Catch Me If You Can

Epilogue 
Not even the wiliest fox can elude the pack consistently, not if the hounds are
persistent, and where Frank Abagnale was concerned the hounds of the law were not only
persistent, they were exceedingly angry. Insult one policeman and you have insulted all
policemen. Embarrass the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and you have embarrassed
Scotland Yard. Humiliate a traffic cop in Miami and you have humiliated the California
Highway Patrol. Frank Abagnale, for years, had insulted, embarrassed and humiliated
police everywhere with regularity and maddening insouciance. And so police everywhere
sought him day and night, without respite, and as much to vindicate themselves as to serve
justice.
Less than a month after Abagnale evaded capture in Washington, D.C., two New
York City detectives, munching hot dogs in their parked squad car, spotted him as he
walked past the unmarked vehicle and accosted him. Although he denied his identity,
within two hours Abagnale had been positively identified and was given into custody of
FBI agents.
Within weeks, Abagnale was inundated with state and federal complaints charging
forgery, passing worthless checks, swindling, using the mails to defraud, counterfeiting
and similar offenses, leveled by authorities in all fifty states. Various U.S. attorneys and
state prosecutors vied for jurisdiction, each claiming to have the most damaging case or
cases against the prisoner. All the liens against Abagnale had validity. Although the
cleverness and intelligence Abagnale had exhibited in the course of his criminal career
was undisputed, he had been more bold than deceptive, more overt than discreet. A
multitude of witnesses was available to identify Abagnale in one or the other of his roles,
to accuse him in one or the other of his transgressions. Had all the charges against
Abagnale been tossed into the air and one caught at random, the evidence in that case
would have been overwhelming.
Abagnale was not unaware of his predicament and the knowledge caused him undue
mental anguish. He knew he was going to serve time in some state or federal prison,
perhaps several terms in several different prisons. He could not expect any American
prison to be as humane as Malmo Prison. His great fear was that he might be incarcerated
in an American version of Perpignan ’s House of Arrest. His trepidations were not allayed
when an arbitrary decision was made by federal authorities to bring him to trial in Atlanta,
Georgia. More than in any other U.S. city where officials had cause to dislike him,
Abagnale felt he was least popular in Atlanta.
However, he was represented by able counsel, and his lawyer struck a bargain with
the United States Attorney that Abagnale eagerly endorsed.
In April 1971, Frank Abagnale appeared before a federal judge and pleaded guilty
under Rule 20 of the United States Penal Code, a plea that encompassed “all crimes,
known and unknown,” that Abagnale had committed in the continental United States,
whether a violation of state or federal statutes. The presiding judge entered an order of
nolle prosequi
(no prosecution) in all but eight of the hundreds of charges pending against
Abagnale, and sentenced Abagnale to ten years on each of seven counts of fraud, the terms

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to run concurrently, and to two years on one count of escape, the term to be served
consecutively.
Abagnale was ordered to serve his twelve years in the Federal Correctional
Institution in Petersburg, Virginia, where he was taken that same month. He served four
years of his term, working as a clerk in one of the prison industries during those years at a
“salary” of 20¢ per hour. Three times during that period, Abagnale applied for parole and
each time was rejected. “If we do consider you for parole in the future, to what city would
you like to be paroled?” Abagnale was asked at one point during his third appearance.
“I don’t know,” Abagnale confessed. “I would not like it to be New York, since I feel
that would be an unhealthy environment for me, considering past events and
circumstances. I would leave it to the parole authorities’ discretion as to where I should be
paroled.”
Shortly thereafter, and for reasons Abagnale has never attempted to fathom, he was
paroled to Houston, Texas, with orders to report to a U.S. parole officer there within
seventy-two hours of his arrival and, if possible, to find gainful employment within the
same period of time.
Frank Abagnale quickly learned, as do most freed prisoners, that there is a post-
prison penalty society inflicts upon its convicts. For some, this penalty is simply a social
stigma, but for the majority such post-prison punishment comprises much more than just
slurs and slights. The ex-convict seeking employment invariably finds his quest much
more difficult than does the hard-core unemployed, even though he may possess a needed
or wanted skill (often acquired in prison). The employed ex-convict is the first to lose his
job during economic downturns necessitating worker layoffs. Too often, the very fact that
he is an ex-convict is sufficient reason for firing.
Abagnale’s post-release problems were compounded by the fact that the bureaucrat
selected to supervise his parole was hostile and antipathetic. The parole officer bluntly
apprised Abagnale of his feelings toward his ward.
“I didn’t want you here, Abagnale,” the hard-nosed official told him. “You were
forced on me. I don’t like con men, and I want you to know that before we even start our
relationship… I don’t think you’ll last a month before you’re headed back to the joint.
Whatever, you had better understand this. Don’t make a wrong move with me. I want to
see you every week, and when you get a job, I’ll be out to see you regularly. Mess up, and
I’m sure you will, and I’ll personally escort you back to prison.”
Abagnale’s first job was as a waiter, cook and managerial trainee in a pizza parlor
operated by a fast-food chain. He did not inform his employer that he was an ex-convict
when he applied for the job because he wasn’t asked. The job was colorless, unexciting,
and made even less appealing by the periodic visits of Abagnale’s dour parole officer.
Although he was an exemplary worker, and one often entrusted with the banking of
the firm’s cash receipts, Abagnale was fired after six months when company officials,
checking more closely into his background in preparation for naming him a manager of
one of the chain’s shops, learned he was a federal prison parolee. Abagnale within a week
found employment as a grocery stocker with a supermarket chain, but again neglected to
tell his employer that he was an ex-convict. After nine months, Abagnale was promoted to

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night manager of one of the firm’s stores and top management officials began to pay
personal attention to the well-groomed, handsome and personable young man who seemed
so zealously dedicated to company affairs. Obviously he was an executive prospect, and
the firm’s directors commenced to prepare him as such. Abagnale’s grooming as a grocery
guru, however, abruptly ended when a security check disclosed his blighted past and he
again was given the boot.
In ensuing months, the discouraging procedure became repetitively familiar to
Abagnale, and he began to contemplate a return to his former illicit lifestyle, feeling now
that he had a justifiable grudge against the establishment. Abagnale might actually have
returned to his felonious career, as have so many ex-convicts frustrated by similar
situations, save for two fortuitous circumstances. First, he was removed from the
supervision of his antagonistic parole officer and placed in the hands of a more rational,
unbiased steward. And second, Abagnale shortly thereafter took a lengthy and
introspective look at himself, his situation and what the future might or might not hold for
him.
“I was working as a movie projectionist at the time,” Abagnale recalls today. “I was
making good money, but there I was, five nights a week, sitting in this small room, with
nothing to do, really, save to watch the same movie over and over again. I thought to
myself that I was smarter than that, that I was ignoring and wasting real talents that I
possessed.”
Abagnale sought out his parole officer and broached a plan he had formulated in the
lonely projection booth. “I think I have as much knowledge as any man alive concerning
the mechanics of forgery, check swindling, counterfeiting and similar crimes,” Abagnale
told the officer. “I have often felt since I was released from prison that if I directed this
knowledge into the right channels, I think I could help certain people a great deal. For
instance, every time I go to the store and write a check, I see two or three mistakes made
on the part of the clerk or cashier, mistakes that a bum check artist would take advantage
of. I have concluded that it is simply a lack of training, and I know I can teach people who
handle checks or cash vouchers how to protect themselves against fraud and theft.”
With the blessings of his parole officer, Abagnale approached a suburban bank
director, outlined what he had in mind and detailed his background as a master bilker of
banks. “At the moment I have no slide presentations or anything,” said Abagnale. “But I’d
like to give a lecture to your employees for one hour after closing. If you think my lecture
is worthless, you owe me nothing. If you think it is beneficial, you pay me $50 and make a
couple of calls to friends you have in other banks to tell them what you think about my
talk and what I’m doing.”
His first appearance as a “white-collar crime specialist” led to another appearance at
a different bank, and then to another and yet another. Within months Abagnale was in
widespread demand by banks, hotels, airlines and other businesses.
Today, three years later, Frank Abagnale is one of the nation’s most popular crime
authorities, with offices in both Houston and Denver, a highly-trained staff, and gross
revenues approaching $3 million. He still leads a life on the fly, constantly criss-crossing
the nation to present seminars, give lectures or to appear on various television panels.

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Frank Abagnale leads a very satisfying life.
More importantly, he now realizes why he first embarked on a criminal voyage and
why he is not now adrift on that dismal cruise.
“If I did not do what I do today-if I had stayed a pizza cook, a grocery executive or a
movie projectionist-I might very well be back in prison today,” Abagnale muses. “Why?
Because there’s no glamour, no excitement, no adventure and nothing to fulfill my ego in
those vocations.
“What I do today, on the other hand, fulfills all my needs. I get up in front of
thousands of people, and I know they’re listening to what I say. That’s an ego trip. I
appear on dozens of television programs annually. To me, that’s a glamorous life. It’s an
adventuresome life, because I’m constantly being challenged by white collar criminals
who come up with new gimmicks to defraud clients-and I know they’re out to put me
down as much as they are to make a bundle.
“Actually, I haven’t changed. All the needs that made me a criminal are still there. I
have simply found a legal and socially acceptable way to fulfill those needs. I’m still a con
artist. I’m just putting down a positive con these days, as opposed to the negative con I
used in the past. I have simply redirected the talents I’ve always possessed. Today, if I
walked into a crowded room and wanted to impress the people therein, I could impress
them more by saying, ‘I’m Frank Abagnale, the impostor,’ than if I were to be the old
Frank Abagnale, posing as a pilot, a doctor or whatever.”
Frank Abagnale, in reality, is still a bumblebee personality, flying where he isn’t
supposed to fly at all, and making a pot of honey on the side.

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