Wasn’t About the Money

by Jeffrey Scott Hunter

I’d been robbing banks for close to a year when I came to the realization that it wasn’t about the money any more.

I was hooked on the adrenaline rush, the preparation, the recon that went into laying out the perfect score.

When we’d steal the car (the hot box) we’d use, we went as far as getting a set of 150 master keys with which to steal them, so we wouldn’t damage the steering column or the ignition. Sometimes we’d have to leave the hot box in an apartment complex for a few days, and the last thing we needed was to show up armed to the teeth, truculent with adrenaline dripping from our ears, ready to go to war, and the hot box is gone because some do-gooder damaged the steering column and called the cops.

Sometimes I’d be in a car for 10 to 15 minutes trying every key. But in the long run, it was worth it. My partner always had my back. We’d be walkie-talkied up, and he’d be listening to the police scanner. So I was pretty safe.

It was all a big power trip and my ego loved it.

I remember this one time, I’m sitting inside a mall, packing my 9 mm, with lots of cash on me, eating a bag of popcorn and feeling proud of myself. As I watched people move around me, I started to notice that they all looked like drones moving with no real purpose, shuffling along. I began to glance around, taking a harder look. Cashiers mindlessly checking people out. None of these people were living, not like me. I was on a higher plane, experiencing life to its fullest, sticking it to The Man. I was a rebel, unplugged from what society dictated was normal behavior. I was an outlaw.

There were times when we really needed to know certain things about a bank. And there are only two ways to do it. One is to walk inside and have a look, which is out of the question. No way was I getting caught on tape. The second and my personal favorite was to do recon.

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My partner would drop me off on the side of the road well before dawn. I’d be dressed in camouflage from head to toe. Most banks we did were in rural areas so there was always some vegetation around to lay in. I’d bring my trusty high-powered binoculars, a gallon of water, and some food. Sometimes I’d see how close I could get to the bank, but that really wasn’t necessary. As long as I could see in through a window, I was fine. Most times I’d be fifty to a hundred yards away, watching everyone arrive.

One morning, while laying on this one bank, I watched the manager show up first and go inside. Five minutes lat4er, she removed a plant from the front window. At the time I thought nothing of it. The next day she did the same thing, only this time I was in a different spot getting a better view and saw a cop car sitting across the street in a gas station. After she removed the plant, the cop drove off.

I went back every day the following week, and each morning within a couple minutes of the manager arriving, she’d remove the plant. Sometimes the cop would do a slow drive-by, and it was always at the same time.

That was the whole point of watching the bank in the first place; I needed to know everything. You can’t control everything, but if on Friday at 10:30 a.m. there are no cops around two weeks in a row, chances are good there won’t be any on that third week.

I’d usually watch a place from Wednesday to Friday because that’s when the big money was dropped off. The recon would last maybe three weeks. I’d be hiding for up to 16 hours a day, loving every minute of it.

Another ritual was on the eve of a score, my partner and I would go out to dinner – a nice steak and lobster joint, have a good meal and a few drinks while going over the last details of our plan.

After that he’d drop me off at my girl’s place for some lovin’ and on those nights it was always the best.

My girl wasn’t stupid. She knew I was an adrenaline junkie who liked to carry guns, sometimes disappearing for a month to do a score out of town. She never questioned me. Once I had thirteen grand stuffed in my jacket and when she went to hang it up, she saw it. She only looked at me, not saying a word. And she knew when my partner and I would go out for dinner that the next day something was going to happen. I think that was one of the things the kept our relationship so passionate – a little danger in the uncertainty of not knowing if we’d see each other again. We lived our lives in the moment a lot more than other couples.

After dinner, we’d head over to my partner’s place and get ready to do the score. This was another rush in itself. I’d always have my Walkman, listen to Judas Priest’s Painkiller or an AC DC song called Shoot to Thrill over and over. The combination of cranking those tunes while loading clips to my AK-47 and 9mm, strapping on body armor, making sure the scanner was properly programmed – now that’s exhilarating.

Now here’s where it all started to unravel. It’s a winter day, so it gets dark maybe by 5 p.m. My partner and I were out cruising when I spot a pretty good-sized bank sitting about 30 feet off the road. It’s all lit up with what looks like a few people inside.

“Is that place open?”

My partner glances as we pass. “No, must be cleaning people.” (Back then all the banks closed at 5 p.m.)

“I need confirmation,” I say. “Pull over at that gas station.” I get out and go to a pay phone, call information, then call the bank.

“Hello, Independent Bank. How can I help you?” a girl cheerfully answers.

“Are you still open?” I ask.

“We’re open til six.”

“The drive through?”

“No, you can walk in.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right there,” I say.

I tell my partner the good news, only he’s not as excited as I am at my plan to rob it before it closes. He likes the rush, but he’s more about the money, and we’re out of town. We don’t know the area, have no body armor, no heavy fire power, no scanner, no hot box. Nothing. But I reassure him that this bank will be a walk in the park. I have a 9 mm, a ski mask, gloves. All I need is a pillow case to carry all the cash. Best part is, it’s dark out. He reluctantly goes along.

We drive around. We find a couple of outs for me to run in case the cops chase me, find a place for him to park, and buy a set of sheets to the pillow case, of course. Then I walk up to the bank, take a quick look around, pull down my ski mask and blast off through the door like a Tasmanian Devil. I vault the chest-high counter like an Olympic high jumper.

Two tellers are in shock. They can’t believe what’s happening.

“What are you doing?” one of them manages to say.

“What do you think I’m doing? Open the drawers.”

I clean them out in record time. But before I do, I look at the drive-up teller window and decide to get a little extra cash. So I blast over to her drawer and clean it out, too. This takes maybe 20 seconds, then I fly out of the place and down an alley to the pick-up spot.

Within 30 minutes of coming off my best high ever, I knew that if I didn’t start to control myself I wouldn’t last much longer. I needed to get back to acting like a professional. I had to put my ego in check. But, when you’re getting off like that, it’s hard to control.

It’s like diving into frigid ocean water in the dead of winter. Your heart is pounding harder than you could imagine possible, your vision is clear, hearing impeccable. The raw adrenaline takes control. Suddenly, you’re released from everything, leaving you with a God-like feeling of pure power.

That’s how I felt every time I went charging into a bank.

The feeling should be illegal and in my case it was.

About six months later, the FBI caught up to me and I’ve been locked up every since.