oh dang y'all, details of big herc's crimes revealed in GQ

[Bobby Wong]

tucked in the middle of this longform piece about a black dude named charly who got shot by the cops, it turns out he was big herc's bank robbing accomplice

https://www.gq.com/story/skid-row-po...charly-keunang

Quote:

Which is how on February 22, 2000, Charly came to be riding shotgun in a little Dodge Neon with a friend named Raja, who'd come to him with a plan as good as a movie?a bank robbery, based on a movie, in fact, Heat, a 1995 thriller starring De Niro and Al Pacino. Squeezed into the backseat, there was a giant, baby-faced man called Big Herc, who was the only working artist among the three?he was a porn star, known for his work in films such as Budonkadunk #8 and Shave Dat Nappy Thang #13. Herc loved the porn game, but he wanted to be high-class like Charly, dapper, a thinking man.

But now, listening to Charly and Raja bicker in the front seat, the eve of the heist, scouting out a Wells Fargo, he was beginning to have doubts. Charly was always telling Herc how much he loved De Niro, but at the moment Charly sounded more like Reservoir Dogs. One of those whiny white bitches with the skinny black ties, always talking, blah, blah, "Like a Virgin," blah, blah.

With Charly it was chocolate he wouldn't shut up about.

"Need it before I can rob a bank," he says.

Raja: "You don't need no fucking chocolate."

"I gotta have my chocolate, man, or else I can't."

The plan had been simple. In, out, nobody hurt, bank's insured. "Victimless crime," they agreed. How else were three black men with no credit going to get a loan? Raja wanted to start a production company. Herc wanted a record label. And Charly, of course, was an actor. They'd launch their careers, and never speak of it again. But now? Charly's afraid, Herc can tell.

"Pull over," Charly says.

"Excuse me?" says Raja. "Not a whole lotta black people here." Three black men in Calabasas, and next day there's a bank robbery? There's your fucking Hershey.

Not Hershey; Godiva.

Raja caved; they stopped at a gas station.

This dude, Herc thinks, is not ready.

February 23, 2000. When they get into the bank, Charly vaults over the counter, shouting in a fake accent that's supposed to sound Middle Eastern. "Open the fucking vault or I'll kill you!" But the teller can't open the vault. Charly doesn't understand. Or maybe he does, and he's just acting? That's what Herc thinks when Charly brings his pistol down on the teller's skull. That's something they do in the movies, he thinks.

An assistant manager opens a safety-deposit box, Charly stuffs $94,000 into a bag, they're off. But they've taken too long. There's a car chase. Thirty miles, their red Navigator alone on the 101, a galaxy of red and blue sirens filling the lanes behind. Spikes in the road. They ditch the car; run. Charly takes off for the beach; he's caught. There's $33,500 stuffed in his underwear. He thanks a deputy for not shooting him. Later, police find two bills they'd overlooked, stuck to his ass. A $10 and a $50.

When the FBI arrives, Charly tells the agent he doesn't want to hurt his friends, but he'll talk. "I have spoiled my life," he says. There is nothing left to lose. "I will tell you everything about me." He tells the agent about France, about university, about coming to America. He tells him about acting lessons. He didn't want to be a criminal, he says. He wanted to be an artist. He'd believed that the bank job?like the fake passport?was the way in. He'd believed it would come naturally. Not the crime; the act. The fact. "To rob a bank," he says, "is just like any acting."

But there's a moment inside, Charly tells the FBI, where he's scanning the lobby and he's got hold of the teller and the gun's in his hand, and he spots, down on the floor, a mother and a baby. "And I remember it was?"

He can't explain, but years later, when he sees Line for the last time, perhaps it is this moment?the mother, the baby, the gun, the blood, the money?that he'll recall when he tells her he's sorry; he failed at America.

Big Herc?today Marcus Timmons, married, a successful businessman?hadn't thought about Charly in years. Then he saw his mug shot on the television. "Homeless Man Killed by LAPD on Skid Row Was Convicted Bank Robber" was the line on KTLA. As if that's all he'd ever been. Herc pleaded out and served eight years, eight months. Charly went to trial. He thought that as an actor, he could finesse the jury. He got fifteen years. He was successful in only one regard. He kept his incarceration secret from his family. He disappeared. This was his consolation. Later, he would tell a friend he tried to kill himself three times. The third time, he'd say, by starvation. He failed at suicide. In 2003, the prison tried to move him to the mental-health unit. Charly refused. In 2005, the prison sought a court order; a "mental disease or defect," read the petition. On Skid Row, he'd tell those he'd trusted that he'd spent close to ten years in an insane asylum.