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It takes art williams four beers to

summon the will to reveal his formula.“The paper is everything,” he says as hesits in the living room of his nondescriptapartment near Chicago’s Midway Air-port. A jet booms by, he swigs deeply on

his beer, waits for the noise to die, then speaks. “I’ve never shown anybody this before,” he

says. “You realize how many people have offeredme money for this?”

Some men – he won’t say whom – once of-fered him $300,000 for the recipe, he says. Theypromised to set him up in a villa anywhere in the

world with a personal guard. It’s easy to picturehim sitting on a patio near the Caspian Sea sur-rounded by bucket-necked Russian gangsters –with his high, planed cheekbones and pumped-up physique, he’d fit right in with an EasternEuropean operation. But it’s also easy to thinkhe’s full of shit, because he’s a born hustler in thestreet-swaggering Chicago tradition.

“My friends are going to hate me for telling you,”he says, sighing, then shuffles off towards thekitchen. Down the hall come rumblings of openingdrawers, cabinets and, finally, the crackle of paper.

A moment later, Williams returns with scissors,

three plastic spray bottles and a sheet of whatlooks like a cheap, gray-white construction paperthat kindergarten teachers hand out at craft time.

“Feel how thin it is,” he whispers, handing mea sheet. Rubbing the paper between my thumband forefinger, I’m amazed at how authentic it al-ready feels. “That’s nothing,” he says. “Just wait.”

He cuts two dollar-size rectangles from thesheet, apologizing that they are not precise cuts(they’re actually almost exactly the right size).Then he sprays both cuts with adhesive, his wristsweeping fluidly as he presses the applicator. “Youhave to do it in one motion or you won’t get the

It takes art williams four beers to

summon the will to reveal his formula.“The paper is everything,” he says as hesits in the living room of his nondescriptapartment near Chicago’s Midway Air-port. A jet booms by, he swigs deeply on

his beer, waits for the noise to die, then speaks. “I’ve never shown anybody this before,” he

says. “You realize how many people have offeredme money for this?”

Some men – he won’t say whom – once offeredhim $300,000 for the recipe, he says. Theypromised to set him up in a villa anywhere in the

world with a personal guard. It’s easy to picturehim sitting on a patio near the Caspian Sea sur-rounded by bucket-necked Russian gangsters –with his high, planed cheekbones and pumped-upphysique, he’d fit right in with an Eastern Euro-pean operation. But it’s also easy to think he’s fullof shit, because he’s a born hustler in the street-swaggering Chicago tradition.

“My friends are going to hate me for telling you,”he sighs, then shuffles off towards the kitchen.Down the hall come rumblings of opening draw-ers, cabinets and, finally, the crackle of paper.

A moment later, Art returns with scissors, three

plastic spray bottles and a sheet of what a cheap, gray-white construction papkindergarten teachers hand out at craft t

“Feel how thin it is,” he whispers, hansheet. Rubbing the paper between my thforefinger, I’m amazed at how authentic feels. “That’s nothing,” he says. “Just wai

He cuts two dollar-size rectangles sheet, apologizing that they are not pre(they’re actually almost exactly the rigThen he sprays both cuts with adhesive,sweeping fluidly as he presses the applicahave to do it in one motion or you won

BY JASON KERSTEN ILLUSTRATION BY ANTAR DAYAL

Yy

Yy

In an era when counterfeiting has become the domain of amateurs,one of the last masters reveals how he conquered the 1996 New Note

and passed millions. For one priceless moment, his father was proud

right distribution,” he explains. After hedeftly presses the sheets together, avoidingair bubbles, we wait for it to dry. “I alwayswaited at least a half hour,” he says. “If youpush it, the sheets could come apart later on.Trust me – you don’t want that to happen.”

Another beer later, he hits both sides ofthe glued sheets with two shots of harden-ing solution, then a satin finishing spray.“Now this,” he says before applying thefinal douse, “is the shit.”

Five minutes later, I hold a twenty-dol-lar bill in one hand and Art Williams’ paperin the other, eyes closed. I can’t tell themapart. When I open my eyes, I realize thatWilliams’ paper not only feels perfect butalso bears the distinctive dull sheen.

“Now snap it,” Williams commands. I jerkboth ends of the rectangle. ,the sound is un-mistakable: It is the lovely, husky crack madeby the flying whip that drives the worldeconomy – the sound of the Almighty Dollar.

“Now imagine this with the watermark,the security thread, the reflective ink – ev-erything,” Williams says. “That’s what wasgreat about my money. It passed every test.”

At thirty-two years old,

Art Williams is a dying breed.In an era when ninety percentof American counterfeiters

are amateurs who use inkjet printers to runoff play money that can’t even fool aMcDonald’s cashier, he is one of the fewremaining craftsmen, schooled in a cen-turies-old practice. He is also an innovatorwho combined old-world techniques withdigital technology to create notes that wereso good that an FBI agent is said to haveonce counted $3,300 of his fakes on thehood of a police cruiser, then handed themback. By some estimates, Williams printedabout $10 million in nine years, making himone of the most successful American coun-terfeiters of the past quarter-century,

“He put a lot of work into his bills,” saysLorelei Pagano, a counterfeit specialist withthe Secret Service in Washington, D.C.“This guy was no button pusher. I’d rate hisbills as an eight or nine. (A perfect ten is acounterfeit bill known as a “supernote,” andonly one is known to exist – the NorthKorean government prints it in vast quanti-ties on a $10 million intaglio press similar tothe one used by the United States’ own Bu-reau of Engraving and Printing.)

In many ways, Williams’ story is the sto-ry of modern U.S. currency itself. Whencurrency designs radically changed in1996, he found himself nearly put out ofbusiness, then embarked on a Holy Grailquest to replicate the most secure FederalReserve note ever created: the $100 NewNote. That obsessive pursuit woulddefine his criminal career and his life.

Most counterfeiters ultimately becomevictims of their own success; they growoverconfident, print too much and drawtoo much attention. But Williams wasbrought down by something else entirely:family ties. “I got caught because I brokemy own rules,” he says, “and I broke myrules because of love.”

The south side of chicago is

as much shorthand for toughchildhoods as it is a geographi-cal reference. Bridgeport,

where Art Williams grew up in the Seven-ties, hasn’t changed much since the daysCarter Henry Harrison II, the first Chica-go-born mayor, called it a place “where menwere men and boys either hellions or earlycandidates for the last rites of the Church.”

Williams’ father, Arthur Sr., was a hellion.One of Art Jr.’s earliest memories is sitting inthe back seat of the family car and watchinghis dad and another man rob a truck full oftelevisions. Art’s mother, a blond beautyfrom Gainesville, Texas, suffered from bipo-lar disorder. After she was briefly institu-tionalized in 1982, her husband left the fam-ily for a woman he had been seeing on theside for years. At twelve, young Art and histwo younger siblings found themselvesfatherless, living in a Bridgeport housingproject with a heavily medicated mom.

Art Jr. was a smart kid, a prodigy even.

Just before his father left, he skipped twogrades, entering Saint Rita’s, a prestigiousCatholic high school, at the age of twelve. Ateacher noticed he had artistic abilities andsuggested he enroll in print shop. The schoolhad a professional-quality Heidelberg press.“It was beautiful, about thirty feet long andworth probably $100,000,” Williamsremembers. “I learned some basics on it. Iguess you could say it planted a kind of seed.”

Diminishing family finances forcedWilliams to transfer to Kelly, one of theworst public schools in Chicago. Hedropped out at after his sophomore yearand started robbing parking meters to helpsupport his family. He claims to have had adevice that opened every meter in Bridge-port, and used those coins to buy groceries.

When Williams was seventeen, his momstarted dating a man who went by thestreet name “DaVinci.” Williams refuses toreveal his real name but he says the monikercame from two things: his affinity for draw-ing and his abilities as a counterfeiter.

“I kinda knew what he did,” Williams saidwhen we took a drive through Bridgeport, “Iknew he was a criminal. Everyone in thisneighborhood is damn near a criminal.”DaVinci was short, of Italian decent andwore a goatee and a leather beanie – a livingportrait of the kind of old-school, aesthetic-minded counterfeiters now all but extinct.He worked alone, plying his trade in an un-derground print shop in Bridgeport and sell-ing batches of fake bills, 100 grand at a clip,probably to criminal connections in Europe.

Once Williams learned of DaVinci’s pro-fession, he quizzed him about it endlessly. AtComiskey Park, while other boys bondedwith their dads over the White Sox game,he’d grill DaVinci about ink mixtures and pa-per components. He begged DaVinci toshow him the trade, and when the older manrefused, Art bought a used two-color pressat a printers’ auction and ran off some twen-ty-dollar notes in a friend’s garage. “Theywere shit,” he says of his first bills. “They hadthis purple haze to them – I didn’t even try topass them. I told DaVinci if he didn’t help meit would be his fault if I got caught. It wassnotty kids’ stuff.” And it worked.

DaVinci took Williams to his print shopand initiated him into offset counterfeiting,a process that’s changed little in a century. Itbegins with plate-making, and the youngerman watched while the master pho-tographed both sides of a real $100 note withan accordion-style process camera. He in-spected the negatives on a light table, pick-ing out two fronts and one back, thenmasked out the green serial numbers and sealon one of the fronts. He then placed the mas-ter images into a “plate burner,” where high-intensity light sears images onto thin, chem-ically coated aluminum plates. He burnedseparate plates for the bill face, the back, se-rial numbers and seals. After they washedplates, all that remained were raised images.

While DaVinci worked, he lectured Arton the fine points and risks of the trade. “Ifyou let your operation get too big, you willget caught,” he warned. “Keep it small andstay in control. If you’re smart, you’ll makesome money and get out of it.”

“He was a pure traditionalist,” Williamsremembers. “In those days, counterfeitingwas something that was handed downthrough generations. I don’t know whotaught him. It was either his father or some-one close, and you could probably followthat chain back hundreds of years. He lec-tured me on the importance of taking pridein the work even if it was criminal.He toldme I was one of the last apprentices. I took

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THE ART of MAKING MONEY

Streetwise

Art Williams Jr. (left, outside hiscurrent home ) was raised in aBridgeport housing project on

Chicago’s tough South Side. Williams cameof age without a father, but he found asubstitute in an old-school forger whowent by the name DaVinci. Eventually hewould teach Williams everything about thelife and art of counterfeiting.

“IF YOU LET YOUR OPERATIONGET TOO BIG, YOU WILL GET

CAUGHT,” DAVINCI WARNED. “IFYOU’RE SMART, MAKE SOME

MONEY AND GET OUT.”

evoke an intensely pleasurable, almost sexu-al rush. Williams felt it for the first timewatching the finished sheets spill from thepress. “Orgasm is a good comparison, butthere really aren’t any words for that feel-ing,” he says. “It never went away for me. Ev-ery time was as powerful as that first time.”

When they were finished, Art passed hisfirst counterfeit note to a gas station atten-dant in downtown Chicago. “When I sawhim take the money it gave me an huge senseof power,” he remembers. “For a young kidfrom the South Side, that wasn’t somethingI was used to. I was immediately addicted.”

Despite his initial thrill,

Williams says he “didn’t havethe patience” to jump intocounterfeiting immediately; he

was entwined in “typical Bridgeport crimi-nal distractions,” which is to say that he andhis buddies robbed drug dealers while pos-ing as narcotics officers. Street crime beganlosing its allure in 1991 when he married hischildhood sweetheart, Karen Magers, a tallblonde of Irish and Mexican descent whowanted to become, of all things, a cop.

Magers gave Williams a son, Arthur J.Williams III, named after the fatherWilliams hadn’t seen in seven years. Terri-fied that a vengeful drug dealer would harmhis family, he quit street crime and, unbe-knownst to his wife, rented a dank, three-bedroom basement apartment. It became hisfirst counterfeiting operation. He dubbedthe place “the Dungeon,” and though he nowdismisses those early bills as “caveman stuff,”he was an innovator from the start.

In 1992, less than one half of one percentof counterfeiters used desktop publishingequipment, but Williams realized that digitalprinting was cheaper and more portablethan a full offset shop yet could be just aseffective. Instead of buying a process cameraand a plate maker for $3,000, he used a boot-

tope, he even rigged a fan-and-duct system.Williams hustled his first paper stock by

paying off a worker at a small Chicago news-paper $300 for a thousand sheets of RoyalLinen – an eighteen-pound, linen-based pa-per that did a good job of simulating the sev-enty-five-percent-cotton, twenty-five-per-cent-linen formula used by Crane andCompany, which has supplied the TreasuryDepartment with currency paper since1879. On a good run, he could use it to printabout $150,000 in counterfeit cash. Anoth-er technique he’d later use was to have alady friend show up at the loading docks ofChicago printing houses, tell workers shewas a teacher at one of the city’s schools andask them to donate stub rolls – the leftover

on the number Art left on his beeper, thecabby would pull up to a predeterminedmeeting spot within minutes. (The names ofWilliams’ cohorts have been changed.)

“Art sometimes made me five-dollar bills,”Vito remembers. “I’d hand them out aschange to passengers. Nobody ever noticed.

Within three months of opening the Dun-geon, Williams was printing about $50,000a month and selling it for twenty cents on thedollar. Large overseas rings print a million amonth and employ dozens of people, butWilliams kept things modest intentionally.“That kept me safe,” he says. “I’d make a lotof money, just live off it and have a greattime. Then I’d run out and start again.”

He bought a Pontiac Grand Prix and out-

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THE ART of MAKING MONEYthe knowledge he gave me and I amplified it.”

When DaVinci and Williams were fin-ished with the plates, they mixed inks – palegreen for the background, black for thefront, pine green for the back and brightgreen for the seals and serial numbers. Theythen fired up DaVinci’s four-color press and“built up” the bills on a pale green linenpaper, using the different plates and inks.

On the final print run, sheets of mint-con-dition $100 bills emerged from DaVinci’spress like Christmas cookies from an oven.Counterfeiters say that creating money can

leg copy of Adobe Photoshop and used it totouch up scans on an early Apple. He ran offhis bills on a diazotope blueprint machine –a high-end architectural printer. But digitalgear can’t reproduce the faint green back-ground of a bill, so he improvised by firstrunning blank sheets of paper through anoffset press, using it as a paper tinter beforeprinting details on the diazotope. The resultwas a “hybrid” bill that was both analog anddigital, a marriage of old and new. To keepneighbors from noticing the sickly sweetsmell of ink and ammonia from the diazo-

cores of one-ton paper rolls.To help him find clients and distribute his

money, he enlisted friends he’d grown upwith in Bridgeport. Sean, an Irish-Italianwith a nose for profit, located the buyers,who were usually Russian, Hungarian andMexican gangsters. He rarely met buyershimself, and when he did he brought along a6-foot-4, bald, 270-pound Italian-Americansteamroller named Joey who “did not knowfear.” When he wanted to move money ormaterials or avoid tails, he’d beep Vito, afast-talking Chicago taxi driver. Depending

fitted it with a high-end Kenwood systemand wore $200 Armani shirts for nights onthe town. It took only about four days toprint fifty grand; the rest of the month waspure freedom. Each weekday, Williamswould put on a T-shirt bearing the logo ofa friend’s contracting company, andMagers would drop him off at a construc-tion site. He’d wait for his wife to turn thecorner, then head over to Taylor Street tomeet up with friends. They’d go to a Soxgame, play basketball or just party.

“I never knew what he was up to, but Ihad my suspicions,” says Magers, who isnow indeed a Chicago police officer. “He’dalways have money, and I’d ask him how hegot it. He’d say it was payday, then I’d askhim for a stub, and he’d have another excuse.I was the investigator trying to crack thecase! But I just got tired of arguing with him.”

Williams found the double life exciting– until Magers left him in 1993. He was sodevastated that he shut down the Dun-geon and placed all of his equipment instorage. His mother, who had moved backto Texas, invited him to stay with her, so heheaded south, telling himself he would golegit. But Texas was a tough place for aSouth Side kid to make an honest living.

In Dallas, Williams quickly fell in with agroup of five young women enthralled by hisgood looks and street smarts. He enlistedthem in a new scheme: They’d flirt with drugdealers at honky-tonks and drop roofies intotheir drinks; when the dealers passed out,Williams would rob them blind. One of thegirls, Natalie, was a quiet, curly-hairedbrunette who had been raised a Mormon. “Istraight corrupted her,” says Williams withpride. “I don’t think anyone in Dallas isstreetwise, but she was hip . . . she was bad.”

Natalie was also whip-smart – and ambi-tious. When Williams finally revealed to herafter six months of dating that he occasion-ally counterfeited, she took an intense inter-

Print Shop

The Secret Service bustedthe counterfeit outfit atleft TK seizing the tkkind

of press and tk dollars. For years,the feds and counterfeiters haveengaged in a game of cat andmouse. “We knew we needed toadd security feature to battle theindustry,” says ThomasFerguson, a former head of acurrency security task force.

SECURITYTHREADHidden beneaththe surface, thethread is meantto discouragecounterfeitersfrom bleachingink off lowerdenominationsand raisingthem. Williamsprinted his ownthreads withmagnetic andfluorescent ink,then insertedthem betweentwo sheets.

PAPERAfter testinghundreds of paper stocks, Williamssettled on a starch-free directorypaper, which he then treated withchemicals. It fooled the popularcounterfeit-detector pens and had aconvincing feel.

MICRO-PRINTINGAND FINE-LINEENGRAVING Even high-endscanners andcopiers havetroubleresolving thetiny lettering onthe lower leftdenominationmark and theintricatebackground onthe portrait, butso does thenaked eye.Williams workedover his scans inPhotoshop tocreate simulatedlettering and abackgroundthat didn’tmuddy uponprinting.

ALL ABOUT THE BENJAMINThe Series 1996 $100 note is the most counterfeit-proof American

bill ever created. Here’s how Art Williams cracked the code

COLOR-SHIFTING INKThis metallic ink appears greenviewed head-on but black at anangle. Williams dug up anautomobile paint that reproducedthe effect, then had a stamp madeat – where else? – Kinko’s

WATERMARKCreated during the paper-making process, thewatermark is perhaps the most difficult part of abill to fake. Williams inserted portraits drawn ontissue paper between two sheets of paper; likereal watermarks, they were visible only whenheld up to light.

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est in it. They moved back to Chicago andWilliams reopened his print shop, this timewithout having to hide it from the woman heloved. He and Natalie married in 1995.

As DaVinci had advised, he kept hisnew operation under control and lived thegood life, especially by Bridgeport stan-dards. He had no idea that the risks andrewards of his trade were about transformas dramatically as U.S. money itself.

Money had already started

to change by 1990, the yearthe Bureau of Engraving andPrinting introduced the se-

curity thread – the first significant alterationin U.S. currency since 1928. Hold any bill ex-cept a $1 bill up to a light, and the thread ap-pears as vertical strip, with “USA,” the de-nomination and an American flag running itslength. Place that bill beneath an ultravioletlight, and the thread will beautifully fluo-resce: red for $100, yellow for a $50, greenfor a $20 and so on. Its primary purpose is toprevent counterfeiters from “bleaching” theink off $1 bills and reprinting them in higherdenominations, but it had an unforeseenflaw: Because it was embedded invisibly inthe same old bill, few even knew it existed. “Inever bothered with it at first,” Williamssays of the thread. “Nobody ever checked forit. I worried more about the pen.”

The counterfeit detector “pen” – patent-ed only a year after the security thread wasintroduced – was a felt-tipped marker with

a yellow, iodine-based ink that turned darkbrown when it reacted to the starch con-tained in most counterfeit paper. Since cur-rency is starch-free, the ink stays yellow oncash. By 1995, a company called Dri Markwas selling about 2 million pens a year forabout $3 each, and major chains like 7-Eleven were using the pens to test all $100bills. The pen was so effective that Williamsstarted printing $20s and $10s just to avoidit. Then, right when he was adjusting fromthe advent of the pen, he confronted thegreatest challenge twentieth-century coun-terfeiters have ever faced: the New Note.

In 1996, spurred by the advancing abili-ties of desktop publishing gear, the BEPcompletely redesigned the currency, startingwith the $100 bill. Many Americans initiallyscoffed at the new designs, particularly theoff-center portraits with their wide, bulbousforeheads. It all smacked of an aestheticwhim by some bureaucrat. In reality, everychange came down to anti-counterfeiting.

The larger portraits had far greater detailthan the old notes, making it harder forcopiers and scanners to resolve every line.The bills had “microprinting” – lettering sosmall that even the best computer equip-ment couldn’t perfectly replicate it. New,color-shifting ink on the denomination num-bers on lower right-hand corner reflectedgreen from one angle and black from anoth-er. Most ingenious was the watermark. Cre-ated by subtle variations in paper density, itwas invisible unless held in front of a light.

But the greatest strength of the redesignwas that it was radical. Suddenly the worldwas taking a fresh look at U.S. money. Inbars, people talked about the new bills,holding them to see the watermark andsecurity thread. For the first time in genera-tions, people were doing double takes oftheir cash, as if their marriage partner offifty-six years had just had cosmetic surgery.

That was not good news for Williams.After issuing the new $100, the Treasuryredesigned every bill except the $1 at therate of one a year. Williams knew that hewould either have to evolve his product orfall back into street crime. Cracking theNew Note became an obsession.

Choosing which denomination

to counterfeit was a no-brainerfor Williams. The $100 note of-fered the greatest potential profit,

and was the security prototype for everyother denomination – if he could crack it,then the entire currency line would be vul-nerable. He knew that there could be verylittle room for error. The new $100s weremore scrutinized than any bill ever made. Itmade the reward all the more enticing.

Williams began reverse-engineering thenew note by searching for new paper stockthat could pass the pen test. Using false iden-tities, he and Natalie had paper companiessend samples by the dozen to a P.O. box,then tested them with the Dri Mark pen.After weeks of disappointment, Natalie

made a discovery almost by accident: “Just toshow Art that nothing was working, I start-ed marking every piece of paper in the houseout of frustration,” she remembers. “I evenmarked a copy of the Chicago Sun-Times –and it worked! The ink came back yellow.”

Getting the newsprint paper was easy;Williams just went to the loading dock atthe Sun-Times’ printing house, waiting untilhe saw workers about to throw away stubrolls: “They just said, ‘Sure, take them.’ ”

With the paper problem solved, Williamstook on the most difficult challenge: the wa-termark. Crane creates it during the paper-making process by using a device called adandy roll; it presses raised images of theportraits into the wet paper pulp, displacingthe fibers in a matching pattern. Williamsexperimented with steaming the paper andscratching a mark into it, but the resultswere always a marred surface. After months,the solution finally came to him one night ina dream: “I saw two pieces of paper with thewatermark sitting between them.” The nextmorning, Natalie penciled a smoky image ofBen Franklin’s portrait onto some tissuepaper, cut it out, and they glued it betweentwo sheets of newsprint. “The moment wesaw it we knew it would work,” he says.

The twin-sheet method solved not onlythe watermark problem but also anotherissue: the security thread. Because it too wasinside the bill, all Williams had to do wasprint his own threads using fluorescent ink,then insert them between the sheets. The

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THE ART of MAKING MONEY

color-shifting ink on the “100” in the lowerright corner of the bill was also easily over-come, after some trial and error. He found ametallic automobile paint that replicated theblack-to-green effect, then had Kinko’s makehim a stamp in the same size and font as U.S.currency. He used it to apply the paint.

The final challenge – the microprinting –turned out to be the least bothersome.Though he couldn’t perfect the tiny letteringon Franklin’s collar, he was able to fake theshapes of words by putting in more hoursPhotoshopping – only scrutiny with a mag-nifying glass could reveal the difference. Abigger problem turned out to be printing onthe Hewlett-Packard 440; it jammed whenloaded with the thin newsprint paper andcouldn’t apply ink fine enough to create theuniform green background. Williams fellback on his old hybrid process. He used anoffset press to color his paper, then glued itto a thick “carrier sheet” that wouldn’t jamthe printer. After printing both sides of thebill on separate sheets, it was only a matterof matter of trimming them off the carriers,inserting the thread and the watermark be-tween them, and gluing them together. Thefinal touch was hitting them with the gloss,hardening spray and his Kinko’s stamp.

The quality of the new bills was unlikeanything he had created before.

“It was scary just looking at it,” Williamssays of the first Series 1996 $100 he made.“I knew it would change things. I was likethe caveman discovering fire.”

The new bills were an instant

hit. Within days of showingthem off, Sean came back toWilliams with orders for thirty

cents on the dollar – a premium rate. Somerequests were outrageous: $500,000, a mil-lion, 2 million. Given the work that went tointo his new bills, the only way to meet de-mand would be to hire people, but Williamswas wary of letting others in on his recipe.

or a Cadillac for three or four months, payeight grand and never think twice,” he re-members. He ate at expensive downtownrestaurants like Charlie Trotter’s three orfour nights a week, ordering bottles of DomPerignon. On nights out with friends, he’dcall in a stretch limo, pick everyone up andpay for everything. “I could drop ten grandin a single night, no problem,” he says.

More paranoia came with his increased

then pack the unassembled faces, strips andwatermarks into a box. At night in the mo-tels, Williams would go into the bathroomand assemble the cash he needed, flatteningbills on a portable press with steel clamps.

They roamed the back roads at a leisurelypace all week, lingering in towns they liked.They’d go mountain climbing in Wyomingor hit the beach in Miami. “It was total free-dom,” recalls Natalie. “We’d go wherever wewanted and not even pack. We’d just buyclothes or camping supplies along the way.”

On weekends, they went to work clean-ing the money at locations that seemed per-fectly designed for passing bad cash: outletstores. Disguising themselves, they targetedolder, outdoor strip malls where cameraswere scarce. While Art waited outside thestores like a bored husband, Natalie wouldenter and pay for an item under twenty dol-lars with a C-note. When cashiers checkedfor watermarks and security strips, theysaw what they expected to, and the realmoney they handed back was pure profit.

After a good day’s work, they’d have$3,000 in genuine cash and a trunk over-flowing with tchotchkes – candles, cheapshoes, books, scarves, hats, junk jewelry,perfume, pocket knives, CDs, neckties,dolls, toys, wine, bath oils and soap. By thetime their bogus bills hit the banks on Mon-day, they’d be long gone. “We had so manydamn candles in our house it was pathetic,”remembers Williams. “We couldn’t buyanything more, so we started buying baby

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At the same time, he and Natalie were eagerto see how far the new $100s could go.

Paranoid that someone would followhim, he moved his shop to a house in Mar-shall, Illinois, about 215 miles south ofChicago. He and Natalie would drive downonce a month and crank out $200,000 in aweek, sometimes spending two or threeweeks for bigger deals. A perfectionist,Williams routinely found himself taking amatch to $20,000 stacks because “they justdidn’t look right,” then starting over.

Garbage bags of cash, real and fake, beganstacking up in Marshall. Williams started tospend like a fiend. “I would rent a Corvette

spending and dealing. He spent thousandsat SpyShop USA, a “discreet electronics”store in downtown Chicago, for policescanners, wire detectors and night-visiongoggles so he could look for stakeout cars.

“He was out of his mind,” remembersVito, his driver. “He came over to my housewith this bug detector. I hadn’t seen the guyfor months, and he scanned every room.”

He and Natalie began disappearing rightafter the biggest deals, hitting the road formonths at time. One of the best things aboutWilliams’ note was that its production wasportable. Before leaving, they’d print fifty orsixty thousand dollars in bill components,

“I WAS BUSTED WITH $60,000 INCOUNTERFEIT IN A HOTEL WITH

MY WIFE’S NAKED SISTER,”WILLIAMS SAYS. “IT WAS A

DOUBLE BUST. IT WAS UGLY.”

clothes and toys. And then we’d go to theSalvation Army or the Catholic Charitiesof that town and drop it in their box.”

Art and Natalie soon realized they couldclean even more money if they brought alongadditional shoppers. They chose trustedfamily members and went on weekendspending sprees to the larger cities withinstriking distance of Chicago. Cincinnati, St.Louis, Springfield, Detroit – no Corn Belttown was safe from what quickly became adistinctly Williams brand of family bonding.

Art’s younger sister Mary (not her realname) remembers her brother and Natalieshowing up at her apartment in August2000, asking to stay awhile. She camehome from work the next day to find herapartment transformed into a small mint.Art and Natalie were in assembly mode.“Every flat surface had bills drying on it –the dining table, the kitchen counters,” shesays. “They had bills hanging on the cur-tains with clothespins. I never knew thatthey would put me in the middle of that.”

Mary’s shock quickly faded. A part-timemodel obsessed with shopping, she foundherself handed a wad of bills and told to godo what she loved best. She turned out to bea money-cleaning machine. “I could hit fif-teen stores in less than an hour,” she says.“I’d walk into stores all cheerful. I’d talk tothe cashiers. The most I made in a day was$5,000. I worked hard. I bought stuff I liked.I have a closetful of clothes I haven’t worn.”

“His money was so good,” Art’s uncle Lar-ry remembers wistfully. “It had the water-mark, everything. I had a nice wardrobe. Irolled into town after one trip with $3,200 inmy pocket. I couldn’t even close my wallet.”The experience of having his own nephewgive him counterfeit bills filled him with guiltfor only the briefest of moments. “The thingabout it was that it was fun. It was free. Itwas like God dropped it out of the sky. Did Ifeel like a criminal? Actually, I didn’t.”

Williams estimates he

printed about 4 to 5 mil-lion dollars’ of his newnotes in the first two

years, and his money only got better overtime. After a year, he decided he didn’t likethe brittle feel of the newsprint paper, so heand Natalie called in more samples. Onecompany sent directory paper, and the cou-ple discovered it too passed the pen test andfelt even more authentic than newsprint.They found a distributor in Texas.

Williams had managed to stay off the Se-cret Service’s radar largely because he madeexcellent fakes, contained his production,moved continuously and told few outsidehis family. Then came February 19th, 2001.

“That was my GoodFellas day. Rememberthe last part of the movie?” Williams asks,evoking the sequence in which a coked-upHenry Hill dashes around town performingchores for his family and the mob whilebeing shadowed by police helicopters.

Williams woke up before dawn thatmorning in a Southern state (he won’t saywhich), where he and Natalie were planningto build “a little fortress where no one would

ever find us.” In fact, he had been up all nightprinting $100,000 as payment for the peopleproviding him the land. He had to deliver themoney that morning, then drive 500 miles tohis shop in Marshall and pick up another$100,000 for a deal with his Russian clientsin Chicago that night. To top it off, beforeheading to Chicago, he and Natalie had todrive another 100 miles to Indianapolis tomeet her mom and little sister at the airport.They were coming to town to take his five-year-old son to Sears for a photo portrait.

All went according to plan until he metNatalie’s mother and sister in Indy. When

a double bust. It was ugly.”Things got even uglier the next morning

when city jail guards led him to an interroga-tion room where he came face to face withhis biggest fear: a special agent with the U.S.Secret Service. “The agents saw the moneyand told us he was definitely the one they’dbeen after,” recalls Marty O’Flaherty, one ofthe police officers who arrested Williamsand attended his interrogation. “Theycouldn’t pinpoint where he was at. They toldus these were the best bills they’d ever seen.”

Neither Williams nor Amy told the agentanything. At the first court hearing, the dis-

1987 about a trucker who attempts to rekin-dle a relationship with the son he abandonedyears ago. True to its title, the film is shame-lessly manipulative. Afterward, Nataliefound Art on the porch, trying to hide tears.

“I hadn’t seen my dad in so many years,and this movie got me all emotional,” he re-calls. “I said, ‘Screw it. I’m gonna find him.’ ”

Natalie punched Art’s dad’s name into anInternet locator site; an address popped upin minutes. Art wrote his dad a letter askinghim to leave his number with a friend.Within two weeks, they were on the phone.

It turned out Art Sr. was living in Alaska.He had been bouncing around the state foryears, working odd jobs and fixing engineson fishing boats. He had finally retired inChickaloon, a small town about sixty milesnortheast of Anchorage. He was still withAnise – the woman whom he had left Art’smother for all those years ago.

“We talked back and forth for three days.I didn’t tell him what I did,” says Williams.

Two months later, Williams, Natalieand their three-year-old son boarded aplane for Alaska. Art Jr. was a ball ofnerves by the time they landed. He didn’tknow if his old man would recognize him.He’d been a scrawny kid when his dad left;now he was a pumped-up thirty-year-old.He spotted his father him immediately andquickly embraced him at the airport.

They talked that entire first night, ener-gized by the midnight sun and the need tobridge twenty years. Williams’ dad told himabout working on fishing boats. He neglect-ed to mention that, in 1992, an Anchoragecourt had convicted him of robbery and bur-glary, and he’d spent several years in prison.

During that first night, Art’s father askedthe inevitable question: So, son, what ex-actly do you do to support yourself?

“I told him I made money,” recallsWilliams, “and he just kinda looked at mefunny, and then I explained that I really mademoney – counterfeit. He asked to see some.”

Art Jr. had brought $5,000 in bogus billsto Alaska. He handed his father a fake $100bill. “He got that glow in his face and askedif I could make more,” remembers Williams.“I wish he would’ve said, ‘No, son, it’s timeto stop,’ but he didn’t. I looked at it like mydad was interested in something I wasdoing. I wanted to make him proud.”

Two weeks later, $60,000 was drying inArt Sr.’s backyard shed. His father promisednot to tell a soul about the money. The billswere far from Williams’ best. He had to usea thicker paper he bought from a crafts storeand didn’t have his offset press to tint it, sothe background came out too white. Nor-mally, he also used an HP inkjet from 1995; itprovided less definition than newer models,but its colors were more vivid. Unable tofind one in Anchorage, he’d settled for anewer model with a subpar gray scale. Hecompensated by making a Series 1993 $100,hoping its age would account for the poorerprinting. When they tried out the notes inan local mall, nobody seemed to notice.

Flush with cash, Art Jr. suggested that heand his dad travel to Chicago to visit his lit-tle sister Mary. They flew to Seattle, rented

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8 ROLLING STONE, MONTH 00, 2005 ILLUSTRATION CREDIT TK; FASHION CREDITS HERE

THE ART of MAKING MONEY

The Family Biz

When Williams was twelve, hisfather, Art Sr. (left), married awoman named Anise and

settled in Alaska. Twenty years later, whenreunited with his father, Art Jr. showed himone of his fake bills. “I wish he would havesaid, ‘Son, stop,’ but he didn’t,” Art says(above, with a Mustang he bought in 2000).

Art explained that he had to head on toChicago, Natalie’s little sister Amy begged tocome along. Art didn’t object. In Marshall,he had picked up an extra satchel of $60,000just to hit the town. Showing her aroundcould be fun. The fact that she was blond,cute and flirtatious didn’t hurt, either.

“Up until that time, me and Amy hadgotten very close,” Williams says quietly.“We’d never done nothing, but I had takenher out to dinner. Maybe we had talkedsexy to each other, nothing real major. Yougotta understand that I love my wife.”

Art rented a car for Natalie and hermother, then he and Amy headed for Chica-go, where they checked into a suite at theHouse of Blues Hotel. The Russians cameto the room, the deal went down and theyall headed downstairs to the club. As theevening culminated, the pair retreated tothe hotel room to smoke a joint.

Williams remembers that Amy had justcome out of the bathroom wearing a robe,when there was knock on the door. Beforehe could tell her that it was a very bad ideato open it, four Chicago police officersbrushed past her into the room.

They had been responding to a report ofloud music, but once they saw the bag ofpot on the nightstand, they searched theroom. Williams watched, horrified, as oneof the officers opened the satchel. At firstthe cop froze, then he picked up a stack of$100s, took a good look at it and smiled.

“I was busted with $60,000 in counter-feit while in a hotel room with my wife’snaked sister,” Williams declares, shakinghis head. “That was not just a bust, it was

trict attorney claimed that when Amyopened the door, the police saw the drugs,and therefore had probable cause to searchthe room. But Williams’ lawyers proved itwas a lie – the nightstand hadn’t been visiblefrom the door. The judge dismissed the caseon the grounds of illegal search and seizure,and the $60,000 in evidence was burned.

Williams says he doesn’t know why thecops came to his door but believes they nev-er suspected he had money. Natalie took thebust in stride. “I was upset, but I trustedthem both, and I know nothing ever hap-pened,” she says. “I was pregnant at the time,and I was more upset at the false arrest.”

Williams had dodged bullets, both legaland personal. But his next encounter withthe Secret Service would be far messier.

Ch i c a g o wa s t o o h o t f o r

Williams after the House of Bluesbust. He believes the Secret Ser-vice began tailing him the moment

he got out of jail. He stayed in town just twodays and then tried to lose them by takingback roads to Dallas. When an SUV showedup in his rearview mirror there, too, hebecame severely depressed. ThroughoutMarch, he holed up at Natalie’s parents’house in Lewisville, Texas, waiting forthings to cool. One day he found himselfengrossed in a TV showing of Over the Top,a sentimental Sylvester Stallone flick from

a car and partied as they dropped fakesacross 2,000 miles of back road. “I learnedhe had a lot of guilt and regret for leavingus,” Williams says of the trip. “He had a lotof love; he just didn’t know how to place it.”

The elder Williams even invited his sonand family to stay in Alaska permanently,and Art Jr. immediately latched onto it. Alas-ka offered the perfect vanishing act; theSecret Service would have no idea where hewent. He and Natalie had talked about do-ing a final series of batches, a monster print-ing of 4 or 5 million dollars that would takeat least six months. Sean could set up a one-time megadeal, then they could be set for life.And when he and his dad got back to Alas-ka, he discovered he had just the product.

Before leaving on the road trip, Art hadalready started Photoshopping his next-generation bill: a Series 2001 fifty-dollarnote. After he and his dad reunited withMary in Chicago, he had even shipped acrate of pre-tinted directory paper toChickaloon. Stuck with the in-laws, Natal-ie had buried herself in the computer, thenfound an HP 4450 and finished the fifty.

It was the best fake Williams ever saw.“It was just perfect,” he says, shaking his

head. “After she put on the finishing touch-es, it sparkled. The lines, the color . . . Icould have spent millions of those.”

Art’s father was equally

impressed with the fifty. Hewas so excited that he evensaid that he had some friends

eager to help pass them. That’s how Art Jr.learned his dad had broken his promise.

Before the road trip, Art Sr. had givenAnise about $3,000 of the 1993 fakes andexplained how he and his son had turned itinto real money by buying cheap items andgetting back the change. Within days,Anise had given the fake cash to Vicki andJim Shanigan, a Native American couplewho lived in the nearby town of Wasillaand were trusted old friends. She instruct-ed them to go shopping, purchase whateveritems under twenty dollars they wantedand bring back the change and receipts.

“I was so pissed, and sad,” Williams re-members. “That was the only fight my dadand I ever had. I just clammed up and would-n’t talk to him for a day. Once I knew thatothers were involved, I knew I had to leave.”

Art Jr. ditched his printing equipmentand burned all his paper. He and Natalie hadalready made about $5,000 worth of thenew fifties; the bills were so good he could-n’t destroy them. The pair hit the malls hardin attempt to pass all of it before leaving.

At the same time Art Jr. and Natalie werefuriously unloading the fifties, the Shani-gans were passing the old $100s. But theShanigans were amateur passers. OnWednesday, July 11th, they visited the FifthAvenue Mall, in downtown Anchorage.Cashiers from at least two stores in the mallnoticed that the old $100 bills the Shaniganshad handed them were slightly hazy and flatto the touch. The couple was still amblingthrough the mall when cops detained them.

Later that day, U.S. Secret Service Resi-

dent Agent Michael Sweezey and SpecialAgent Robert Clark showed up at Anchor-age police headquarters. When they in-spected the notes the Shanigans had passed,they were impressed. The bills, Clark laternoted in an affidavit, “were of good quality,and appeared to be most likely produced bya sophisticated computer, scanner andprinter operation. The bills had false securi-ty strips and were made of acid-free paper.”

Once the agents separated the Shanigans,each quickly caved and revealed that Aniseand Art Sr. had given them the cash and thatArt Jr. had made it. Within a day, the Shani-gans had enough wires and recording de-

conviction rate, but she was convinced shecould beat the rap. She ended up getting fiveyears and is scheduled for release in 2006.

Art Jr. himself got a light sentence consid-ering his estimate that he printed about $10million in bad bills over the years. Becausethere was no physical evidence against him– only statements from conspirators – hewas able to strike a plea bargain for threeyears as long as he also admitted passing billsin Texas and Oklahoma. As part of the deal,the feds agreed not to prosecute Natalie. Hedid his time quietly at the Federal Correc-tional Institute in Waseca, Minnesota.

The evening Art Jr. was released, his ex-

9

Jason Kersten is the author of Journalof the Dead (HarperCollins). This is hisfirst feature for Rolling Stone.

THE ART of MAKING MONEY

vices on them to launch a radio network.The next day, Vicki Shanigan called

Anise and explained that the she and herhusband had spent nearly all the $3,000.Anise was thrilled, especially later that daywhen Jim Shanigan stopped by to drop offthe change. “Look how good they’re doing!”she proclaimed to her husband, cluelessthat the Secret Service was recording everyword. Art Sr. was also taped saying he waspicking up $20,000 from his son that night.

But there was no pickup that night.When Williams stopped by to see his son,Art Jr. told him he had halted productionand was heading back to Texas in a fewdays. The evening they left, the elderWilliams took his son and his family to theairport. It was a strained goodbye.

“After all that time, I finally found him.Now I had no idea when I’d ever see himagain,” remembers Williams. “At the sametime, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

The following afternoon, the Secret Ser-vice arrested Art Sr. and Anise andsearched their home. They found no coun-terfeit money but had both of them on tapeadmitting involvement. Anise told theagents where they could find her stepson.

Art and Natalie were arrested in Dallasthe next day.

In the final heartwarming se-

quence of Over the Top, Stallone’s sonshows up to root for his dad at an arm-wrestling contest in Las Vegas, which

he naturally wins. For the Williams family,the contest was U.S. vs. Arthur J. WilliamsSr., et al., in an Anchorage courtroom, andthe Williamses never stood a chance.

Art Sr. took the hardest hit. Agents hadfound a rifle and pistol on his propertywhen they searched it – hardly unusual inAlaska but still illegal for convicted felonsto possess. The state threw the additionalcharges at him, and in the end he was ableto plea out to only five years, ten months.

Anise decided she would go to trial. TheSecret Service has a ninety-nine percent

wife, Karen, picked him up from the Grey-hound station in downtown Chicago. Shewas a driving her police cruiser, and Art satin the back seat with their son. Her cellphone rang, and it was Art’s younger sister,sobbing uncontrollably. Their father, whowas serving his time at a prison in Sheridan,Oregon, had died in his cell of a massiveheart attack that very morning. He was fifty-seven years old. Only three days earlier, hehad written his son a long letter apologizingfor his shortcomings as a father and said hehoped to rectify things when he got out.

Art Jr. broke down there in the back ofthe cruiser. “I blame myself for my dad’sdeath,” he says with a choke in his voice. “Iwanted my father in my life, and I was will-ing to throw out all my rules to get that. . . .And for a brief moment I had him.”

In the past year, Williams has wrestledthe guilt and difficulties of going straight. Heand Natalie are still together. Sean, who hashimself gone legit, gave him a job at his real-estate brokerage, but he had to quit becausehis parole forbids him from working at any-thing that has to do with “credit, credit cardsand negotiable instruments.” “I guess thatmeans I can’t be around money,” he says.

If Williams ever returned to faking mon-ey, he’d be confronted with another new billto test his abilities: the Series 2004 notes. “Igotta give it to them – the new bills aregood,” he says. He’s impressed by the nestedhexagons on the background, which hethinks would be the big challenge to repli-cate. Still, he adds, “there’s always a way.”

Williams swears he’s already paid toohigh a price to try counterfeiting again. He isnow working on a plan to market radio -fre-quency tags that will allow law-enforcementofficers to run license plates simply bypointing a receiver at them. “The ultimatekicker would be if I got a contract with theSecret Service,” he says, laughing.

“I BLAME MYSELF FOR DAD’SDEATH,” WILLIAMS SAYS. “I

WANTED HIM IN MY LIFE, AND IWAS WILLING TO THROW OUTALL MY RULES TO GET THAT.”