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Sandy Jenkins was an accountant at Collin Street Bakery who committed suice behind bars while serving his ten-year sentence. Stay with us to learn more about the scam.
Sandy Jenkins was a suave, gentle, and by all accounts a completely forgotten accountant who worked for years at the legendary Collin Street Bakery in Corsicana, Texas.
He h a major scam behind his clemency and stole around $17 million from the establishment where he worked. He went unnoticed for over a decade, starting out as a petty money thief, but he raised the bar and was writing himself huge checks in no time.
Let’s learn more about Sandy Jenkins and take a closer look at his suice and obituary.
Who Is Sandy Jenkins & Why D He Suice? Obituary
Sandy Jenkins was a former accountant at Collin Street Bakery in Corsicana, Texas.
He is known for his scams of over $17 million over the course of a decade that went unnoticed due to his excellent track coverage.
According to Grunge, while he was at work, he was dreaming of owning his own funeral home and driving a flashy new Lexus when criminal inspiration took hold.
He was caught in 2013 and immediately fired from his job, but losing his job was the least of his problems. He was arrested and sentenced to ten years in prison for his crimes.
But Jenkins never completed his sentence when he killed himself behind bars in 2019, according to DMagazine. However, the cause of his suice and his motive have not yet surfaced, he was pronounced dead on March 15, 2021 by Fort Worth Medical Center, a low-security prison hospital.
Sandy may have killed himself due to the humiliation he endured after his crime was made public. However, not much has surfaced about the subject yet.
Fruitcake Fraud, a new documentary based on the story of couple Sandy and Kay Jenkins who embezzled $16.7 million from the world famous Corsica-based Collin Street Bakery, opens on Wednesday December 1st streamed from the Discovery+ app. https://t.co/xLfJSyeTqs
— Corsicana Daily Sun (@TheDailySun) November 10, 2021
Collin Street Bakery Fruit Cake Fraud Documentary Explored
The famous Collin Street Bakery scam was made into a documentary called Fruit Cake Fraud.
Fruitcake Fraud, a reopening of the major corruption investigation that consumed the bakery while tearing the fabric of the Navarro County town of some 25,000, benefited from the documentary maker’s outse perspective.
The 90-minute documentary “Fruitcake Fraud” follows the disappearance of $17 million from a small-town bakery known for shipping Christmas treats around the world.
It turns out that a bakery husband-and-wife team dipped their hands in the cookie jar and spent lavishly on vehicles, vacations and a $1.2 million shopping spree at Neiman Marcus in NorthPark.
@joelkeller Just read your article on “Fruitcake Fraud” and FYI, Sandy Jenkin’s wife is Kaye, not Faye. I knew her from Corsica.
— SUZANNE FLUKER (@FlukerSuzanne) December 7, 2021
Sandy Jenkins Wife And Family Explored
Sandy Jenkins was married to his wife Kay Jenkins.
She was also a key figure in helping Jenkins overcome his longtime scam. She also received a five-year suspended sentence, was ordered to do 100 hours of community service and apologized to the bakery, according to NBCDFW.
However, not much has surfaced about his family yet.
Who caught Sandy Jenkins?
Corsicana Police began an investigation into the suspected fraud, and turned the case over to the FBI. Federal agents searched the Jenkins home on West Third Avenue, seizing boxes and boxes of evidence and two luxury cars from the property, before taking Sandy Jenkins into custody August 2013.
Is Collin Street Bakery still in business?
Deeply connected to each other, they passed away within a year of one another. However, the management of Collin Street Bakery transitioned smoothly into experienced hands, remaining a family-owned and -operated business ever since.
Where can I watch the movie fruitcake?
- Netflix.
- Hulu.
Who owns Collin Street Bakery Corsicana?
Then when Sandy bought a new gold Lexus sedan with tan leather interior, he crafted a $20,000 check payable to his credit card signed electronically by Bob McNutt, the owner of the Collin Street Bakery.
What happened to Sandy Jenkins wife Kay?
Sandy’s wife, Kay, was sentenced to five years probation and 100 hours of community service in May 2015 after she pleaded guilty to one count of conspiracy to commit money laundering.
How much money did Collin Street Bakery get back?
Through the efforts of law enforcement in this case, the government recovered approximately $4,000,000 in property and cash that will be turned over to the Bakery as partial restitution for the losses suffered in this case.
What is the famous fruitcake company in Texas?
Eilenberger’s Bakery—Best Texas Fruitcakes Ship Nationwide.
How long does Collins Street fruitcake last?
Our fruitcake can last up to one month on your countertop, four months in the fridge, and six months in the freezer.
Can you freeze fruitcake?
Fruitcakes are among cakes that freeze well but need to be aged at least four weeks before freezing since the alcohol doesn’t mellow while frozen. Interestingly enough, the fruitcake’s life is shorter if frozen than if refrigerated. Consume a frozen fruitcake within one year.
How long has Collin Street Bakery been in business?
Over 125 Years As A Family Owned & Operated Texas-Based Business. Welcome to Collin Street –the oldest, U.S.-based, mail-order fruitcake company and the home of our world-famous DeLuxe® Fruitcake.
Where are Claxton fruitcakes made?
The Claxton Bakery in Georgia makes millions of pounds of fruitcake each year. In the small town of Claxton, Ga., two bakeries make more than 4 million pounds of fruitcake each year. Both bakeries say Claxton is the fruitcake capital of the world, despite a similar claim made by a company in Corsicana, Texas.
How many Collin Street Bakery are there?
…
Collin Street Bakery.
| Collin Street Bakery sign in Corsicana, Texas | |
|---|---|
| Founded | 1896 |
| Number of locations | Waco, Texas Lindale, Texas |
| Products | Fruitcake Other holiday cakes |
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Who Is Sandy Jenkins & Why Did He Suicide? Obituary, Collin …
Sandy Jenkins was an accountant from Collin Street Bakery who committed suice behind bars while serving his ten years prison sentence.
Source: showbizcorner.com
Date Published: 10/5/2021
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Sandy Jenkins Suicide Behind Bars Details About Fruit Cake …
Sandy Jenkins was an accountant from Collin Street Bakery who committed suice behind bars while serving his ten years prison sentence.
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Sandy Jenkins Suicide: Why Did The Ex- Fruit Cake Executive …
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Documentary on fruitcake fraud at Corsicana bakery has Fort …
Sandy Jenkins died in 2019 in a federal prison in Seagoville; Kay served five years probation. Fruitcake Fraud director Cilia Aniskovich has …
Source: fortworth.culturemap.com
Date Published: 8/20/2021
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Sandy Jenkins Suicide Why Did The Ex- Fruit Cake Executive Take His Own Life Behind Bars
Sandy Jenkins Suicide: Why Did He Take His Life Behind Bars? Most of the time, the reason for suicide is not known, but can be guessed by close relatives and friends. In this case, though, let’s find out what prompted him to commit suicide behind bars.
The deceased was a suave, mild-mannered, and apparently forgotten accountant who worked for years at Corsicana’s famed Collin Street Bakery.
Hiding a massive scam behind his pleasant demeanor, he stole approximately $17 million from the establishment where he worked. He went unreported for nearly a decade, starting out as a petty money thief but quickly raising the bar and writing big checks to himself.
Documentary on fruitcake fraud at Corsicana bakery has Fort Worth ties
There’s a new documentary about a famous scandal at a popular Texas fruitcake company called Fruitcake Fraud, which is the infamous case of husband and wife Sandy and Kay Jenkins who embezzled more than $17 million from Collin Street Bakery in Corsicana, and it debuts this week on the Discovery+ channel.
The film begins streaming on Discovery+ on Wednesday, December 1st. You can see the trailer here, which includes interviews with directors including Bob McNutt, the bakery’s president, who happily eats a piece of fruitcake on camera as if to prove it’s possible.
Collin Street Bakery is known worldwide for its fruitcakes, with 10,000 to 20,000 orders a day during the holiday season. But as a press release notes, this fruitcake empire began to crumble in 2013 when a embezzlement scam was discovered right before the eyes of bakery workers.
The money was stolen by Sandy, who worked for the company as an accountant for a decade. According to government documents, he and Kay screwed up traveling on private jets, shopping sprees and buying 38 vehicles, including Lexus, Mercedes Benz, Bentley and Porsche.
They almost single-handedly kept Neiman Marcus’ NorthPark location in business, spending $1.2 million and earning the nicknames “Fruitcake” and “Cupcake.”
When Collin Street Bakery management noticed a deficit, they hired a new accountant, who uncovered Jenkins’ multimillion-dollar scheme.
After the Jenkins’ arrest, authorities seized 532 luxury items, including 41 bracelets, 15 pairs of cufflinks, 21 pairs of earrings, 16 furs, 61 handbags, 45 necklaces, 9 sets of beads, 55 rings and 98 watches, valued at $3.5 million ; plus $580,754.90 cash; plus a $50,000 wine collection; plus a $58,500 Steinway electronic piano.
From the publication:
Featuring a cast of colorful characters and a story far crazier than one of Collin Street Bakery’s fruitcakes, Fruitcake Fraud delves deep into the bewildering case that has the FBI, the US Attorney’s office and the good people of Corsicana on their heads in amazement scratched. How was it possible for one man to embezzle millions for almost a decade without anyone having a clue – especially in a small, tight-knit community where everyone knows everyone? Over the course of the 90-minute special, clues, luxuries, stolen money, witness and investigator accounts, and local Corsican gossip are pieced together to reveal a deliciously twisted tale of greed and conspiracy…topped with just a little sugar and small-town flair.
“The Fruitcake Fraud is not only one of the most unexpected frauds to ever cross the desks of the FBI and US Attorney’s Office – it’s a testament to the people at Collin Street Bakery that even after this massive fraud, they always… still exist and brighten everyone’s holiday season with their iconic fruitcakes. If that doesn’t get you in the Christmas spirit, I don’t know what will! says Jason Sarlanis, President of Crime and Investigative Content. “We are so grateful to the wonderful people at Collin Street Bakery and the community of Corsicana who opened their doors to us and helped us shed light on this baffling case. Whether you like fruitcake or not, you’re sure to enjoy this incredible truth crime story.”
Sandy Jenkins died in a federal prison in Seagoville in 2019; Kay served five years probation.
Fruitcake Fraud director Cilia Aniskovich has directed, produced, developed and consulted on numerous US and UK projects including How to Fix a Drug Scandal, which she co-produced, and Surviving Jeffrey Epstein on Lifetime, which she produced .
“I saw an article about the story and I said, ‘This can’t be true,'” she says. “But it’s a strange story that really happened. The #1 question I get from people is how do you make so much money selling fruitcake? But Collin Street has built a fruitcake empire.”
She worked with Red Sanders, Founder and President of Red Productions, a media company with offices in Fort Worth and Los Angeles involved in the production of the feature film, starring Will Ferrell in the role of Sandy Jenkins, whose production was delayed by COVID – 19
Sanders was executive producer on Fruitcake Fraud.
“When I first contacted Collin Street Bakery, they said, ‘You need to talk to Red,'” says Aniskovich. “He has a family from Corsica and has been an invaluable asset and partner locally.
Fruitcake Fraud was produced for Discovery+ by ITV America’s Good Caper Content in association with Dial Tone Films and Red Productions.
Just Desserts
Most days, Sandy Jenkins woke up around 6:30 a.m. with no alarm and only lingered in silence for a few minutes. This was one of the best times of his day, a time when life seemed full of possibilities. He didn’t outline plans or set goals. Preparation wasn’t his forte. In those quiet moments he would lie there and fantasize. He envisioned a life of travel and prestigious pursuits, scenes set to soaring arias or violins. Perhaps he would step out of a private plane and gaze at a mountain range in the distance; perhaps he was strutting down a street in some exotic location while people smiled deferentially. He played these fantasies in his head until he paused them at 6:35 for later.
One morning in December 2004, he kicked his legs out of bed, petted his miniature dachshund, Maggie, and stumbled downstairs to make coffee; he preferred it strong and black and poured it into a fine china cup. After returning to bed, he and his wife Kay watched Good Morning America (he liked Robin Roberts). Then he ate breakfast, showered, slipped into his Rolex, checked his close-cropped hair for any sign that it was too long and tangled like his father’s, and walked over to his closet. He selected a pair of pants, then looked at his selection of polo shirts from Dillard’s and Foley’s, faced with the same choice he faced almost every day: black or gray.
Despite his color preferences, he wasn’t macabre, not really. Although he often dreamed of becoming the manager of a funeral home, his obsession with death had little to do with it. Rather, he coveted the sharp outfits, lavish backdrop, immaculate black cars, eloquence and reverential tone. Undertakers didn’t use chintzy stuff, at least not the good ones. In Corsicana he liked Corley Funeral Home best. It had the most opulent rooms and that’s where all the wealthy people went anyway. But funeral homes were just a hobby. He wasn’t an undertaker. He was an accountant, only ten years away from collecting his Social Security so he could retire, and standing in front of his closet any longer would make him late for work.
He pulled into his lot at 7:55 a.m. He’d spent the entire ten-minute commute imagining he was driving a newer car instead of his five-year-old Lexus. Putting that fantasy on hold, he grabbed his weather-beaten briefcase and walked through the front door of Corsica’s most iconic shop: Collin Street Bakery, which, in case you didn’t know, is the world’s most renowned purveyor of fruitcake. He braced himself for the yeasty smell of baked bread and for small talk with his colleagues. People were always polite, but despite his best efforts, they never really warmed to him. He remembered important anniversaries, wished them a happy birthday and was quick to compliment haircuts and new outfits. But his efforts changed little. Ever since he first arrived in town–probably his whole life–Sandy Jenkins had felt invisible.
He knew what they were whispering behind his back. People in town said they just couldn’t get him to talk at a party. “His wife was a hoot and a howler,” said one woman in Corsicana. “He had zero personality.” He seemed destined to be seen as that “little old toothpicky” man, as another resident put it, with droopy eyes, a weak chin and the personality of an old basset hound.
Ever since he first arrived in town–probably his whole life–Sandy Jenkins had felt invisible.
Do you know who has respect? Bob McNutt. Everyone would agree. And of course he did, because Bob ran the bakery. But even if he hadn’t, people would have appreciated him greatly. Thanks to his successful father, the former owner of the fruitcake factory, Bob had traveled the world. He could show friends pictures of him sitting at Hemingway’s desk in Cuba; He was able to entertain employees with stories about Costa Rica, where the company had grown its own crops to better control the quality of the papayas and pineapples that make Collin Street Bakery’s fruitcakes so special. Bob was wealthy, but he didn’t flaunt it. His shirts were nice but not flashy. He donated to charity and didn’t brag around the office when traveling on a private jet. He had a dry, endearing wit. “I’m sure you walked into my office just to see what the most handsome CEO in the world looks like up close.” That’s what Bob would say – not that Sandy knew him well. They worked close together — Sandy could see Bob’s office from his door — and they attended the same church, but have had few contacts over the years. Sandy’s admiration was a distant one. Sometimes he would sit at his desk and review his morning fantasy. In that he would be a bit like Bob McNutt.
But the monotony of the day would soon break. Colleagues who stopped by his office asked him for reports, not opinions or anecdotes or jokes. There were pay stubs, daily sales reports, reports of how many pounds of pineapples and pecans they had bought. Sandy’s line manager in accounting, Scott Hollomon, waved Sandy through the window separating their offices, always wanting something: bank balances, bills. Scott was a good boss – actually like a brother. Still, his friendship was little reward for the drudgery nibbling numbers. By 2004, Sandy had worked at the bakery for six years. He had proven to be a reliable employee despite making only $50,000 a year. He had to save money just to afford the upgraded Lexus he wanted. It all seemed so boring.
Most days, late in the morning, Sandy would kill time by glancing at the food coverage on the Dallas Morning News. But that day in December 2004 was not like other days. Just before lunch, when he had the computerized checkbook open in front of him, he began dreaming again. What if there was a faster way to afford this Lexus? He stared at his computer screen, at the blanks on the checks. Doesn’t he deserve better?
It wasn’t like the Jenkinses didn’t have anything for her. They weren’t rich, but they had fine taste; that was immediately clear to anyone who visited her house in a nice neighborhood with wide streets. Sometimes Sandy sat at the piano, which he had bought from a relative, and played “Clair de Lune”, “Rhapsody in Blue” or another of his favorite songs for the visitors while Kay made a gourmet brew, something she had probably bought by her daughter Allison, who was studying culinary arts. Outside, passers-by would notice Kay’s gardens. “You walked past her court and it was a riot of color,” said a friend. Well, they had won the Corsicana Yard of the Month several times.
Everyone who met her immediately noticed that Sandy and Kay were opposites. “He was introverted and she was outgoing,” said one woman. “She’s very tall and he’s tiny,” said another woman. (People in Corsicana will argue about their neighbors, but few want their names in block letters.) A few people noticed that she bossed him around, not that Sandy seemed to mind – or anyone else, for that matter. If she was a little pretentious, in Corsicana it was a forgivable sin. “Darling, we’re all bossy,” explained one woman. “She has a sarcastic sense of humor? We all do that!”
They weren’t so sure what to make of Sandy, a hesitancy familiar to most people who’d met him. He had few friends growing up in nearby Wortham, the only child of doting parents who ran the Jenkins Grocery. He worked after school and weekends in the store, stocking shelves and sweeping floors. “He was quiet, not one of the most popular guys in school,” said classmate Betty Bosley (who was voted “Sportiest”). “I hate using the word ‘nerdy’. He wasn’t an athlete or anything.” He wasn’t academically ambitious either, preferring to dream and play the piano.
His taste for finer things came from his mother. “My dad said if they sold poop in a bag at Neiman’s, she would buy it,” Sandy said. Her desires rarely led to the purchase of mink stoles or diamond rings, but they did have an effect on Sandy, who began collecting watches at the age of twelve and bought them used for family friends. His aunt even bought him a diamond ring in high school because she knew he would love him. No wonder he was voted Most Fashionable in high school three years in a row.
Though he could have inherited the family shop and done well, his parents urged him to consider a different path. “Be a doctor,” they told him. But Sandy had other ambitions. All he ever wanted for as long as he could remember was to be a funeral director. His cousin’s stepfather owned a funeral home in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and when Sandy finally came to visit, he admired the lavish interiors and touched the thick decorative curtains as he walked the halls. When Sandy told his father about this ambition, his father discouraged him – Sandy thought his father thought he was too shy – and suggested that Sandy should choose a mainstream career. And so, in 1973, after stints at Baylor University and Navarro College, Sandy graduated from Dallas Baptist University with the most predictable degree of all: business administration.
By that time he had married. A family friend had told him about her niece, a dental hygiene student who also attended Dallas Baptist and needed occasional transportation to campus. Kay Nikel was her name. She was originally from San Antonio. When Sandy picked Kay up from her aunt’s house for the first time, he couldn’t believe his luck. She had long brown hair, pretty brown eyes and an enormous personality. As they drove down the highway to Dallas, she would dig into him, asking questions and giving him flirtatious looks. Sandy found it amazing that someone would take such a keen interest in a mouse-like person like himself, and he managed to muster up the courage to ask her about Waco for a film. By 1971 he had persuaded her to marry him. He supposed she must have liked quiet guys.
Your prayers must have gone straight to heaven because Sandy didn’t just get a job. He was hired by the most famous employer in the area.
They lived in Fairfield right out of college, where Sandy got a job as an accountant at a utility company, but they were familiar with Corsicana. The historic red brick downtown is one of the most beautiful in the area. Corsicana’s wealth dates back to the late 18th century when oil was discovered there, producing in 1953 the highest per capita income of any Texas city. Today the richest families in Corsica, the descendants of those first millionaires, will tell you that they own a small Highland Park “fifty miles and a hundred years south of Dallas”. They’re a chatty, colorful bunch. “The housewives of Beverly Hills?” said one celebrity. “We would blow that shit out of the water.” On the affluent side of town, locals refer to some properties by name – Mariposa, Versailles – and the homes are adorned with antiques belonging to long-dead family members. No one here wonders where a rich man’s money comes from. You know: it’s oil, cattle, natural gas – or, in some cases, the bakery. Most of the wealthy families in the city have been established for decades. So when Sandy’s job moved to Dallas and the Jenkinses moved to Corsicana in 1988, they had a lot of catching up to do.
They bought a two-story historic home with a wraparound porch and white Greek columns and settled into a quiet routine. They joined the First Baptist Church choir, where Sandy became a deacon and Kay worked in the restaurant business, eventually starting a catering business on the side. It was a comfortable life for a while. But Sandy’s job was cut in 1995 and he soon became depressed. In 1998 he was diagnosed with manic depression and prescribed medication. While she was unemployed, Sandy continued to spend time at church and helping out. He occasionally transitioned at junior high and helped with Kay’s businesses. “Is there anything we can do for the Jenkins?” Church members would ask one another.
Your prayers must have gone straight to heaven because Sandy didn’t just get a job. He was hired by the most famous employer in the area.
Collin Street Bakery doesn’t just sell fruitcakes, they sell “DeLuxe” fruitcakes – or, as one local put it, “the Cadillac of fruitcakes”. The Mercedes-Benz of fruitcakes.” Sandy loved fruitcakes, especially on Thanksgiving and Christmas when he soaked them in rum or brandy. Bite into the bakery’s signature fruitcake, the DeLuxe, and your mouth encloses a dense universe of papayas, pineapples, cherries, raisins and pecans, barely held together by a moist swirl of flour, egg and honey. The pies are currency in town — a way to thank someone for jumping your car or mowing your lawn.
When Sandy first started at the bakery, he worked for Bob’s father, Bill McNutt. Sandy thought Bill was a brilliant businessman. Sandy knew the history of the bakery well; such was his legend. In 1946, Bill’s father, Lee McNutt, and two partners bought the business from a shy immigrant German baker named Gus Weidmann and his conspicuous employee Tom McElwee, who had founded the bakery together fifty years earlier. Initially their main focus was bread, but that changed when the Ringling Brothers circus troupe, who regularly toured the city, started ordering Weidmann’s German fruit cakes as Christmas gifts, which gave the two men an idea.
The fruit cake is a very special baked good. It has more salt than the average pie, salt that acts as a natural preservative so fruit tarts practically never go bad. What other food on earth can make such a claim? The DeLuxe fruitcake is a marvel. Weidmann and McElwee’s traditional recipe combined ingredients that were inherently simple and unforgettable and turned them into a lustrous ring so strikingly complex that soon everyone in the world wanted one.
DeLuxe fruitcakes became a Christmas staple, boosting town pride and making the McNutts wealthy.
The shelf life of the tarts meant the bakery could ship them anywhere, and McElwee focused on building a tart mail order business, a tradition continued by Lee McNutt and his son Bill, who took over the business in 1967. Bill decided to go all out with the fruitcakes and build an entire factory to make them. He was ecstatic, a Vanderbilt man drinking ice-cold milk and chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes he pulled from his shirt pocket. He emerged as a mail order pioneer and invested in a computerized system that would allow him to reach people in 196 countries – and he wasn’t shy when it came to advertising either. He sent cakes to figures like Frank Sinatra, the Queen of Spain, even the President of the Republic of Malawi, and in return their secretaries posted thank-you notes suitable for framing. (The bakery famously once refused an order from the Ayatollah Khomeini.) The DeLuxe fruitcakes spread, and in time the postman delivered letters addressed “Fruitcakes, Texas.” An envelope simply showed a photo of a fruitcake and a zip code.
“A lot of people don’t know where Corsicana is until you say ‘fruitcake.’ Then they’ll know,” said a local waitress named Dina. DeLuxe fruitcakes became a Christmas staple, boosting town pride and making the McNutts wealthy. By the time Bob took over in 1998, he had realized that fruitcake had suffered from a certain “cultural slur” in the 1980s, although he told a reporter, “I have a jar in my office for all the great fruitcake jokes. So far it’s empty.” Bob decided to expand Collin Street Bakery and open stores in Waco, Lindale and Greenville. It was a big risk.
Sandy started that same year as Accounts Payable and Payroll Manager, earning $25,000 a year. His office, previously occupied by a married couple for fifty years, was on the edge of the business floor, a checkerboard of desks and computers that was on the second floor just above the flagship bakery near downtown Corsicana. Sandy spent $1,000 of the bakery’s money on an antique replica desk and placed it in his office, then hung a Picasso print of a dachshund to remind him of little Maggie.
He did well. Sandy helped the bakery transition from a manual to a computerized accounting system and in 2000 he was promoted to Corporate Controller. Scott, his supervisor, was a member of First Baptist who enjoyed Sandy’s company and was pleased with Sandy’s work. Sandy was never late with paychecks, and he always kept taxes up to date. “The specific task you gave him was done and done on time,” Scott said. Sandy did everything without complaint. Only Kay bitched about the bakery every now and then, saying to Sandy and Scott, “Bob doesn’t pay you all enough.”
Only Kay bitched about the bakery every now and then, telling Sandy and Scott, “Bob doesn’t pay you enough.”
It was true that Sandy would think of a few ways to spend money if he had more of it. He could indulge more often at the Corsicana Country Club, where all the bigwigs in town played poker and smoked cigars; he might join a men’s gourmet group or a wine party; he could see more productions in the city’s theaters. He and Kay might have enough money and reputation to break into the more exclusive supper club scene. “Everybody in town belongs to a supper club. There are three or four of them and each one has fifty, sixty people in it,” explained one woman. Clubs date back generations, and these days most of them are so crowded that a couple has to wait for another couple to leave before being invited. Perhaps Kay would join the more sophisticated book club known as Quintillion. “It’s one of the oldest book clubs in Corsica,” boasted one member.
By most accounts, the Jenkinses had done well. Sandy had a good job at the town’s holiday employer; They had raised a daughter and made contributions to the community. But these achievements mattered little to some in the city. After all, the Jenkins weren’t considered high rollers; They were the people who prepared the food down in the church. They would always have difficulty breaking through to the upper echelons of Corsican society. “Real Corsicana are old families,” said Scott’s wife, Kathy. Another local said: “It’s a real clique.” And the verdicts could be brutal. “Baby, if you get a hangnail, we’ll know before it gets dark,” said one woman. “We’re mean and chatty here.” Some women noticed that Kay didn’t have the right brand of sandals; even in winter she wore Yellow Box flip-flops. “And she was carrying these sacks,” said another. “She’s never had a tummy tuck, breast surgery, or new clothes. She was wearing those Maw Maw clothes.”
And Sandy? As always, Sandy was invisible.
Now Sandy considered himself a moral man. But somehow, as he sat at his desk on that December day in 2004, the action he was tempted to take didn’t seem wrong. He felt like he had the equivalent of three jobs at the bakery, and was he really being compensated for everything? How long should he wait to make his dreams come true?
He decided to dip into the petty cash of the bakery. Overall it wasn’t a lot of money. But it kept him on his toes. Every time someone walked into his office, he braced himself for the words, “Sandy, do you know what happened to that money?” He had never planned an answer. He didn’t want to think about getting caught. But nobody asked about it. Everyone went about their business and soon petty cash ran out. A few weeks later, on a whim, he drove to the Dallas dealership and bought a gold Lexus sedan with a tan leather interior. It wasn’t a big jump; it was a used car and he traded in his old Lexus as a down payment. He still couldn’t afford the payments, but he had a plan. He’d been thinking about those blank spaces in the checkbook software.
Sandy had been invisible for so long that he didn’t know the rush of power he suddenly felt as he drove back to Corsicana, chasing Barbra Streisand all the way down Interstate 45 in his new Lexus. If he was the guy who sings in his car, he would have sung. Gloomy, gray times are now a thing of the past. However, Sandy did not sing, at least not in real life. Still, he might have been wrong, but didn’t people look at him with envy? When Kay came home from church work that night, he told her the car had been a gift from the Fishers, a couple for whom he had helped with the bookkeeping. Who knows if she believed him. Maybe she had her own daydreams.
Sandy had been invisible for so long that he didn’t know the rush of power he suddenly felt as he drove back to Corsicana, chasing Barbra Streisand all the way down Interstate 45 in his new Lexus.
By January 25, when his credit card payment was due, he was ready to go ahead with his plan. He drummed his fingers on his desk, sipped a Diet Coke, and looked over to see if Scott was looking. And then he took a deep breath, put his fingers on his keyboard, and punched in a check for $20,000 payable to CitiCard. The software automatically signed the check “Bob McNutt.” Sandy printed out this check, canceled it in the system, but mailed it. Then, to cover his tracks, he typed the next check to be paid to a legitimate bakery clerk for the same amount, but never mailed it. (Sandy says he can’t remember if he paid for his new Lexus with the CitiCard or other checks straight from the bakery.)
After making sure no one had noticed the first check fraud, Sandy tried again. And again and again. Each time, Sandy repeated the scheme, combining his fraudulent check with one that appeared legitimate. Someone had to examine the checks closely to find any discrepancies, and that seemed unlikely.
Soon he and Kay were spending up to $98,000 a month on their credit card, which Sandy then paid for with Collin Street Bakery checks. After remodeling their kitchen with a Viking range, cooling and warming drawers, and granite countertops, they began hosting lavish dinner parties, opening hundred-dollar bottles of wine while serving steaks and veal chops. They could now join several supper clubs, and they did. They threw champagne brunches with themes like “flip flops to stilettos” and dinners of “burgers and bordeaux,” mixing high and low cuisine. “She drank a lady’s tea and everyone had to wear a hat — she did that kind of thing,” said Scott, who had started socializing with Sandy and Kay about three days a week. The Jenkinses installed a wine cellar under their stairs, equipped with two refrigerator-sized storage units, and Sandy’s palate developed so quickly that he went to the Corsicana Country Club often — which he just didn’t do as often as some people do once or twice week – he brought his own bottle from home as he didn’t like the house wines anymore.
At work, Sandy would tell people who admired his fine clothes that he bought his outfits at Walmart, though nothing could have been further from the truth: he actually wore $600 Armani and Hermès shirts. He has always loved shoes and soon his closet at home was overflowing with Ferragamos and Guccis. He had long admired the watches in the best places in Dallas – de Boulle Diamond and Jewelry, Eiseman Jewels, Bachendorf’s, Neiman Marcus – and now that he could choose from among them, he decided he wanted them all. On a trip in December 2006, he bought five Rolex watches for $52,765.75 – about his annual salary. Her personal shopper at Neiman Marcus saw the Jenkinses so often that she had nicknames for them, Fruitcake for Sandy and Cupcake for Kay. Although after a while she saw less of them. She says she ran out of things to sell.
In the year after writing the first fraudulent check, Sandy took 43 private flights at a cost of $500,000, and the years that followed saw more of them.
Although Sandy still daydreamed at work, his desires became more achievable. Sitting at his desk, he flipped through a luxury lifestyle magazine called Robb Report, which circulated around the office, and if he liked any trinkets, he’d just place an order. Occasionally, when he’d already bought everything he wanted from the latest Robb Report and didn’t have time to drive to Dallas, he’d ask jewelers to come to the bakery. Under armed guard, he fingered the stones while asking his colleagues, “Do you think Kay would like this one?”
On a trip to Santa Fe, he bought a four-bedroom mud house off the street for $658,000, replete with porches, exposed beams and a stone fireplace. He and Kay took their friends from Corsica’s upper class over on a chartered jet and treated them to fine wines and dinner. And Santa Fe wasn’t their only destination. Sandy and Kay commuted back and forth to Aspen, Napa, and Martha’s Vineyard on a private plane. In the year after writing the first fraudulent check, Sandy took 43 private flights at a cost of $500,000, and the years that followed saw more of them.
You might be thinking now: There must have been a suspicion, right? Surely people knew that Sandy couldn’t make that much money in the bakery. “Suddenly, phew! They had money” – as one local put it. But while the spending was very sudden, explanations circulated to reassure everyone that nothing was wrong. Both Sandy and Kay told people in town they had inherited money, although there were sometimes different justifications for forgiving items, like the Lexuses, BMWs, and Mercedes-Benzes that were being replaced at a dizzying rate. Sandy said to colleague Hayden Crawford, the bakery’s director of public relations: “I’m a car dealer. I get new cars but I can flip them. I probably pay less than you and I get a new car every five or six months.” He told others that a cousin lends him cars—the same generous cousin who lent him the planes.
Authorities would later say Kay knew he didn’t have a cousin with a private jet. And while Sandy Kay said the money came from the Fisher family, he asked her not to mention her generous acts to anyone at the bakery. “Tell them it’s contract work,” he suggested.
“Can the money get us in trouble?” she once asked.
“No,” he replied, “but I’m not reporting it to the IRS.”
“And if you die?”
“When I die, the money stops.”
Kay stopped working shortly after this initial review. Unabhängig davon, was sie wusste, war sie wegen des Geldes so nervös, dass sie, als ein zweisitziges Lexus-Cabriolet, das sie bestellt hatte, in Mitternachtsblau ankam, es zurückgab, weil es nicht zu der pfauenblauen Farbe ihres vorherigen Autos passte könnte ungewollte Aufmerksamkeit erregen. Wie könnte es nicht? Als eine Freundin Kay nach einem Diamantring fragte, den sie trug, der eine Viertelmillion Dollar wert war, und sie antwortete, dass es ihr Verlobungsring sei, konnte sie sicherlich den Ausdruck auf seinem Gesicht lesen, das gezwungene Lächeln hinter den Feinheiten, die sagten, ich Ich bezweifle, dass das Ihr Verlobungsring war, als Sie die Hochzeit meiner Tochter ausrichteten. Er war nicht der Einzige, der eine Augenbraue hochzog. Wie ihr Nachbar Jim Polk später den Lokalnachrichten sagte: „Ich sehe mir Autos an, die 100.000 bis 200.000 Dollar kosten, und ich denke: ‚Mein Gott, er muss im Lotto gewonnen haben!’“ Und doch war Stehlen am weitesten entfernt aus irgendjemandes Verstand. Immerhin war dies Corsicana; Eine kaputte Ampel gilt als Skandal. „Wenn er einmal im Quartal vorbeischaut und eine Flasche Wein vorbeibringt“, sagte Hayden, „dann dachte ich nur: ‚Was für ein netter Kerl.‘“
Die Leute sahen Sandy auf eine neue Weise an. „Plötzlich interessierten sich die Leute für mich und das, was ich zu sagen hatte“, sagte er. „Es war, als wäre ich plötzlich eine neue, andere Person, die Dinge für sie tun und sie an Orte bringen konnte.“
Bob McNutt schüttelte Jahr für Jahr den Kopf und fragte sich, warum die Bäckerei nicht mehr Geld verdiente. Er konnte es nicht herausfinden. Hat das Unternehmen zu schnell expandiert? Die Leute schienen die neuen Pekannusskuchen zu lieben, eine Variante des Obstkuchens, der in normaler oder mundgerechter Größe erhältlich war. „Das ergibt keinen Sinn“, sagte Hayden zu Bob. „Wir machen etwas falsch.“ Sie würden jedes Geschäftsjahr beenden und sagen: „Es ist uns wieder durch die Hände gerutscht.“ In manchen Jahren konnten sie wie jeder andere der Wirtschaft die Schuld geben; In anderen Jahren hatten sie keine Entschuldigung. Sie untersuchten ihre Ausgaben: Arbeit, Preis der Zutaten, sogar das Inventar der Zutaten, als würde jemand die Kirschen oder Pekannüsse stehlen, um zu Hause eine Million Obstkuchen zu backen. Sie prüften die Gehaltsabrechnung. Aus ihren Bemühungen wurde nichts. Hayden sagte: „Wir haben das über Jahre gemacht, um herauszufinden, was das Problem war.“
Sandy hatte seine Kontrollen gut geplant. Er wusste, wann sich die Bäckerei mit Zutaten eindecken und wann sie mehr für Porto ausgeben würde, und er füllte die Ausgabenbereiche aus, die normalerweise hoch waren, damit nichts ungewöhnlich erschien, als die Bäckerei ihre Marketinganalyse durchführte. Als sich die Vorgesetzten darüber beschwerten, dass ihre harte Arbeit an der Erweiterung finanziell nicht viel brachte, sah niemand eine Lösung. Letztendlich stellten sie fest, dass der Übergang vom Versandhandel zu „Stöcken und Ziegeln“ nur schmerzhafter war, als irgendjemand in der Bäckerei erwartet hatte.
Einmal wurde Sandy beinahe erwischt. Die Direktorin für E-Commerce und Anrufdienste, Darlene Johnston, gab normalerweise ein wenig Geld aus, um eines der Nebengeschäfte der Bäckerei zu fördern, ein kleines Versandhandelsunternehmen namens Cryer Creek Kitchens, aber die Ausgaben waren exponentiell gestiegen. Eines Tages kam Scott in ihr Büro und sagte zu ihr: „Darlene, geben Sie nicht mehr für Cryer Creek Kitchens aus, denn sehen Sie, Cost-to-Sales, wir verdienen überhaupt kein Geld.“ Johnston sah sich die Zahlen an und sagte: „Ich habe keine 23.000 Dollar für Porto ausgegeben; das ist verrückt.” Aber der Papierkram zeigte, dass sie es hatte. Sandy bot an, sich das anzusehen und berichtete, dass alles in Ordnung zu sein schien.
Im Laufe der Jahre gewöhnte sich Sandy leicht an das gute Leben. Er bekam Pediküre und Maniküre und gab Geld aus, um (vergeblich) zu versuchen, sein Haar zu glätten, damit es glatt und dick war, wie das von Bill Clinton.
Er hat seine Spuren nicht immer so gut verwischt. Einmal kam Sandy zum Beispiel in Bobs Büro vorbei, um Bob vom Flugzeug seines Cousins zu erzählen. „Er lässt mich es benutzen“, sagte er zu Bob, wie er es allen gesagt hatte. Bob war verwirrt darüber, warum dieser Angestellte, den er kaum kannte, mit ihm prahlte. „Ich dachte so: ‚Nun, warum musst du mir das sagen?‘“, sagte Bob später. Another time, Sandy groused to Semetric Walker, an accountant in her thirties who’d been hired in December 2011, that Bob had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. But if such remarks unsettled his colleagues, Sandy didn’t worry about it too much, just as he shrugged off any worries about Kay, who could also raise suspicions—like the time she asked one woman over cocktails, “Do people ever ask you where your money comes from?” The woman was so freaked out by the question, she simply said no and avoided her after that. Another time, Kay asked a socialite, “How much money does somebody need to fit into Corsicana society?”
As the years rolled by, Sandy adjusted easily to the good life. He got pedicures and manicures and spent money trying (in vain) to straighten his hair so it would be smooth and thick, like Bill Clinton’s.
He went hog wild with the spending, upping the ante with every purchase. He bought a $7,200 cellphone, a $40,000 horsehair mattress, a $58,000 Steinway. (He even inquired about investing in a funeral home but never got around to it.) When Bob’s wife appeared at a party showing off her husband’s latest gift, a Van Cleef & Arpels necklace, Kay showed up to a later event wearing the “jump-rope version,” as one local put it. By 2010, the Jenkinses preferred only the best food and drink: Dom Pérignon and Cristal Champagne, Petrossian caviar. “They never talked about how much things cost,” Kathy Hollomon said. “Kay would just say, ‘Oh, it’s only money.’ ” Sandy and Kay were making their way up the social ladder of Corsicana. They stopped going to church, telling the Hollomons that the First Baptist parishioners still treated them like kitchen workers, which was fine, since they’d made other friends. Kay became treasurer of the Quintillion book club, and Sandy joined a wine club. When shopkeepers saw Sandy coming, they’d wave him down and call him by name.
It seemed that Sandy’s invisible days were over, and now that people could see him, they loved him. Companies invited him to exclusive parties; one company even paid for him to tour watchmaking facilities in Switzerland.
He eventually indulged in the hobby of the truly wealthy: philanthropy. He bought a table at the Navarro College fundraiser. He underwrote a performance by Hot Club of Cowtown at the Palace Theater. He was a patron and board member of the Santa Fe Opera. He gave money to the Wortham High School Ex-Students Association. He spent big money at the charity auctions—sometimes even outspending Bob McNutt.
You’d think Sandy would have been worried, always looking over his shoulder. You’d imagine he’d have been paranoid whenever he saw his friends talking in a circle or have nightmares that someone was knocking at his door with a warrant for his arrest. After all, few things last forever. Even a DeLuxe fruitcake eventually goes bad. But Sandy wasn’t concerned, never even thought of cashing out and leaving town. He’d achieved what he’d always wanted: to be transformed from something plain and forgettable into something new and wonderful that everyone revered.
On Thursday, June 20, 2013, Semetric, the relatively new hire in accounting, stopped in his doorway. She’d been going over bank statements that morning and had found a check that she didn’t recognize, a check made out to Capital One. She knew the bakery didn’t have any accounts or credit cards with Capital One. It was then that Sandy heard the question he had once feared: “Sandy, there’s a discrepancy with this check. Can you help me understand this?”
Sandy tried to remain calm. “I’ll fix it,” he told her, hoping his panic wasn’t showing on his face.
“It looks like we’ve found Sandy Jenkins embezzling money,” they told Bob, who replied, “Well, that explains a lot.”
But it was. And this piqued Semetric’s interest. She didn’t want to flag the check for Scott; she knew he and his wife spent a lot of time with the Jenkinses. Still, she had a gut feeling about Sandy. So when he left a note on her desk saying he was going to be out for the afternoon (looking at a new house in the posh neighborhood known as Mills Place), Semetric started poking around in the system and noticed a pattern. Looking through the voided check register, Semetric quickly found eleven discrepancies—around $400,000 worth—an impressive enough sum that she felt emboldened. She brought the checks to Scott, who looped in other executives. “It looks like we’ve found Sandy Jenkins embezzling money,” they told Bob, who replied, “Well, that explains a lot.”
The next day, when Sandy arrived at work, Scott asked him to come into one of the executives’ offices. Scott showed him copies of voided checks. “Tell us what these are,” he said. Sandy pretended, for a moment, that he hadn’t done anything wrong. He looked over the checks and shrugged, replying, “Well, I don’t know,” which only fueled Scott’s anger and prompted him to ask Sandy pointedly, “Did you write these checks?” This was a trickier question, and Sandy wasn’t good on his feet. What was he going to say: No? That somebody else had sneaked into his office? “I write the checks for the bakery,” he said.
It was a relief to be fired, just so he could finally get out of that room. And he needed to get going: he had a lot of work ahead of him. Within hours a sheriff’s deputy would be arriving to collect his keys. The bakery would then cancel his credit card and change the locks. They’d soon know everything: that on about nine hundred occasions, Sandy Jenkins had stolen from the bakery, an amount totaling $114,342.04 in cash and $16,649,786.91 in checks. Now was his time to move. He raced home, grabbed two grocery bags from the kitchen, and ran from room to room tossing handfuls of valuables inside: watches, jewelry, gold bars—making sure to check the air vent where he’d stashed some of the jewels. Then he and Kay got in one of his cars and drove to Austin, where their daughter was living, and stored the bags in a safe before taking off to Santa Fe to regroup.
I was shocked out of my ever-loving mind,” said one retired schoolteacher who’d once hired Kay to cater an event. Even those who liked Sandy—the church types, the soft souls—judged him harshly after the news hit town. There was gossip at First Baptist and at the Corsicana Country Club. Naturally, they judged Kay too. As one woman put it, “She had the balls of Godzilla.”
But the town didn’t go totally berserk until a month later, on July 24, 2013, a 95-degree day when the most earth-shattering news of the morning had been that the YMCA swim team would compete in a state meet. “I was mowing my front yard when the FBI pulled up,” Jim Polk told a TV reporter. The Corsicana Daily Sun sent a photographer to snap shots of the FBI entering the Jenkins house and towing the cars. “My phone has never rung so much,” said one socialite. It took about five seconds for word to spread. People who’d expected a typical morning drive to work took a detour past the Jenkinses’ home. Some circled the block, slowing in front of the house, while others parked nearby to watch the events unfold. One young man later recounted that when he called his mother, she responded, “I can’t talk to you right now. I’m watching the house!” and hung up. Others called their friends with updates: Here comes the tow truck for the 2010 Mercedes, the 2005 Lexus, the 2013 GMC Yukon Denali, the 2013 BMW. Are those furs they’re taking out now? (They’d spent $2 million on furs.) And wine? ($50,000 on wine.) It looked as if the FBI was taking all the big stuff, though they’d probably have to come back for the Steinway. “It was a big event and it was somebody we knew,” said one woman who saw the whole thing. “We gasped and shouted when we saw the big Louis Vuitton steamer trunks come out. Two of ’em!”
Sandy hadn’t been around the house for three weeks. He was out in Santa Fe, and then back in Austin, thinking, wondering: What do criminals do when they hide their money? Should he bury it somewhere? Put it into an offshore account? Around the time one FBI team was searching the house in Corsicana, he noticed another crew on his tail in Austin. He retrieved the stash and poured all the jewelry into an insulated Whole Foods bag, then he drove down to Lady Bird Lake, on the edge of downtown. With the bag in his hand, he walked to a secluded bend, hoping he wouldn’t be interrupted by some stroller-pushing, power-walking busybody, and he began scattering the treasure behind trees, bushes, rocks—the way one might hide eggs at Easter. It made him cringe to imagine a dog peeing on his $25,000 Patek Philippe Aquanaut watch, his $22,359 Ulysse Nardin watch, or any of the other watches and gold bars he’d grabbed on his way out the door in Corsicana. When he ran out of hiding places, he tossed the rest in the lake, resisting the urge to jump in, fish it out, and stuff it all back in the bag. He stayed focused. He picked up Kay and drove back to Corsicana, where, finding that the FBI had changed the locks on the house, Sandy broke in and tried to lie low.
Not long after, an off-duty police officer from the University of Texas stumbled across a quarter of a million dollars in gold bars and jewelry squirreled around Lady Bird Lake. Federal authorities quickly pieced it together, and the U.S. attorney’s office didn’t need to work very hard to convince a judge that Sandy Jenkins was a flight risk. A scuba team searched the lake, the FBI matched the serial numbers of the items to Sandy’s records, and on August 12, the FBI knocked on his door. He was eventually indicted on counts of mail fraud, money laundering, and other related offenses he’d perpetrated along the way.
In the weeks that followed, Kay told people around town that she had known nothing about Sandy’s scheme, that she was as surprised as anybody else. “I believe she was just in total denial,” said one woman. Another theorized that Kay believed, “I can just live my life and let him take the rap.” She didn’t realize how her reputation had lost its sheen. One day in March 2014, right before she was indicted on charges similar to Sandy’s, she called a few members of Quintillion in tears, asking if it would be okay for her to attend an upcoming book club event. Their reaction was half-hearted, and her lawyer eventually advised her not to go. Then she must have known. Just like that, she was out too.
Jenkins Estate Sale This Weekend” was the headline in the Corsicana Daily Sun on March 27, 2014, and most everyone in town circled the date on their calendar. “People knew they stole seventeen million, so everybody assumed there was all kinds of crap in there,” said one socialite. People started lining up at the Jenkins house two hours before the doors even opened. At ten o’clock, the organizers started letting people in, a few at a time. Guests gawked at the assorted bracelets, rings, earrings, pendants, cufflinks, collector pens, and coins. There were $14,000 gold Dunhill lighters, a Cartier silver cigarette case, an Atmos clock, boxes of crystal and silver, and designer handbags, wallets, luggage, and briefcases by Louis Vuitton, Marc Jacobs, and Balenciaga, along with, the Sun pointed out, “a frighteningly large Hummel figurines collection.”
Bob McNutt was at the Jenkins house that morning. He was unsure how he’d ever get his $17 million back. “We had a guy go out with a metal detector to check the yard,” he said, but nothing was found on the property, and the estate sale was his next-best opportunity for reimbursement. Bob wanted attendees to spend big, and he handed out Collin Street Bakery treats to those waiting in the line, which wound around the block—so long that it required a security detail. He would quip, “You know, one of the real tragedies for Corsicana is we’ve lost arguably our most sophisticated watch collector in the history of Navarro County and also the most sophisticated collector of fine furs for men and women.” Then he’d offer them the plate he was holding, an assortment of cherry icebox, chocolate chip, and praline cookies.
After many of the items were sold off, there were lingering questions. In the days leading up to the sentencing, this past September, people were still gossiping about why Sandy had done it. “He liked being the big shot,” said Hayden Crawford. “It allowed him to be generous.” Semetric Walker had a slightly different theory. “I think it was more to get back at Bob,” she said. “Bob had all the things he wanted.” Scott Hollomon agreed. “The lifestyle that Bob had,” he said, that’s what Sandy wanted—and more. Some people mentioned that Sandy had written letters blaming his manic depression for his erratic behavior. The consensus, though, was that the Jenkinses had simply wanted entrée into Corsicana society. “They were so poor at First Baptist, they always had nothing, and they wanted to feel like they had status,” one woman suggested. And maybe they got carried away.
Sandy told the authorities that Kay had played no part in his scheme, though he might have been more convincing if he’d remembered that they could read his email, like the one in which he wrote Kay, “Remember: you never knew anything.” Not that she went down in flames, come sentencing. In fact, when people in town heard that she got only five years probation and Sandy ten years of confinement, many thought his scam was almost worth the penalty. Certainly people could identify with the temptation. “What’s so typical,” said an interested neighbor eating lunch at an area cafe the afternoon of the sentencing, “is he bought depreciable items! If he’d just invested in the market, he could have replaced the money, taken his share, and they would have been none the wiser.”
That wasn’t exactly sympathy, but it’s about the best Sandy can hope for. Nothing gives him much comfort these days. He’s trying to say all the right things, strike the right note of contrition, as he has become, once again, invisible. Having served two years in federal detention already, he’ll serve at least another six, and during that time, he’ll have his routine, some of which isn’t that different from the one he had before all this started. His breakfast now consists of biscuits and gravy, French toast, pancakes, or cereal. He still drinks his coffee black, though it’s instant. He watches Good Morning America. Maybe it was all the stress, but his hair straightened out, and it’s now, finally, perfect.
While he doesn’t dream much these days—he’ll probably never be trusted to run a funeral home—he has a lot of time to reflect. During those moments, he thinks about what it was like in those few great years of his life when he was the talk of the town, when everybody saw him coming and seemed happy to see him, waving as they said, “Hello, Sandy!” “Hello, Fruitcake!” And in some ways, they were still waving at him, still noticing him, even while he was holed up in the Federal Correctional Institution in Seagoville, just southeast of Dallas. As one socialite put it, after telling a long tale and refilling her glass of wine: “You can wave at him on your way to go shopping.”
Opening illustration by Stanley Martucci and Cheryl Griesbach, Photograph by the Voorhes. Fruitcake luxe photographs by Darren Braun.
This article originally appeared in the January 2016 issue of Texas Monthly. Subscribe today.
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