After posting bail, I got to talk it over with a lawyer:

"If you're found guilty, you're looking at 25 years," he said.

"I didn't do it," I said. "I noticed the discrepancy. I actually mentioned it to the accountants, but they assumed it was all ordered previous to my tenure ..."

"This was ordered on your account," he said. "You're very much their number-one suspect. You could beat it, but you should still prepare yourself to be behind bars for six months or more while we await proper trial and discovery. Your choice right now is whether to go to trial and get a big sentence or let me cut a deal that gives you a small sentence."

I ended up choosing a third option.

Still, I had everything I needed to function as a completely different person. It would have been more than enough to let me lie low ...

They got me on camera, of course, and my face would appear in news reports. But in three minutes, I had crossed the state line. How often do you hear of reports about robberies in places other than your home state? Especially nonviolent, non-serial robberies? Essentially never, and that's what I was counting on. I later ditched the rental car and left the haul -- about $6,000 -- in it. Exactly as my suicide note said I would. So far, so good.

As winter came, I thought of going to Mexico. You've seen criminals talk about this in movies, acting like Mexico is some kind of lawless land into which anyone can disappear. The reality is that their extradition is as strong as any U.S. state. I'd be just as likely to get apprehended there. The decision was purely about money -- cost of living is much lower, and my Mechanical Turk paychecks would stretch further. I jumped on a Greyhound and headed south, then walked across the international bridge and over the Rio Grande. They didn't even check my ID. Maybe people don't get as worked up about immigration heading that direction.

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Turns out when you're not a political football, cross-border tourism is sort of encouraged.

Even for a temporary visit, you're supposed to get a "tourist card," but those rules relax within a few miles of the border, such as in Juarez, where I stayed. And in Mexico, money talks. When an officer found some cocaine on me, 200 pesos (about $10) was enough to settle that problem. The following day, I saw a man working transit, a sign on his motorcycle reading no se acceptan morditas -- "we don't accept bribes." If a country has to mandate a sign that says they don't accept bribes, they fucking accept bribes.

With my fake ID, it's entirely possible I could have walked right up to the official border crossing. I was, after all, a citizen, and what's suspicious about a citizen trying to get back home? But what if they sensed something was wrong and ran the ID? I couldn't risk it. It had to be a "non-official" crossing.

Through a mutual friend, I met a guide who assisted people with this sort of thing. We met up in a bar. I had a heavy backpack filled with my laptops, clothes, my entire life. His was filled with rope. For reference, here's what the border crossing looks like -- this is from the American (El Paso) side, but you get the idea:

"I'm going to tie this around your underarms," he said. "You shimmy up that light pole onto the top of the pedestrian bridge. Then, once you're up, you jump down on the fence blocking the pedestrian sidewalk. On the count of three, you jump over the wire sensors for jumpers, and then you're good."

"Holy shit," I said. "No. No no no no no." There had to be another way.

There was, for a price, but for now, this was what he had for me.

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Of course, judging by the first option, "another way" may well have been "We get a catapult and fling your ass into Texas."

Border patrol agents were parked overlooking the bridge, so we waited five hours for a train to roll by and block their view. In broad daylight, as hundreds of people walked by me every minute, I put a rope around my chest and stood on my guy's shoulders, climbing a light pole. I could hear border patrol shouting from the checkpoint, "WE HAVE A JUMPER." They'd seen me. Of course they had. I jumped off the other side.

"Why are you running?" shouted the agent to the white, American-looking man before him. I babbled something about dropping my girlfriend at the bus stop, and that I was running because I was already late for a meeting. "Do you have ID?" he said. I offered him my real ID, because I wasn't about to get hemmed up on counterfeit ID and, who knows, possible terrorism charges.

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It was bad enough that I was going to lose my deposit on the rope.

My heart sinking, I gave one last-ditch effort. I said, "For Pete's sake, I was born in [name of specific city and county], which is where I graduated high school! Do you believe I'm not a citizen?" I figured only a true American would be a total asshole to a border cop. "Every fucking time I'm running somewhere in this goddamned town, you guys swing up behind me like I'm some kind of criminal. I fought in the Army, for God's sake!" (This was true -- I produced the credentials).

A supervisor rolled up. I tapped on my phone and claimed to be recording what was going on. After a bit, the supervisor looked me up and down and said the words I longed to hear: "You're free to go." I received my ID, pocketed my things, and then feigned a phone call: "I know I'm late, I know. I'm sorry. Did you not hear the sirens? That was for me. Apparently, I look Mexican." Then I disappeared around the corner and broke into another run.

This spring, I even filed my taxes, under my real name. Months had passed since that bank robbery madness, I'd become less optimistic about being invulnerable, and figured I didn't want one more charge on me for tax evasion. But no one pursued those leads, apparently. Nor did they investigate the last people I was seen with on the night of my disappearance -- both of whom had the number for one of my burner phones.

Maybe they didn't care, or maybe they realized that in most cases, they can simply sit tight and wait for the fugitive to pop up again. How many people can permanently scrap everything they love -- their family, friends, career, hometown -- at a moment's notice? My original plan to reunite with my family and somehow make it work was ridiculous in retrospect.

Oh yeah, about that. I tried calling my wife once I was back in the country. She'd changed her number. She didn't reply to my emails. I see online that she filed for divorce and sold the house.

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Suddenly, that six months awaiting trial doesn't seem quite as bad.

Sometimes, I think I'll offer to turn myself in, attempt a plea deal. Then try to see my son after he turns 18. Or maybe I'll end up heading back to Mexico or a Central American nation. It's cheaper, and I've got nothing worth staying here for. The man I was died a little more than a year ago. Even if I were to use my own name again, it doesn't feel right. I'm not who I was, or who I ever aspired to be.

So yeah, probably better to go ahead and take your chances at trial, kids.

Ryan Menezes is an editor and interviewer here at Cracked. Follow him on Twitter for bits cut from this article and other stuff no one should see. Identifying details in this story have been altered to protect the source's privacy.

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