Chapter 21: Bank Robbery

Fall 2023

The summer progressed nicely. I spent a fair bit of time down in Sullivan County and the nearby environs, first analyzing what they had and then developing the options everybody needed to consider. One thing I stressed with them was that by standardizing on similar doctrine, training, and hardware, the SWAT teams created would be suitable for any eventual regional coordination. How the politics would work out was questionable, but it would be easier if the local units had similar systems.

Also working out nicely was Slave Patrols. Simon & Schuster had received the foreword from Al Sharpton, though it was four pages long and showed he was as much a pompous windbag on paper as he was in person. Publication was scheduled for late-October, timed to hit the New York Times Nonfiction Bestseller List by Christmas. A book tour would be scheduled, and excerpts would be leaked as needed.

In late September I visited a small city in Anderson County, South Carolina, I was working with on an analysis and operational upgrade package. That was about a four-hour drive, so I planned to stay overnight. I drove over Tuesday morning, September 19, and spent the afternoon in talks with the police chief and a member of the county council. They knew about my work in southern Georgia and were interested as well. I spent the night at a Motel 6 and drove home the next morning. After crossing back into Georgia, though, the Lincoln began bucking and thumping, and the Check Engine light lit up.

I’d never had any luck or training with auto repair. The closest I had ever come to working on a vehicle had been in Iraq when I occasionally had to help hold spare armor onto the side of a busted-up gun truck while somebody in the motor pool welded it on. I took the next exit and nursed it into the nearest town. That was Conover, Georgia, county seat of Conover County. I pulled into the first repair shop I saw.

Conover County wasn’t much bigger than Matucket County and was the quintessential feudal shithole. Conover County dated back to the Civil War and was basically owned by the Conover family. For a hundred years the place was run by the mayor of Conover, who was always a member of the Conover family.

Being the boss of Conover County was a nice paying gig. For many years, the way to get stuff done in Conover County was to pay off the mayor with bags of cash. Eventually that got to be a little too bald, so the next system was to require anybody in business in the county, or anybody who wanted to do business in the county, to have to pay for annual permits and such. You want to build a new mill in the county? Great! You just need a building permit and construction permit and land use permit and water use permit and waste regulation permit. Many of these permits needed to be renewed annually, and most of the permit money found its way into the Conover family coffers. The Justice Department put a stop to that back in the 1970s, but that only hid the problem. Since then, the Conovers had retained control through the Conover County Sheriff’s Department.

The current Conover running Conover County was Sheriff George Conover, who was in his late forties. I had met George a couple of years ago at a convention in Atlanta. He had a breezy and folksy style that I could see playing well to the white voters of Conover County, the only ones who counted. Like most southern counties, blacks simply weren’t allowed to vote until the 1960s. After that it was still problematical. Special polling stations were set up in minority areas and then ignored. The ballots were thrown away or destroyed or altered to be useless. Supposedly this had ended, but there continued to be reports of electoral shenanigans. At least once a year the Atlanta Journal-Constitution would run an article or two on the latest crap going on.

Also at the convention was Sheriff Conover’s son, Ronald, who looked to be in his early twenties, and was wearing black tactical SWAT clothing with SWAT badges and patches all over. Ron headed the Conover County SWAT team or was the SWAT team; it wasn’t clear which. In general, Ron struck me as a nervous fucking moron overly impressed by the fancy title his father had bestowed on him. They had spoken to me about a SWAT upgrade package at the convention and something about them just didn’t sit right with me. What did a small sheriff’s department need with a full-blown SWAT patrol? Worse, the kid just wanted to talk hardware and nothing about training or doctrine or procedure; he just wanted to talk about guns and ammo. I never did any follow-up with them.

I pulled into Kennelly’s Towing and Repair and prayed they knew what was wrong with my car, but I wasn’t hopeful. I wasn’t sure the guy I found had even seen a Lincoln built in this century.

“Where’s the nearest Lincoln dealership?” I asked.

The guy scratched his head and said, “I don’t know, but Joe does.” He went inside the shop, and I followed. “Joe! Who’s the nearest Lincoln dealer?”

A guy about ten years older than me came around the corner wearing a set of coveralls with Joe stenciled on a breast pocket. “What’s up?”

“This fellow just came in with a fucked-up Lincoln.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah.” He looked outside and shook his head. “We can’t fix it, but we could haul it up to Eastanollee for you.”

I shrugged and nodded. “Well, that’s what we’ll have to do.”

“You got cash?”

I gave him an odd look. “I’ve got a credit card.”

“Sorry, cash only.” I gave him a look and he held up a hand to stop me. “Hey, don’t blame me. My youngest is our secretary and bookkeeper and she just had a baby last night. She’s the only one who knows how to run the damn machine! My wife will be with us tomorrow, but today we’re shit out of luck.”

“Christ,” I muttered. Then I shrugged and smiled. “Congratulations, grandpa.”

“Thanks. It’s her first, a little girl, and my fourth. Listen, the bank is right down the road. Billy can run you down and you can use the ATM. I can at least give you a handwritten receipt. When you get back, we’ll load you on the flatbed and drive you to Eastanollee.”

I agreed and called Kelly to let her know I was going to be late, very late. The odds were that it would be mid-afternoon at best by the time I got to the dealership, and I’d need to rent a car to come home. Then Billy and I climbed into a wrecker, and he drove me about half a mile into the heart of Conover. I hopped out and went inside. The NationsBank branch was in the middle of the block and the ATM was inside the airlock entrance.

I pulled out my wallet and dug out my card, but when I stuck it in the machine, rather than ask me for my PIN, it beeped and spit the card out. I tried twice more, and the same thing happened. It just wasn’t my day. I went inside and got in line for the tellers. When I got to the front, I explained, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but your machine isn’t reading my card.”

She smiled and said, “Sorry about that. The machine has been doing that all morning. If you give me your card, I’ll be happy to help you.”

“Thank you.” I handed her my card.

That was when everything went to shit!

“EVERYBODY! DOWN ON THE GROUND! DOWN ON THE GROUND! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

The sound of gunfire brought forth an instinctive trained reaction - I dropped flat on the floor! What the fuck? I looked around and found three people in hoodies and masks waving handguns around and firing at the ceiling. One guy was screaming while a second was waving around what looked like a Beretta 9mm. The third person looked like a woman. Both she and the second guy had red eyes under their masks.

The second guy was screaming and yelling for us to get down and the way he and the woman were acting, they didn’t look all that stable. The first guy kicked open the swinging door to get behind the counter and I knew that everything was about to turn to shit. The electronic lock on the door had probably just sent out a silent alarm.

“GET DOWN! GET DOWN! STAY DOWN! WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT? STOP LOOKING AROUND!”

The first guy grabbed a teller and had her start filling a gym bag with money from the drawers, but he wasn’t paying much attention. If the girl had any smarts or guts, she was passing him a dye pack and hitting the silent alarm. He’d have never noticed. I kept my eyes moving as best I could and wondered just when it would get worse. The woman was yelling at the first guy to hurry up and waving her gun, another Beretta, wildly.

As I expected, things began to go to shit. The silent alarm worked, but the response was anything but silent. Almost as soon as everybody else got on the floor a siren could be heard outside. That really set the woman off, who began screaming they had to leave and to get the money and take all of us as hostages. She was jumping around and shaking, as was the second guy who was still yelling at us to get down and stay down. The first guy decided, no, we would need to get up as hostages and started screaming at the woman to shut up. She began waving the gun at him, too.

Another siren could be heard approaching and the three of them began to lose it. The woman was screaming, “WE’LL KILL THEM! WE’LL KILL THEM ALL! LET’S KILL ONE AND SHOW THEM WE’RE SERIOUS!” A third siren was getting closer.

The first guy was screaming at her to shut up and let him think and the second guy was telling the first guy to not talk that way about her. The woman was complaining that this wasn’t supposed to be happening and how she needed something, a drug of some sorts but I didn’t recognize the slang nickname. They were losing it completely. I moved as slowly and quietly as I could, bringing my right hand towards my jacket.

Then it went completely off the rails. The woman fired her gun, and a woman began screaming. I needed to end this. Rolling onto my back my right hand came up and pulled my Glock from my shoulder holster. I stretched out and brought my gun over my head and fired once, hitting the woman center mass. I continued rolling and fired a second time, hitting the second man, the one who was standing in the middle of the lobby waving his gun around and turning towards me. Blood blossomed on his chest, and I twisted away and sat up, to shoot the last guy, who was screaming and grabbing for a teller. I shot him in the face. I looked around to see what was happening, but all three were dead. I rolled face down again and tossed my gun to the side and then stretched out spread-eagle. The local cops were about to barge in, and I didn’t want them to think I was one of the bad guys. Meanwhile, people all around me were screaming and jumping to their feet. I yelled for them to stay down, but it was useless.

Right on schedule, the front door of the bank crashed open, and a police officer burst in. He was dressed all in black and buried under body armor, had a Kevlar helmet on, and was waving around a Heckler & Koch MP5. As soon as he got through the airlock and was in the lobby, he started firing wildly. The guy following him grabbed him a moment later and half the magazine went up into the ceiling, but it was too late. Two people dropped to the floor, blood pouring from their chests. One was a middle-aged guy, and the other was a little old lady. Oh, sweet Jesus, this was a clusterfuck and a half!

“Ronnie! Ronnie! Calm down! Calm down!” The deputy who had come in second had his arms wrapped around the SWAT guy who had just blown away two customers in the bank. “Ronnie! Ronnie!”

The guy in front struggled but he was wrapped up. After a second, he settled down and the guy behind him took the MP5 from him. I looked at them and saw that the SWAT guy was Ronald Conover, the entirety of the Conover County SWAT team. None of the other cops who came in behind him were in SWAT gear. Ronald was looking kind of jerky and agitated, his eyes were red, and his face was flushed. Something was wrong with him.

One of the cops who followed Ronnie in started asking questions and one of the tellers pointed at me. I stayed on the floor as a couple of cops came over to me and cuffed me and lifted me to my feet. “He’s the killer! He’s the killer!” said Ronald Conover.

“Yeah, Ronnie, he’s the guy, he’s the guy,” said the guy behind him. He motioned to the guys holding me and I was dragged out of the bank.

It was surreal to be Mirandized. I had spent ten years giving various bad guys, felons, and other naughty people the standard Miranda warning,” You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions. You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time.”

Now it was my turn. The only thing I said was, “I want a lawyer.”

Five minutes later I was hauled into the sheriff’s department. From Grand Street, Conover’s main drag, the station was a long sprawling pleasant-looking building, but I was taken in the back entrance. From there it was obvious the place was two stories built into the side of a hill. The top story was offices and conference rooms and happy public stuff. The downstairs was only seen by cops and criminals and was a considerably less pleasant location. To the left was a small women’s wing and to the right was the much larger men’s wing; in the center was processing.

The arresting officer was the deputy who followed Ron Conover into the bank and then wrapped him up when Ron began shooting everything in sight. I was processed into the system, with my photo and prints taken, my possessions taken, strip searched, and given an orange jumpsuit. Then I was pulled down a hallway and ignored when I asked to use a bathroom. Instead, I was pushed into an empty cell with a toilet without a seat.

“When do I get my phone call?” I asked.

Deputy Washell, Ronnie’s backup, and my arresting officer, replied, “What phone call?”

“Like you said, I have the right to a lawyer. Do I get to call my lawyer, or do I have to put up with your legal aid lawyer?”

The answer was quick to come. Washell stepped up to me and cuffed my hands behind my back. Then he slammed a haymaker into my stomach, causing me to keel over. “What lawyer?”

“What the fuck?” I gasped.

That earned me another gut punch. “No lawyer, no phone call. You’re going to confess and do it right smart, understand?”

I straightened up and looked at the deputy. “You’re kidding me, right?”

He yelled down the hallway, “Tobe, somebody needs an attitude adjustment!”

A second deputy came down the hallway and into the cell. I began to get a thumping from the two deputies. I tried to protect myself and not act provocative in case there were any cameras, but I doubted they’d try pulling this shit without being sure they weren’t being recorded.

A third deputy came along and yelled at the first two to knock it off. “Get out of here! Knock it off!”

“Go fuck yourself, Warner!” answered Washell.

“You think the Undersheriff is going to put up with this shit?”

“You think he wants to see Ron Conover go down on this?” asked Tobe.

“Ronnie’s going down no matter what! He’s fucked up once too often with this one! Now get out of here!” said Warner.

My tormentors left, but not before slamming my face into the bars of my cell. I could feel my left eye beginning to swell up and my lip began to bleed. I straightened up and turned to face the third deputy. “Thanks. What’s with those two?”

‘They’re buddies of the Sheriff’s son. As long as Ronnie stays out of trouble, so do they.” He came closer and removed my cuffs. Warner looked at my face and said, “You’ll be okay, but you’ll need a few stitches.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a phone. “Here, make your call.”

“Thanks.” I dialed a number from memory, but it wasn’t to the house or to Kelly. Nobody answered but it ended up at voicemail. “Bo, it’s Grim. I’m in the Conover County Sheriff’s Department jail. Call the Feds and get me out of here.” I hung up and handed the phone back. “What’s the plan now? Those two shoot me while I try to escape?”

“Nah. Not that they wouldn’t like to, but that won’t be happening. Sit down and wait for your lawyer to show up.” He pointed me towards the bunk bolted to the floor and locked me in the cell. “How long were you on the job?” I gave him a curious look. “I processed in your belongings and saw the LEOSA card.”

“Ten years in Matucket, mostly on our SWAT team.”

“And you really got the Medal of Honor?”

I smiled. “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...”

“Get some sleep. You aren’t taking a midnight ride. Don’t worry about it.” Warner went back down the hallway.

If I didn’t get shot trying to escape, this was all going to collapse almost immediately. There were five bodies on this mess, which meant that the FBI was going to be all over it, as was the media. If it bleeds, it leads. Even if I hadn’t shot the robbers, bank robberies were a favorite for detectives since there was always a ton of evidence. Banks were filled with good quality video cameras, some with sound, and there were always fingerprints, bullets, fibers, and other physical evidence. Most bank robberies were solved within one or two days. In addition, bank robberies were a federal crime, and even if the locals caught the robbers, it was guaranteed the FBI would stick their noses in at some point. I lay down and went to sleep.

It was late when I woke up. The other inmates were hooting and hollering. I groaned and tried to sit upright but I was stiff and had a medium size dose of agony in my midsection. I couldn’t even sit upright. I twisted around and heard boots marching down the cell block. I turned towards the cell door and saw a group of armed officers dressed in black tactical gear. Then a cell phone came up and flashed and I heard a CLICK as a photo was taken. A voice said, “Oh, shit!” and another flash and CLICK happened. “Okay, get him out of there.”

Another voice said, “Jesus!”

“Christ, we need to get him to the hospital!” said a third voice. “Get an ambulance!”

The cavalry had arrived.

Another photo was taken and my oldest friend, Bo Effner, came into the cell. “Jesus, Grim, you look terrible!”

“What took you so long?”

He laughed and I had a chance to look at my rescuers. They were dressed in FBI tactical black gear, armed and armored, and looked very serious. “Doctor Reaper, you okay?” asked the lead guy.

“Better than I was. Who are you guys?”

“I’m FBI Special Agent Jonathan Blackwood and we’re a Bureau Response Team. Come on, let’s get you outside. You need to see a doctor.”

Bo said, “Come on, Grim. Let’s get you out of here.” He helped me to my feet, and they walked me out of the cell. Suddenly I felt weak, and I stumbled. Bo grabbed me and hugged me. “Come on, Grim. Let’s get you out of here and get you on the phone with Kelly. She’s worried sick.”

“Kelly?” How did she know about this?

“Come on.”

Bo and one of the agents helped me down the cell block to the back entrance, with two agents leading the way and a fourth in the trail position. They did not look amused when they went past the deputies. While waiting for an ambulance, Bo explained what had happened.

“Kelly called me around lunchtime and said she’d been called by a tow truck operator in Conover who said you’d been arrested, and what were they supposed to do with the car? She called the sheriff’s department and they told her they’d never heard of you. Then she saw the news that said there’d been a failed bank robbery in Conover and five people had been killed. Then she called me! I didn’t get your message until hours later. Now, tell me what happened, and we’ll call Kelly.”

“Maybe that can wait until we see Special Agent Delahoye,” said Blackwood.

Bo snorted and laughed. “Special Agent Blackwood, before we ever talk to Irene Delahoye, my client will be talking to me.”

He gave us a wry smile and nodded. “I’ll let her know.”

“Please do. That doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate what you’ve done here, Special Agent Blackwood. I mean that.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

An ambulance showed up and Blackwood and Bo got into it with me. Blackwood ordered two of his team to follow us, and the third was told to find their boss and inform her what was going on. Bo filled me in on what had happened. After hearing from Kelly, he had contacted the Atlanta FBI office and spoke to the Assistant Special Agent In Charge, the ASAIC. She was somebody we both already knew, Irene Delahoye. We had met when the Somali terrorists had tried to kill me and my family five years before. She had grabbed a Response Team and as many spare agents as she could grab and come running.

Five minutes later we were at the hospital and being taken into an examination bay. Bo handed me his cell phone and said, “Call Kelly. She’s worried sick!”

I rolled my eyes and took the phone. Kelly answered on the first ring and immediately said, “Bo, what’s going on?”

“Hey, babe, it’s me, not Bo,” I replied.

“Grim! How are you? Where are you? What’s going on? Grim!”

It was impossible to answer her questions since she was asking them before I could even answer the previous ones. I just concentrated on telling her I was fine and all right. After a bit, Bo took the phone back. “Kelly, it’s Bo. Calm down, you need to calm down ... He’s fine. We have him ... Calm down ... No, you can’t see him tonight.” Then a doctor came in. “Kelly, I’ll call you in a few minutes.” He hung up and tucked the phone away. “I’ll sort this out with her. You need to talk to her.” He indicated the lady doctor.

I went through the standard ‘tell me where it hurts’ routine and had my pulse and blood pressure checked. Then I was sent down to radiology for X-rays and an MRI. Even though Bo stuck with me mostly, Special Agent Blackwood had one of his men follow me everywhere, and I don’t think it was because he didn’t trust me. It was more a matter of protection than anything else. The Response Team was not amused with what they found in the Conover County holding cells.

The result wasn’t terribly surprising. I’d been put through the wringer more than once over the years. I had four cracked ribs which got taped up, and some blood in my urine, though the MRI didn’t show any damage to my kidneys. My split lip got a couple of stitches. My black eye didn’t get any treatment; the swelling and discoloration would diminish on its own.

When Bo came back in he was smiling. “I’ve got your wife under control. She doesn’t like it but she’s staying home tonight. She’ll come up tomorrow with your parents and some clothing. Sam and the kids will go over to your place tomorrow until Kelly’s folks can come by in the afternoon. They’re flying in from New York. I had to swear on a stack of bibles you’d survive until she got here, so don’t die on me tonight.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I replied.

“See that you do. Delahoye’s coming over in a bit. In case you weren’t aware of it, you’re in the middle of the investigation. Either tonight or tomorrow you’ll be asked to give a statement.”

I glanced over at Blackwood, who nodded. He tapped the earbud he was wearing. “Figure about fifteen minutes before she gets here, and yes, we are going to want to have a nice long chat.”

The doctor looked up at that and said, “Better figure on chatting tomorrow. We’re admitting you to the hospital overnight. You need a good night’s sleep.”

I just nodded. I just wanted to go to sleep.