Forced to rob a bank
Michelle and Breea now
Monday 10th September 2007
As a bank manager, it's the thing you live in fear of every day. That robbers will target you. And I must have looked like the perfect target. A manager for a branch of Bank Of America in Vista, California, I lived alone with my 7-year-old daughter, Breea.
A single mum, a bank manager with the keys to a vault containing hundreds of thousands of dollars… and right now, a woman staring down the barrel of a gun.
One minute, Breea and I had been playing on her Game Boy, the next, the front door came crashing down and three men wearing balaclavas burst in. Before I could scream, one of them shoved the cold metal nozzle of a gun into my cheek.
'Do as we say or we'll kill your daughter,' he ordered.
It was 7.20pm. Seconds later, another of the men grabbed Breea and roughly tied her hands and feet with tape. He was jittery. His hands shook as he slapped tape over her mouth.
'No!' I screamed as Breea's eyes bulged in horror. 'Don't hurt her.'
The man dug the gun in harder.
'We know you're the bank manager,' he snarled. 'We've been following you for weeks. If you do as we say, you'll survive.'
Following me? I hadn't noticed anyone suspicious. These guys must be professionals.
'What do you want?' I trembled.
'You're going to clear out the bank vault,' he said calmly. 'We want $800,000.'
Suddenly, I felt the biggest urge to go to the loo.
'I need the toilet,' I whimpered.
'I'm coming with you,' he snapped, shoving the gun into my back.
Talk about humiliating. As I pulled down my pants, he fixed his watery grey eyes on me.
And then it came to me in a flash. I'd seen those eyes before. My mind went to earlier that day, when I'd had an appointment with a man to talk about investments. He'd had bulging, watery eyes, and made me feel uncomfortable.
'Your daughter's very pretty,' he'd said, nodding at a photo of Breea.
'Thanks,' I'd said, forcing a smile.
It was the same man from earlier.
As I stumbled back into the living room, I gasped. The men had pulled out an arsenal of weapons. Handguns, spears and — oh God, what was that? Sticks of dynamite! Breea whimpered in fear.
'Sit down,' ordered the gunman. 'It's a long wait until morning.'
Our attackers made themselves at home, raiding the cupboards. As the gunman stuffed crisps in his mouth, I stared at him in disgust. His two cronies put on Breea's Snoop Dogg CD and started laughing as if they were at a house party, not a kidnap.
As soon as the clock ticked to 7.30am, the mood in the room changed.
'Get up,' he snapped. His accomplices sprang to attention.
'You're going to carry these,' he said, handing me the sticks of dynamite. 'And I'm keeping this. It's the detonator. If you don't do as we say, we'll blow you both up.'
They wound the dynamite tightly round my stomach with duct tape, then did the same to Breea.
Seconds later, they shoved Breea into the coat cupboard.
'You have 10 minutes to say goodbye,' the gunman sneered. 'You'll never see her again if you mess this up.'
It was 8.15am.
'Drive to work,' snarled the gunman. 'Get inside and steal as much as possible. I'll wait here.'
I drove as fast as I could. Then I walked, shaking, into the bank, the dynamite pressing on my chest under my shirt.
'Morning,' smiled my colleague, Maria, behind the cashiers' desk.
I tried to smile, but my mouth was so tight, it wouldn't move.
'Are you OK?' she asked.
I had to have a colleague with me to get inside the vault.
'Maria,' I said. 'Come with me.'
Shaking, I opened the vault door. I'd been given just five minutes.
'Is everything all right?' asked Maria again, looking at the sweat wetting my hair.
'No,' I whispered. I lifted up my blouse to show the dynamite.
Maria's eyes were like saucers.
'Oh God!' she gasped.
With lightning speed, I grabbed handfuls of notes. Sweat dripped from my forehead as I grabbed pile after pile. It was one of the biggest robberies Vista had ever seen — and the bank manager was doing it. But I had to stay calm. Our lives depended on it.
Without looking anyone in the eye, I rushed out of the building and up to the gunman's car. He looked delighted as I thrust the bag into his hand.
'Walk down the road and your car will be waiting,' he said, speeding off.
I didn't need telling twice.
Soon, I reached my car. My hands were sweating so much, I could barely grip the steering wheel. Back home, I flung open the front door. Breea was crying, but her dynamite had been taken off. I frantically ripped open my shirt and started peeling mine off. And that's when I realised. They weren't sticks of dynamite, but broom handles painted red and covered in wires.
But it didn't matter. We were safe. I grabbed Breea and we ran straight round to a neighbour's house and called the police. Minutes later, the FBI arrived.
'Why did you steal the money?' an officer demanded.
'I was forced to do it,' I babbled.
But the questions didn't stop. They thought I was a suspect. After everything, this was the final straw.
Finally, a few days later, I got a phone call…
'We've caught the ringleader,' said a police officer. 'A 28-year-old man named Christopher Butler. And we've arrested another man, Christopher Huggins, who's also 28.'
A third man, Robert Ortiz, 28, was on the run. I almost passed out with relief. It was finally over.
After a few weeks, my boss at the bank was keen I got back to work. But Breea was horrified.
'Don't do it, Mummy,' she begged.
I agreed. I was still living in fear. This had changed our lives for good. So I packed up our things and drove us all the way to Alaska to live with Breea's gran, Judy.
'We're not going back,' I vowed.
In April 2003, I had to give evidence at the men's trials. They were charged with kidnapping and the robbery of $360,000. I was petrified as I gave evidence behind a screen. But when Butler was sentenced to two life sentences, plus 52 years prison, I'd have done anything to see his face.
Huggins and Ortiz — who'd been caught after appearing on TV show America's Most Wanted — both got three life sentences, plus 32 years. After all the trauma, I was determined to move on.
Now, four years later, I run the Violent Trauma Awareness Project. I give speeches and talk about the moment where I had minutes to say goodbye to my child. It was a horrifying ordeal, but I got through it. And after what must go down as the worst day ever at work, nothing will ever faze me again.
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