Amy N Kaplan

It was Christmas Eve 2013 and the branch was busy. There were customers at every desk. We were nearly fully staffed that day; the branch manager, the mortgage broker, the investment banker, one personal banker and two tellers were all working open to close. It was a short day and everyone was in the holiday spirit. One of the tellers had made food for everyone and we were all eating as we worked.

I saw him walk in the door as I entered the secure teller area. He tried to get the attention of the mortgage banker behind the teller line, but she was on a mission to eat homemade tortillas and was walking towards the kitchen in the back. I stepped into my cubicle and welcomed him to the branch, asking how I could help him. He slipped a note to me under the bulletproof glass and sort of smiled. I looked down at the green, glitter pen handwritten note expecting to see a breakdown of how he wanted to make his deposit or who he wanted a cashier’s check made out to. That is not what was on the note. In fact, the note was so poorly written (bad grammar and spelling) that my brain didn’t comprehend what on earth it said at first.

I began to hand the note back to him to ask for clarity. He lifted his sweater, slightly, at the waist and I saw a glint of something shiny. He pushed the note back towards me and I understood. This was a bank robbery. I looked down at the note again. How on earth did I miss this? I was instructed to empty my drawer. The note said not to push the alarm or call the police because he had planted bombs outside the building. It ended with, “It’s a good day to die.”

I suddenly remembered my training. I opened my cash drawer and took out some of the bills… he said, “all of them” and I complied. I pushed his note to the side for the police and stuffed all the cash under the bullet proof glass. Then I waited for what seemed like a lifetime as he picked up the cash and left the building.

I immediately hit the alarm button. I told the other teller at the drive through that we had just been robbed and made my way out to the branch floor to lock the doors. The branch manager stopped me and asked what I was doing. I told him we had just been robbed… he needed to lock the doors. No one in the branch was to leave until the police arrived.

The bank’s security company called my teller station. I confirmed that I had pressed the alarm on purpose and we had, indeed, been robbed. I let them know he was no longer in the building and the doors were now locked. They told me to have the other teller press her alarm. To this day I still do not know why.

Everything became a blur from this point. I was not allowed to touch anything in my teller station. Someone else had to count all the money in my drawers to determine how much had been taken. I was told to sit and not talk to anyone else until the police arrived. I don’t remember the customers leaving the branch. I don’t remember when the district manager arrived. I know that when I left that day the only people in the branch were me, the branch manager, the other teller, my husband and the other teller’s daughter.

I was fingerprinted. The other teller was fingerprinted. The branch manager was fingerprinted. We had all touched things in my teller station that day and our fingerprints had to be ruled out. Everyone kept trying to get me to eat something. I had no appetite.

The detective questioned me about what happened. I asked him when the bomb sniffing dogs were coming. He said they weren’t coming because, “…we know this guy… he doesn’t use bombs… he’s done this before…” Now I was mad. “You know who he is but you’re letting him continue doing this?? I didn’t have to go through all of this today?” The detective told me that what he meant was they knew how he operated, but they didn’t know his name.

My husband arrived at the branch. Apparently the branch manager had called him. I wasn’t allowed to call anyone or talk to anyone. As soon as he walked through the doors the entirety of what had just happened hit me like a ton of bricks. I ran to him and just sobbed. I couldn’t stop crying or shaking. My husband asked the detectives if he could take me home and they agreed.

I don’t remember that Christmas. My memory of that time is fragmented. I remember going bowling with my husband… we were in a league… and completely freaking out because a man wearing a sweater just like the bank robber’s walked past our lane. I no longer felt safe. I saw that man everywhere… or so I thought.

Time passed and I began to get emails from the US Department of Justice. You see, I was a victim of a federal crime. I now knew the name of the man who robbed the bank… they had caught him! I was not required to be there for the trial.

More time passed. I was beginning to “forget” about the whole ordeal. The US Department of Justice let me know that he was being released. My anxiety was through the roof again. My near-pathological locking of doors and windows began again.

And then I got the email that made me sick to my stomach. The US Department of Justice had found the man’s accomplice… and the bombs that had been planted outside several banks… MY bank!! Why hadn’t the detective listened to me?

I don’t read the emails from the US Department of Justice any more. I still get them. I just don’t want to go back there, mentally, any more.

The whole ordeal lasted less than two minutes but the effects have lasted a decade. I still have issues going into a branch… any branch… any bank. I am always scanning my surroundings. I walked out of a Target once because a man pushed a cart into the store filled with boxes and then left.

Will I be able to move on from this? Hopefully. Only time will tell.