Chas Smith - Blessed Are the Bank Robbers: The True Adventures of an Evangelical Outlaw

Also by the Author:

Welcome to Paradise, Now Go to Hell

Cocaine + Surfing

Reports from Hell

Copyright 2022 Chas Smith

Cover 2022 Abrams

Published in 2022 by Abrams Press, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021946851

ISBN: 978-1-4197-5473-9
eISBN: 978-1-64700-546-7

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What the world requires of the Christians
is that they continue to be Christians.
Albert Camus

Love God and sin boldly.
Martin Luther

So there I was in the front yard, one sun-dappled spring morning, scolding my daughters Chihuahua, Thunderstruck, for getting into my wifes gluten-free crackers again, when the mail jalopy came rumbling to a stop in front of the driveway. The postman, a bro, seemed happy to chat while handing me an assortment of mail.

You surf today?

No, but heard it was blown out. Probably get on it later, though, if it glasses.

Cool.

He drove off with a shaka, leaving a puff of diesel smoke in his wake, Thunder seizing on the moment to scamper back inside, dang dog. If shes gonna get naughty, she should do better than gluten-free.

I flipped through the small stack. A DMV renewal, an overdue physical therapy bill, a letter from the Federal Detention Center/Federal Correctional Institution Englewood and paused, electric rush flooding from head to toe, ending in my tingling fingertips.

This was what Id been waiting for, semipatiently, like I used to wait for the Sears Christmas catalog. Letting the unnecessary mail drop, I wandered over to the patio, pulled out a black chair, and sat down, wondering what Littleton, Colorado, feels like in late March while studying the envelope.

Daniel Courson 19560023

Federal Detention Center/Federal Correctional

Institution Englewood

9595 West Quincy Ave.

Littleton, CO 80123

The blue ink hovered above and to the left of my own Cardiff-by-the-Sea address. Daniel Courson 19560023. My Cousin Danny.

I had asked him to write every bit of his experience, seeing that he had nothing but time stretching out over that Rocky Mountain horizon, seeing that he had taken the adventurous life to a critical new level. I told him Id critique because, selfishly, I needed every last detail. Id waited patiently, and now here it was.

The envelopes flap peeled open easily enough, a byproduct of prison censors or maybe just lower-quality prison commissary stationary, and I skimmed the introduction. Hey Charlie, greetings from Colorado, my final destination after a tour of the western US courtesy of your US tax dollars, so thanks for that. Rod Blagojevich, the Illinois senator who sold his senate seat, is here as well as Jared, the old pitchman for Subway who was involved in child porn, I believe.

Rod Blagojevich had actually been Illinoiss governor and had tried to sell Barack Obamas vacated senate seat. He has Subways Jared Fogle correctly pegged though, or mostly: fifteen years plus eight months for possessing child pornography and traveling across state lines to pay for sex with minors.

I knew that on his stop through Nevada, Cousin Danny had shared a cell with Cliven Bundy, the lightning rod Oregon rancher who led an armed standoff with the Bureau of Land Management, reaching hero status among radicalized libertarians, the two trading stories while whittling away the hours. He had also spent time in the depressing cement box once occupied by Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh in Denver, the prison guard informing him of its famous ex-tenant while locking the door for the night in an offhanded but proud way.

After a few more general pleasantries, elucidations of prison politics, and a request to read and give feedback, I remember that this is serious and run upstairs, fish my fancy, serious-editing Montblanc from a desk drawer packed with LOL OMG doll clothes, run back downstairs, and tuck in properly.

CHAPTER 1

Bank robbery was starting to get boring. After forty-some jobs, I was beginning to think Id seen it all. But Id read enough online news stories of the jobs gone wrong, failed by an X factor: off-duty cop in line, hero armed customer, goddam GPS trackers... it was easy to be unlucky. Still, that didnt stop me from getting back to work. I decided the next bank needed some extra attention. Instead of the usual casing from within a Starbucks or McDonalds across the street, this time Id gear up like a construction worker... a large work site encircled this bank some kind of revamped parking lot was being installed and workers buzzed around everywhere. Perfect cover.

So, with my hard hat, orange safety vest, work boots, and gloves, I sidled up the sidewalk and edged into the churned-up earth just outside the bank, bending over some imaginary task. My dark safety glasses hid my sideways glances at the arriving bank staff: one, two, three, four office and teller workers, no hero ex-military bearings to be found.

Bingo.

I made a couple more trips in my disguise to the work site during the week, checking the flow of customers, timing my escape route, spacing cop patrols.

Friday is the optimal day to rob a bank. Its the day people with actual jobs come to cash paychecks, so banks need the maximum amount of cash on hand.

The morning of the robbery was crisp and clear, and after plenty of strong coffee in my cup I again donned my Village People getup with one important addition that old standby in bank robber couture, the black mask pulled down around my neck ready for use.

I parked my pickup a few blocks away and quickly hoisted my full suspension Trek mountain bike from the truck bed to under my feet. My backpack hugged my body, only two items inside: a realistic looking Glock pellet gun and a hammer, both tools of last resort. The guns presence to frighten, the hammers purpose being to smash glass doors locking me in.

The excuses flooded my brain as I pedaled between buildings, along paths, toward the target.

Too much traffic.

Not enough traffic.

Cops could be close.

Something doesnt feel right.

Still I pedaled, fighting fear, fighting anxiety. Do this. Make it happen. Just get it over with.

I rode right up to the bank entrance, past the morning swarm of similarly dressed workers. Not a second glance my way. I leaned my bike against a bank wall.

Now, the moment, the border between nothing and everything, my throat tight with invisible hands squeezing, sweat trickling down my back. Same drenching of forced anticipation every time.