination bills are then fairly easy to trace. Nearly every bank now has surveillance cameras and dye-pack devices that look like stacks of bills but are actually trick bags with real bills on the outside concealing a pack of red dye and tear gas hidden inside along with a minor explosive that is set off by an electric charge hidden in the door frame of the bank. The dye pack soaks the robber and loot with dye just after he exits. Look through your wallet or purse and you will usually find a bill or two with small red splotches on the edges from a dye pack that went off.
Variations on these scenarios are endless. In Oxford, we once had a repeat offender who always used the same M.O. (modus operandi) and same disguise: He would “case,” or surveil, a local bank, hide behind the back door, where he knew the first employee entered, rob the bank, and bind the employee with a pair of toy handcuffs from a store that sold theatrical supplies. His disguise was always the same: He covered his face with band-aids, leading to our name for him, the “Band-Aid Bandit.” Researching old cases to see if anyone
else had used the band-aid MO, I found a New York robber with horrible acne who got the nickname the “Clearasil Bandit.” When finally caught, he sued the police and media for emotional distress, claiming it was cruel to stigmatize him because of his zits. He lost.
Another unusual disguise was used by a lady bank robber I prosecuted who circled her eyes and cheeks with bright red lipstick. When caught, her car trunk was filled with Halloween masks which she said she never used because she “couldn’t see out good enough,” a dilemma with which most trick-or-treaters can identify. My favorite lady bank robber stuck up a bank down the road in Batesville in what became known in our office as the “boob job” bank robbery. The day before she robbed the bank, she made an appointment to have breast enhancement surgery. She had the surgery but was caught soon afterward. Who knows? Maybe it was worth it to her.
A law review article I read many years ago said that of all federal prisoners, bank robbers had the lowest average IQs. The bank robbers I’ve known tend to support such statistics. Since that law review article was written, I suspect that drug dealers have surpassed bank robbers as the lowest IQ inmates, but I’m sure it was true at the time. One bank robber in Holly Springs handed the teller a demand note that said, “I want money. Big bills. No exploding rubber bands. None of that shit.” The teller, understanding what he meant, did not give him the dye pack, but as the robber exited, she turned over the note, which was written on the back of a check. The robber had “cleverly” obliterated the name on the check with black magic marker. He had forgotten, however, the account number at the bottom of the check. The teller gave the sheriff the name of the account holder, the robber’s mother. When the robber arrived on foot at his mother’s porch, the sheriff was sitting in a rocker waiting on him. That story made it all the way to the New York Times.
In Senatobia, one robber accidentally shot his partner, then shot out the bank surveillance cameras after first smiling into it. The film, which was not damaged, clearly identified him and resulted in his conviction. His partner was caught while seeking medical treatment. One deputy sheriff in Tallahatchie County wasn’t razor-sharp either. After a bank robber got away, the deputy found what he thought were $20 bills outside the bank. Thinking he’d recovered loot, he carried it back into the bank. Unfortunately, it was an unexploded dye pack, which blew up inside and covered the bank’s interior—and the deputy—with red dye and tear gas.
Another robber, eager to get going, grabbed a customer who was standing in front of him in line to push her out of his way. The lady, apparently accustomed to unwanted advances from strange men, thought she was being molested and threw the man to the ground, knocking him out. A teller called the police, who arrested the robber before he woke up. Even more incompetent was a fat robber who fell down outside the bank and couldn’t get up because his pants were too tight. He thought he “looked good” though.
There was one bank robber I felt sorry for. At arraignment, Magistrate Norman Gillespie asked if the robber had money to make bond. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. Gillespie, strict but sympathetic, said “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” The defendant replied, “I don’t want to make bond. I’m too ashamed to go home.” He stayed locked up and pleaded guilty but got a shorter sentence due to his genuine remorse.
A bank robber walked into a Clarksdale bank one day looking distracted. He handed a bag to a teller and said, “Fill it up with hundreds.” She told him she would get some from the back. Once in back she told the manager what was happening. He went out and asked if he could help. The robber reiterated his demand. The manager, seeing the man looked disturbed, asked what the would-be robber would give the bank in return. He said, “I have the keys to the city.” The manager asked if he had a gun or a bomb. “No,” he replied. The manager then told the man “Just leave then.” He did but turned around and came right back in, cursing loudly. The manager turned stern saying, “We don’t allow profanity in this bank. Now stand over by the door.” Cursing loudly, the man went out the door where he ran into Clarksdale police, who arrested him. In a quick patdown, they found he had a loaded .38 revolver in his pocket. He was sent to a federal prison medical center for mental evaluation, found incompetent, and civilly committed. We have not heard of him since.
One incident several people claim to have witnessed involved FBI jargon. When a crime participant gets away without being recognized, he is called an “unknown subject,” or UNSUB. If a subject is known only by his first name—say, Joe—he is referred to as “Joe LNU,” for “last name unknown.” Some say this case involved the late Joe Ray Langston, the prominent defense attorney from Booneville, although I’ve heard the story attributed to others. Joe Ray, a colorful trial lawyer with many colorful clients, was cross-examining a Chinese American FBI agent from California about a suspect. “So you say you only know the first name of this man. Is that correct?” The agent replied in the affirmative. “How can you say that when your report says this man is an Oriental, just like you?” The agent replied calmly, “I never said anything like that.” Joe Ray continued, “Your report says the suspect’s name is Joe LNU, does it not?” When the witness stopped laughing, the trial judge let the agent explain to the jurors and Joe Ray that LNU was not an “Oriental” name but an acronym for “last name unknown.” The incident became the stuff of local legend.
One bank robber had a really bad day. During the robbery, he forgot to pull his ski mask down over his face. Then, like many bank robbers, he stopped for a six-pack during the getaway to relieve the stress. Police followed his trail of empty beer cans and found him sitting beside a lake. When he saw the police, he tried to throw his sawed-off shotgun in the lake, but it went off in midair, so he just gave up. Sawed-off shotguns are easy to conceal and effective for intimidation. With their short barrels, they can spray the whole inside of a small bank if fired. One robber I prosecuted had successfully robbed a bank near Tupelo and never been caught. A year later he robbed the same bank with another sawed-off shotgun. As he ran out he tossed the shotgun behind some shrubs by the bank’s front door. This time he was caught. When the FBI searched the bushes, they found not only the second gun but also the first, still lying there, badly rusted from the robbery the same robber had done a year before.
One creepy bank robber from Alcorn County at least had a neat name: Melvis Calvary. Trying something new in good luck charms, Calvary performed an amateur black mass, sacrificing a goat to ensure success, something he’d read about in a book. It didn’t work. He was caught and convicted anyway. One case gave me a chill. It involved FBI agent Wayne Tichenor and former Marshall County sheriff Osborne Bell. As the first black sheriff of Marshall County, Bell was doing well. One day he and Wayne were sitting in my office preparing to testify in one of my bank robbery trials. Wayne told us about searching a defendant and not finding a small gun he had hidden in his boot. Luckily, the defendant decided to cooperate and told Wayne where to find it. The very next afternoon Sheriff Bell came upon a long-haired white drug user shooting up in his car along a rural Marshall County road. After deputies searched the man, Bell put him in the back of his squad car. The man had a tiny single-shot .22 derringer concealed in the palm of his hand and used the weapon to shoot Bell in the head at point-blank range. Bell died of the wound.
On the lighter side was a remark I heard defense attorney Rob McDuff make to a client about a stiff sentence he’d just received: “Well, you see, it’s just that this judge takes bank robbery so seriously.” A student reporter heard the remark, and it made the Ole Miss paper, the Daily Mississippian, the following day.
Mississippi is now known as much for our casinos as for our magnolias, and casinos are robbed as often as banks since they have nearly as much money. But casinos are not good targets because their security is usually better than banks. One robber went into a casino and announced a holdup. Despite the man’s mask, the casino clerk recognized him as a regular customer, because of his powerful, distinctive cologne, Vegas Nights. The clerk ev
en called him by name. The man laughed, took off his mask, and started playing the slots, pretending it was all a joke. He was later arrested when guards noticed someone had cut all the phone lines to the casino. A search of his truck found wire cutters, the mask, and a gun hidden together. He received seven years.
Bulletproof bank windows are something else, and so are the tellers behind them. The sister of Judge L. T. Senter of Aberdeen was confronted one day at her drive-through window, which was bulletproof and had no opening. “Give me some goddamn money or I’ll shoot,” he said. “Give it your best shot,” she replied. He did, and after several whistling ricochets nearly hit him, he drove away. Al Moreton had a robber once, whose name he has forgotten, who whispered to a teller, “This is a robbery,” so no one else could hear him. The teller was a veteran of other robberies and was sitting behind a bulletproof window. She whispered back, “Show me your gun.” When he shook his head no, she yelled out, “You little snot, get out of here.” He did.
Another hapless bank robber was a man named Edward Earl Moore, who robbed a bank to get enough money to buy a bus ticket to meet his probation officer up north. He was caught and his probation revoked. Another hapless one robbed a bank to get money to pay for the drug treatment that was a condition of his probation. He didn’t learn until too late that his probation officer had already paid the bill. A robber from the town of Independence carefully covered his license plate with cloth but forgot to remove the For Sale sign, which gave his home telephone number, from the back window of his getaway pickup.
From Midnight to Guntown Page 4