Frank Abagnale - Catch Me If You Can

“Sir, I know this is one of Chase’s checks, but it wasn’t issued from this branch,” she said apologetically. “I will have to call the issuing bank. Can you wait a minute?”

“Certainly, go ahead,” I said easily.

She made her call within earshot of me. No part of the conversation surprised me. “Yes, this is Janice in Queens. Cashier’s check 023685, can you tell me whom it was issued to, how much, when and what’s the current status on it?” She waited, then apparently repeated what she’d been told. “Frank W. Williams, $1,200, January 5, currently outstanding. I must have it right here. Thank you very much.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, smiling as she counted out the cash.

“That’s all right,” I said. “And you should never apologize for doing your job well.” I meant it, too. That girl got stung, but she’s still the kind banks should hire. And she saved Chase a bundle. I had intended to hit at least 100 Chase branches, but after she made her call, I pulled up on that particular caper.

I figured I couldn’t afford another call to the bank that had issued the original check. I knew the odds favored me, but I couldn’t chance the same bookkeeping clerk answering the phone if some other teller decided to go behind the check.

New York made me nervous. I felt I should head for a foreign clime again, but I couldn’t decide whether to return to Paris and Monique or visit some new and exciting place.

While I was debating with myself, I flew to Boston, where I got myself flung into jail and robbed a bank. The former was a shock, like an unplanned pregnancy. The latter was the result of an irresistible impulse.

I went to Boston simply to get out of New York. I thought it would be as good as any place along the eastern seaboard as a point of embarkation, and it also had a lot of banks. On arrival, I stowed my bags in an airport rental locker, put the key in my ID folder and called at several of the banks, exchanging some of my Pan Am check facsimiles for genuine currency. I returned to the airport early in the evening, intending to catch an overseas flight as soon as possible. I had garnered over $5,000 in my felonious foray through Bean Town, and I stowed $4,800 of it in my bags before checking on what foreign flights were available that night.

I didn’t have a chance to make my inquiries until late that night. Turning away from the locker, I encountered a pretty Allegheny Airlines stewardess from my embryo days as a pilot without portfolio.

“Frank! What a neat surprise!” she exclaimed. Naturally, we had to have a reunion. I didn’t get back to the airport until after 11 p.m., and by then I’d decided to go to Miami and make an overseas connection from there.

I walked up to the Allegheny Airlines counter. “When’s your next connecting flight to Miami?” I asked the ticket agent on duty, a man. I had changed into my pilot’s uniform.

“You just missed it.” He grimaced.

“Who’s got the next flight, National, American, who?” I inquired.

“No one,” he said. “You’ve missed any flight to Miami until tomorrow. Nothing flies out of here after midnight. Boston ’s got a noise-control ordinance, now, and no outgoing traffic is allowed after midnight. No airline can put a plane in the air until 6:30 a.m., and the first flight to Miami is National’s at 10:15 a.m.”

“But it’s only 11:40 now,” I said.

He grinned. “Okay. You want to go to Burlington, Vermont? That’s the last flight out tonight.”

All things considered, I declined. I walked over and sat down in one of the lobby chairs, mulling the situation. The lobby, like most large airport vestibules, was ringed with gift shops, newsstands, coffee shops, bars and various other shops, and I noted idly, while cogitating, that most of them were closing. I also noted, suddenly interested, that many of them were stopping at the night depository of a large Boston bank, situated near the middle of one exit corridor, and dropping bags or bulky envelopes-obviously their day’s receipts-into the steel-faced receptacle.

My observation was interrupted by two chilling words:

“Frank Abagnale?”

I looked up, quelling a surge of panic. Two tall, grim-visaged Massachusetts state troopers, in uniform, stood over me.

“You are Frank Abagnale, aren’t you?” demanded the one in stony tones.

“My name is Frank, but it’s Frank Williams,” I said, and I was surprised that the calm, unflustered reply had issued from my throat.

“May I see your identification, please?” asked the one. The words were spoken politely, but his eyes said if I didn’t promptly produce my ID, he was going to pick me up by the ankles and shake it out of my pockets.

I handed over my ID card and my fraudulent FAA pilot’s license. “Look, I don’t know what this is all about, but you’re badly mistaken,” I said as I tendered the documents. “I fly for Pan American, and these ought to be proof enough.”

The one studied the ID card and license, then passed them to his partner. “Why don’t you knock off the bullshit, son? You’re Frank Abagnale, aren’t you?” said the second one, almost gently.

“Frank who?” I protested, feigning anger to cover my increasing nervousness. “I don’t know who the hell you’re after, but it’s not me!”

The one frowned. “Well, we ain’t gonna stand around here arguing with you,” he growled. “Come on, we’re taking you in.”

They didn’t ask where my luggage was, and I didn’t volunteer. They took me outside, placed me in their patrol car and drove me directly to the state police offices. There I was ushered into the office of a harried-looking lieutenant, whom I assumed was the shift commander.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded in exasperated tones.

“Well, we think it’s Frank Abagnale, Lieutenant,” said one of the troopers. “He says he’s a pilot for Pan Am.”

The lieutenant eyed me. “You don’t look very old to be a pilot,” he said. “Why don’t you tell the truth? You’re Frank Abagnale. We’ve been looking for him for a long time. He’s supposed to be a pilot, too. You fit his description-perfectly.”

“I’m thirty years old, my name is Frank Williams and I fly for Pan Am, and I want to talk to my lawyer,” I shouted.

The lieutenant sighed. “You ain’t been charged with nothin‘ yet,” he said. “Take him over to the city jail, book him for vagrancy and then let him call a lawyer. And call the feds. He’s their pigeon. Let them straighten it out.”

“Vagrancy!” I protested. “I’m no vagrant. I’ve got nearly $200 on me.”

The lieutenant nodded. “Yeah, but you ain’t proved you’re gainfully employed,” he said wearily. “Get ‘im out of here.”

I was taken to the county jail in downtown Boston, which had all the appearances of a facility that should have long ago been condemned, and had been, and I was turned over to the booking sergeant.

“Damn me, what did he do?” he queried, looking at me.

“Just book him for vagrancy. Someone will pick him up in the morning,” said the one trooper.

“Vagrant!” bellowed the sergeant. “By damn, if he’s a vagrant, I hope you guys never bring in any bums.”

“Just book him,” grunted the one trooper, and he and his partner left.

“Empty your pockets, lad,” the sergeant said gruffly, pulling a form in triplicate from a drawer. “I’ll give you a receipt for your goods.”

I started placing my valuables before him. “Listen, can I keep my ID card and pilot’s license?” I asked. “Company regulations say I have to have them on me at all times. I’m not sure if being arrested is included, but I’d still like to keep them, if you don’t mind.”

The sergeant examined the card and the license and pushed them toward me. “Sure,” he said kindly. “I’d say there’s been some kind of mix-up here, lad. I’m glad I’m not involved.”