Thirty-two

Attila’s trial did not get under way until eight months later, in June 2000. Until then he made only one public appearance, on December 1, 1999, before a military tribunal. He was called to testify in the government’s case against jail guards Károly Benk, János Vajda, and Krisztián Faragó, all accused of aiding Attila’s flight from the Gyorskocsi Street jail. When he took the stand, Attila told the court, “These guards had nothing to do with my escape…. The jail was total chaos. Once I was able to observe this, I realized it was the easiest thing in the world to walk out of that place.”

Vajda and Faragó were found not guilty. But Károly Benk, who was not carrying the required alarm stick that morning—never mind his explanation that not enough of them existed to go around—was sentenced to five months in jail for negligence and was forced to forfeit his job, pension, and benefits.

The newspapers and television networks were sated with Whiskey Robber stories provided exclusively by the police and corrections departments, detailing Attila’s meal schedule and living conditions at the Gyorskocsi Street jail. But little of what was published and broadcast was true. Attila was not even at Gyorskocsi. He was being held across the river in a government building near the Metropolitan Court, in a special all-glass cage built five years earlier for the country’s most notorious serial killer, Magda Marinkó, a convicted butcher of four. In order to reach Attila’s new residence, one had to pass like Maxwell Smart through thirteen steel doors, none of which would open until the previous one was sealed.

Despite his hermetically sealed existence, Attila’s first couple of months of captivity were somewhat of a relief. He was mentally exhausted from his 109 days on the lam. But slowly his severe new environment became oppressive. He could not see out of his cell; the glass on all sides was a one-way mirror. A video camera and bright light shone on him twenty-four hours a day. He showered and ate all of his meals in the cell and was only occasionally permitted up to an hour of exercise in a small interior corridor. He passed the time by starting to write another book, picking up his story from his escape and detailing his three subsequent robberies, for which he had signed confessions. Often he had no idea what time or day it was.

News of his capture had made headlines from Berlin to Perth and publications such as Time and Foreign Policy. But the only time Attila himself appeared in the media—even inside Hungary—was during an interview with the Hungarian television network TV2, which paid George Magyar an undisclosed sum for exclusive access. Seated in an unidentifiable white room in handcuffs and wearing a black shirt and silver tie (sent to him by Éva), Attila appeared at turns resigned, pensive, and angry. Asked about the conditions of his confinement, he said that he had almost suffocated to death recently when his cell filled with steam because the guards wouldn’t turn off his hot water after a shower. After the TV2 piece aired, the national prison commander banned all further media access to Attila, citing security reasons.

In Attila’s absence, Magyar began making media appearances on his client’s behalf, with questionable benefit. Attila’s lawyer was already under investigation by the Budapest Chamber of Lawyers, the local bar association, for possible ethics violations stemming from his hand-delivering Attila’s homemade T-shirt to the police while Attila was still at large. And worse for Attila, Magyar’s new round of declarations that Attila’s confession was illegally extracted undermined his client’s most dearly held and publicly resonant virtue, his honesty.

Attila, who had a small television in his cell and Éva and Zsuzsa working as his personal newspaper-delivery service, cringed every time he saw Magyar’s melodramatic promise to appeal any conviction “straight to Strasbourg.” He thought about firing Magyar but didn’t know where else he would turn with his court date looming. Meanwhile, the media slowly began to turn against Attila, asserting that his story was pure myth concocted by a greedy, opportunistic lawyer who represented a new breed of unscrupulous American-style “star attorneys,” or sztar ugyved. Some Hungarians began blaming the Whiskey Robber’s undue popularity on an amoral media, prompting several soul-searching articles in the newspapers. There was a clear sense of shame emerging that, however it had happened, the country had participated in making a criminal out to be one of the first modern international symbols of its culture.

Sealed up inside the serial killer’s cell, Attila came to believe that his support had disappeared entirely, which was certainly not the case. For months after his arrest, a small shrine of whiskey bottles and roses sat on the sidewalk in front of Domonkos’s apartment building, the street-level wall of which bore the spray-painted sign: viszkis: 29; bm: 2, as if it were a final score for the ages. At the Vidám Theater downtown, yet another production featuring the Whiskey Robber opened, titled Everyone Must Resign. It starred Zsuzsa Csala, the most prominent of Attila’s supporters, playing the part of a bank teller dreaming of being robbed by “you superprince, Whiskey Robber.” Throughout the show’s sold-out run, from the fall of 1999 through the winter of 2000, Csala did not make it through a performance without having to pause during her big musical number to let the applause subside. And when a popular pro soccer coach was fired from the Hungarian ZTE team, supporters gathered at the team’s offices to protest, at one point reflexively breaking into a chant of “Attila Ambrus! Attila Ambrus!” In the hearts of many of his countrymen, the Whiskey Robber was alive and well.

The prosecution ultimately charged Attila with sixty-five different counts of robbery (several of which were for taking guns from guards); “several” counts of attempted murder, for the occurrences at Heltai Square, as well as at the final OTP robbery in which Attila had tried to shoot his way out the front door; and “thirty to forty” counts of “violations of personal freedom,” for holding people against their will. The total tab of the stolen money was 196 million forints, or approximately $840,000.

To Magyar’s growing frustration, Attila refused to recant, or even repudiate, his confession. There would be no argument over the charges for the twenty-nine actual incidents of robbery Attila committed, nor the single failed attempt.

For the purposes of the trial, the prosecutor’s office had combined Attila’s case with those against Gabi, János, Domonkos, and Karcsi. The only member of the band not represented at the prodigious Hapsburgera Budapest Metropolitan Courthouse was Attila’s cousin and first accomplice, László Veres, who had successfully remained hidden inside his small home in remote Fitód.

The proceedings began in the first week of June 2000 and continued every Tuesday and Thursday beginning at 8:00 a.m. and followed the same routine: The four lesser known bandits were led in through a door on the right of the cavernous frescoed chamber and lined up shoulder to shoulder in the proscenium facing the long, dark oak bench. George Magyar and a gaggle of defense lawyers in long black robes streamed into a box on the right, while across the way in the opposite set of benches, prosecutor Ferenc Hoffer sauntered in, followed by an assistant carrying an overstuffed carton of papers. Then came Judge Magdolna Németh, the unflappable blond-haired, bespectacled woman who would decide the fate of the accused. When everyone was settled into place, a member of the Hungarian National Guard posted at the right-side door relayed word through a mouthpiece to a squadron of police, who sealed the small street outside that was lined with government office buildings. A few minutes later the oversize wooden door creaked open and in they came—one, two, three, four, five commandos preceding the Whiskey Robber into the room, two of them wearing ear-pieces and one leading Attila by a thick nylon leash that was latched to a metal belt around his waist.

Attila dressed in fashionable dark silk shirts, ties, and vests sent to him by Éva. But his famously handsome face was almost totally obscured by a dark, tufty Rasputinesque beard that he’d begun to grow in the spring to the consternation of the police who worried that it was part of another elaborate escape plot.

On most days the public balcony—set high above the action like an opera-house mezzanine—did not fill up. Éva, Zsuzsa, and a collection of hair-sprayed ex-romantic acquaintances eyeing one another made regular appearances, as did Gabi’s mother and father.

Though not a jury trial, the proceedings gave the impression at times that the lawyers thought it was. Both Magyar and the prosecutor delivered countless grandstanding soliloquies invoking everyone from Bertolt Brecht (Magyar: “What is the founding of a bank compared to a bank robbery?”) to Napoleon to Shakespeare. The defendants watched the action unfold under their noses from their seats in a long row of antique tall-backed chairs spread out across the front of the room. Only Attila and Gabi were handcuffed. Often, to the alarm of the two guards who shadowed his every move, Attila leapt from his seat to quibble with even the most irrelevant of details. On June 14 a doctor took the stand and testified that tests showed that Attila’s liver was enlarged by “three fingers,” a sure sign, the doctor said, that Attila was an alcoholic. Perhaps oversensitive to the charge because of his father, Attila hopped to his feet and shouted, “I would like to categorically deny that I’m an alcoholic. If I was an alcoholic, how would I have been able to play in the first division professional hockey league?” Another time Attila argued over a discrepancy of a few thousand forints at one robbery, saying he knew exactly how much he took each time and was not going to be responsible for the employees who used the opportunity to pinch something for themselves.

In contrast, when Gabi took the stand, he could just as easily have been sitting on a barstool. “The whole situation was ridiculous,” he told the court at one point. “Sometimes during a robbery we just looked at each other and almost started laughing.”

A couple of months into the trial, the prosecutor stopped calling bank employees to the stand. At least seven women from various banks testified in support of Attila’s versions of events. On June 14 the chief teller at the Fehérvári Street OTP—the target of Attila and Gabi’s first job together—had firmly rebuffed the prosecutor’s suggestion that Attila behaved violently. “He did not commit any violence,” she stated. “He didn’t push anyone into any closet. I walked in, but he did not push me.”

The prosecutor also had had a feisty exchange with a woman from the Kemenes Street post office robbery, where Attila had brought the roses. After she stated that Attila had not been aggressive with the employees, the prosecutor responded: “But he stepped on your shoulder.”

“It must have been an accident,” she replied.

Only two women said they suffered any injuries, though minor. One of them, from Attila’s only unsuccessful robbery, at Nyugati train station in 1993, dubiously claimed she had to undergo plastic surgery after Attila pulled her by the hair when she started screaming. When she stated her version of events, the guards had to restrain Attila as he bolted out of his chair, shouting in his defense.

All of that was insignificant, however, compared to the question of the attempted murder charges. Those that stemmed from Attila’s final robbery at the huge lli Street OTP Bank seemed unlikely to stick, as a police investigator confirmed to the court that all ten shots fired from inside the OTP had hit the lock on the bank’s front door. The charges related to the Heltai Square robbery, however, took several weeks to present. Eight shots were fired from Attila’s gun, according to a ballistics expert who testified, and they landed all over the place. One of the shots, the expert said, ricocheted off a car and went through a window of a second-floor apartment off the street, potentially wounding inhabitants there. Attila, not surprisingly, took issue with the expert’s logic, declaring to the court, “I don’t question that [the ballistics expert] learned his trade from the books, but if a bullet ricochets, it has a completely different effect if it goes off a Swedish car than if it goes off a socialist-made car.”

In the end, much of the debate would come down to the testimony of officer Ferenc Laczik, the prosecution’s ace in the hole, who had given a deposition to Bérdi before Attila’s escape, saying that the perpetrator of the Heltai Square robbery had fired a targeted shot at him as he ran from the scene of the crime. But Ferenc, who had earlier fingered both Szcs brothers as the primary perpetrators of the March 1998 robbery, would not deliver for the prosecution. After Laczik listened on the witness stand to a reading of Attila’s version of the chase, he testified, “Actually, it’s true what the perpetrator said. It was not a targeted shot because he did not stop and aim toward me. He was trying to run away. I never said he was trying to shoot me.”

On December 14, after six months of testimony and seventy-one witnesses, all that was left was the verdict and the sentencing, which would be delivered together.

The occasion, nearly eight years after Attila’s first robbery, brought the media back out in full force. Cameras were planted on the corners of the balcony gallery, and reporters with their notebooks hogged the front rows. Even if Attila’s popularity was not what it had been at its peak, his story had remained, more than a year after his recapture, a heavily politicized issue, frequently cited as a symbol of the injustice and hypocrisy plaguing modern Hungary. Two weeks before the sentencing hearing, an independent-party member of Parliament, Lukács Szabó, addressed the prime minister in a televised, open session, demanding, “By what law was the Whiskey Robber put in a prison while another bank robber is sitting here in Parliament?… Mr. Prime Minister, is it true that you have made a pact with certain circles that, whatever happens, [Interior Minister] Sándor Pintér will stay?”

At 8:30 a.m. Judge Németh entered the chamber, where Éva, Zsuzsa, the figure skater Virág, and Gabi’s parents were all anxiously waiting, as were József Keszthelyi and Valter Fülöp. After rearresting Attila the previous October, they had both received well-publicized promotions, along with seventy other members of the police department (some of them secretaries), from Interior Minister Pintér.

The judge began the proceedings by asking each of the defendants if he had any final words to say. Neither Domonkos nor János had anything to add. Attila’s former teammate and accomplice, Karcsi, stood and offered a brief statement: “I regret what I’ve done,” he said. “I believe I’ll never do this again. Thank you.”

Gabi also wanted to speak. “Honorable Court,” he said. “I have committed crimes. I feel guilty. I think that during the two years I have spent in a high-security-type initial imprisonment, I have regretted what I have done. I’m only asking for the consideration of one fact: that nobody was ever harmed.”

When it was Attila’s turn, he and his two bodyguards stood. A week earlier, in his closing argument, Magyar had done his best to portray Attila as a little guy who became a victim of an unfair system. “Attila left his homeland because he saw no chance to realize his dreams,” Magyar had said. “But in Hungary he had to face that the only thing that counts is how much money one has.” It was a sympathetic argument, but Attila wanted to say his own piece. For the next thirty minutes, standing and facing the judge, hands cuffed in front of his waist, he spoke from memory.

“Honorable Court,” he began as cameras began to click and flash at his back. “I’m in a very difficult position. I have tried to bring up reasons that ease my situation, but frankly speaking, it’s very difficult. For a guy who has so many crimes on his account, it’s futile to say anything. But everyone has had his chance to tell his stories. I would like to mention one of mine.

“Two and a half thousand years ago, a man called Socrates was put on trial. According to the legend—or at least as I understand the legend—the charge was only that his teachings did not correspond to the expectations of Athens at that time. Thus, he was defying the gods of Athens.

“The court was about to ask the death sentence for him, according to the political practice of the era. However, if Socrates would accept that he was a sinner, he would have a chance to ask for exile instead. Socrates declined that option and instead chose a glass of poison rather than giving up anything from his ideology or his principles.

“It has occurred to me that one doesn’t have to be a Socrates to be faithful to his own principles and his own sense of justice,” Attila continued. “I’d like to emphasize that I do not question that I’m a sinner and I have confessed many things. I can only blame myself for being here. And I must say that I understand those people who think about me in the way that they do. Because it’s not a pleasant feeling to be unloved somewhere, to lie alone on the ground. So I apologize to the extreme to those whom I put in embarrassing and uncomfortable situations, because I know how one feels when one has to face a gun.”

Other than Attila’s voice, not a sound was audible in the courtroom.

“And I truly regret one more thing,” he continued, speaking to the judge. “You probably remember that during the summer, I had an argument with two ladies here and I really feel ashamed because they were right. I believe that they did rightly what they had to do.

“But the prosecutor says he’s the servant of law,” he continued, without looking to his left, where the government’s lawyer was fixed in an imperious glare. “I would translate it rather that he’s a mercenary of power. I have not received any human approach from the prosecution. They kept kicking me. Maybe that is the fashion at their place, I don’t know. I’ve taken so many hits in the last year, I now know the difference between punishment and revenge.

“I’m sorry about extending my speech for this, but my point is that I don’t believe I’m going to receive any fair treatment from the prosecutor and I cannot expect it in the future….

“Other people who have taken billions—I’m afraid that they don’t deal with those guys,” he said, in an obvious reference to Márta Tocsik and the billionaire Postabank embezzler Gábor Princz, neither of whom had been convicted of committing any crime. “They just catch the little mouse, like myself. We can be nailed down….

“Excuse me for saying this, but Mr. Prosecutor has chosen the wrong profession. Someone who is so close to Shakespeare and loves his words so much would certainly be welcome in any theater group. But it’s a bit regretful he’s wasting his words here on fairy tales. I’m not blaming him for being multitalented. I can only give grandiosely appreciative remarks about his performance. So if the honorable court would allow me, I would like to surprise Mr. Prosecutor with a gift because I believe at some point, he’s going to get promoted, too. Last February I received a bottle of whiskey from Lázsló Juszt,” Attila continued as the courtroom began to titter at the recollection of the famous Kriminális moment, “and I believe that Mr. Prosecutor will not mind having it when his promotion ceremony takes place.”

The room burst into laughter.

“And,” Attila continued over the din, “I’d like to request that the OTP not make claims on this bottle because this was not purchased with the robbed money.”

Even the judge seemed to be forcing herself not to smile as she gazed down upon the defendant through gold-rimmed reading glasses perched near the tip of her nose. Attila went on. “It sounds commonplace, but the people presented here are the victims of conditions,” he said, nodding to the row of defendants to his left. “If anyone could be blamed in this whole circus show, it’s only me. I have brought them into the forest. They did what they did because of my influence. This is the least I should say for them, because I’m deeply convinced if they never met me, they wouldn’t be sitting here now. I was the reason for everything. And I’m asking you to please take this into consideration in your judgment. These people are not really criminals.

“Plus I’d like to ask the honorable court, regarding suspects four and five [ János and Domonkos] because they have families, please be lenient with them. Because I truly believe that they only intended to help a man who was in trouble.

“I don’t know how long I’ll live,” he continued. “I know nothing. I don’t really want to deal with the future. But I know one thing: if I receive a lenient sentence, I will do everything I can to return to society in some way. I’d like to say that I have retired my business card. I’ve had enough of the circus.”

Attila paused. “And last but not least, I would like to apologize for my terrorist-like appearance,” he said, calling attention to his long beard. “I am treated like a terrorist, so I don’t want to disillusion my captors. Thank you very much for the chance to speak and for listening to me.”

Attila sat back down. For several seconds the room was silent. The judge cleared her throat and called for a one-hour recess, after which she would hand down the verdicts.

When the assemblage gathered again, Judge Németh began to deliver her findings.

Károly “Karcsi” Antal: “Guilty of robbery of an especially large amount, armed, and as an accomplice.” Sentenced to two and a half years.

Domokos Kovács: “Guilty of aiding and abetting.” Sentenced to ten months of “light imprisonment” and two years’ probation.

János Kovács: “Guilty of aiding and abetting.” Sentenced to ten months of “light imprisonment” and three years’ probation.

Gábor Orbán: “Guilty of thirteen serious armed robberies.” Sentenced to eight years in a medium-security prison.

Then Judge Németh turned to the primary defendant. “Regarding Attila Ambrus, many things were taken into account,” she said. Because of what she called “contradictory evidence,” she was discarding the attempted murder charges. But her verdict, she said, was based in part on the fact that Attila was responsible for an increase in bank robberies “that has swept this country in these times.” Calling his robberies “one continuous act based on a single decision,” she sentenced Attila to “fifteen years in a maximum-security prison.”

The cameramen spun around to get the courtroom reaction. Zsuzsa Hamer pierced the silence first with a loud gasp followed by violent sobs. A few people clapped; others blew their noses into tissues. Éva sat silently in her third-row seat, shaking her head. She didn’t know if Attila would be able to tolerate such a long incarceration. Up in the last row, Keszthelyi and Fülöp stood smirking. Though murderers in Hungary were often sentenced to less than fifteen years, Keszthelyi complained to the press after the hearing that Attila’s sentence was too short.

Attila stood and was led out of the courtroom. As he exited, several reporters shouted questions at him—Was it worth it? one asked—but he did not look up at the gallery.