The Art of Making Money - Jason Kersten [107]
And now they made their first mistake: They decided to wait until Monday before serving the search warrant. Why they waited is known only to them, but it’s quite possible that they believed they had plenty of time to establish Art’s location and reel him in. Or they may have thought there’d be even more counterfeit at Senior’s by Monday. And as it is with any bureaucracy, there are always logistical hurdles. To serve the warrant, they needed to coordinate with local agencies, which takes time. Whatever the cause of the delay, two days was a long time to let a couple like Art and Natalie run loose.
That was all the time they needed to unload the rest of their counterfeit. Over the weekend, they hit Anchorage hard, spending the last of their stash on Sunday at the Fifth Avenue Mall—the same shopping center where the Shanigans had been arrested five days earlier. It also gave Art time to call a friend of his in Texas, Will Grant, who owned a ranch in Longview, and obtain permission to use it as a hideout until Art was confident that whatever heat had been generating in Alaska had died down. By Sunday evening, as they packed up their stuff at Chrissy’s and prepared to head for the airport, they had a brick of cash, a solid safe house, and designs for a new bill, which in Art’s world was a winning trifecta.
Just before they left for the airport, to Art’s surprise, Senior’s dually pulled up to Chrissy’s house. He had come to say good-bye.
Art hadn’t talked with his father since their last fight. He was still infuriated at his dad for including outsiders in their plans, and at himself for having introduced the money to Senior in the first place. For his part, Senior finally seemed resigned to the fact that Art was leaving. During the last minutes they spent together in Anchorage, he tried, however late, to patch things up with his son. He told Art that he was sorry that they’d had a falling-out and that things hadn’t gone the way they had planned. Despite everything, he was grateful that Art had visited and given him a second chance. He told Art that he loved him, and fought to leave things on a hopeful note.
“I’d like to come visit soon,” he said. “Call me when you get situated.”
Art felt like that last statement about visiting was bullshit, but he was certain that his dad, as flawed as he was, did love him.
SHORTLY AFTER EIGHT A.M. ON MONDAY, JULY 16, 2001, Special Agent Clark sat in the lead car of a convoy of law enforcement vehicles barreling down the Glenn Highway toward Senior’s house outside of Chickaloon. The knowledge that Senior possessed weapons, not to mention an army of dogs, meant that Clark was taking no chances. Accompanying him were at least twenty men, including a unit from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, and a narcotics unit from the Alaska State Troopers. At Mile 70, the convoy pulled off the highway and rumbled up Senior’s driveway to his doorstep.
One of the ATF agents banged on the front door and shouted, “Police!” then another one bashed it open with a ramming cylinder. Then the snake-chain of agents moved in, screaming at the top of their lungs. The couple made no attempt to resist. Senior fell to the floor, and Anice, still on crutches from her car accident, was already sitting when they entered. Once the ATF team cuffed them and secured the house, Clark read them their rights, served them the warrant, and sat them down in separate rooms while he conducted his search.
In terms of raw hardware for evidence, Clark was not disappointed. In Senior’s coach house he found an HP Deskjet printer, an HP Scanjet