[APPLAUSE]

FRANK ABAGNALE: Good morning.

It's a pleasure to be here this morning.

I'm gonna ask your indulgence on two things.

It's allergy season, so I have a real hard time

during this time of the year speaking.

And two, most of the speaking I do when I walk up to the podium

is very technical.

It deals with cyber crime and identity theft, forgery,

embezzlements, and things of that nature.

I don't often talk about my life.

But Google has asked me today to do something different

and talk a little bit about my life.

So I will do that.

And then at the end, of course, I'll take questions.

And those questions can be about any subject matter

that you like to ask.

As you know, I've had a lot of people tell my story.

I had a great movie director write a film about my life.

I had a great Broadway musical team make a Tony Award-winning

Broadway musical about my life.

Had a popular television show on TV,

"White Collar," for four years created around my life.

And most of those very creative people

have actually never met me personally.

But they've enjoyed telling my story from their point of view.

So I thought I would take a few minutes this morning

and actually tell you the story from my point of view.

I was raised just north of New York City in Westchester

County, New York.

I was actually one of four children

in the family, the so-called middle child of the four.

I was educated there by the Christian Brothers of Ireland

in a private Catholic school called

Iona where I went to school from kindergarten to high school.

By the time I had reached the age of 16, in the 10th grade,

my parents after 22 years of marriage one day

decided to get a divorce.

Unlike most divorces where the children were usually

the first to know, my parents were

very good about keeping that a secret.

I remember being in the 10th grade when the father walked

in the classroom one afternoon, asked a brother

to excuse me from class.

When I came out in the hallway, the father handed me my books

and told me that one of the brothers

would drive me to the county seat

in White Plains, New York where I would meet my parents,

and they would explain what was going on.

I remember the brother dropped me at the steps of a big stone

building and told me to go on up the steps

where my parents would be waiting for me in the lobby.

I remember climbing the steps, seeing a sign on the building

that said "Family Court."

But I really didn't understand what that meant.

When I arrived in the lobby, my parents were not there.

But I was ushered into the back of an immense courtroom

where my parents were standing before a judge.

I couldn't hear what the judge was saying, nor my parents'

response.

But eventually, the judge saw me at the back of the room

and motioned me to approach the bench.

So I walked up the stand in between my parents.

I remember distinctly that the judge never looked at me.

He never acknowledged I was standing there.

He simply read from his papers and said that my parents

were getting a divorce.

And because I was 16 years of age,

I would need to tell the court which

parent I chose to live with.

I started to cry.

So I turned and ran out of the courtroom.

Judge called for a 10-minute recess.

But by the time my parents got outside, I was gone.

My mother never saw me again for about seven years until I

was a young adult. Contrary to the movie,

my father never saw me or ever spoke to me again.

In the mid-1960s, running away was a very popular thing

for young people.

A lot of them got caught up in Haight-Ashbury, the hippie

scene, the drug scene.

Instead, I took a few belongings from my home,

packed them in a bag, boarded what was then the New Haven

and Hartford railroad for the short train ride

down to Grand Central Terminal in New York.

My father did own a stationary store in Manhattan.

It was located on the corner of 40th and Madison.

Like all of us, we had to work in that store.

So from the time I was about 13, I made deliveries

my dad in the summer on a bike.

I knew the city very well.

So naturally, I started looking for the same type of work.

There were a lot of signs on the windows-- stock

boy, delivery boy, part time.

I'd walk in and apply.

So tell me, young man, how old are you?

Uh, 16.

How far did you go in high school?

Uh, 10th grade.

I'll hire you.

I went to work for a small amount of money

a few hours a day.

But I soon realized I couldn't support myself

on that amount of money.

I also realize as long as people believed I was 16 years old,

they weren't going to pay me any more money.

At 16, I was 6 foot tall.

I've always had little gray hair.

My friends in school used to say that once

a week, when we dressed in a suit for mass,

I looked more like a teacher.

So I decided to lie about my age.

In New York, we had a driver's license at 16.

Back then, it didn't have a photo on it, just an IBM card.

So I altered one digit of my date of birth.

I was actually born in April of 1948.

But I dropped the four, converted it to a three.

And that made me 26 years old.

I walked around applying for the same type of work.

People gave me a little more money, a few more hours.

But even then, it was very difficult to make ends meet.

One of the few things I had taken when I left home

was a checkbook.

I had money from work in the summers.

I had some money in that checking account.

So every so often, I would write a check

to supplement my income--

$20, $25.

The funds were there.

The checks were good.

But it was my friends, my peers, who would constantly say to me,

you know, you're the only guy who

walks into a bank in the middle of Manhattan.

You have no account there.

You don't know a soul.

You talk to somebody behind the desk, and they OK your check.

Oh, well, my checks are good.

But if I walked in there, they wouldn't touch my check.

You walk in there, they don't bat an eye.

Years later, reporters would write and speculate

and say that that was my upbringing-- mannerisms, dress,

appearance, speech.

Whatever it was, it was very easy to do.

So consequently, when the money ran out,

I kept writing those checks.

Of course, the checks started to bounce.

Police started looking for me as a runaway.

So I thought maybe it was a good time

to start thinking about leaving New York City.

But I was quite apprehensive about going

to Chicago or Miami, wondered if they'd cash a New York

check on a New York driver's license in Miami

as quickly as they did in Manhattan.

I was walking up 42nd Street one afternoon about 5 o'clock

in the evening, 16 years old, pondering

all of these things, when I started

to approach the front door of an old hotel that used to be there

called the Commodore Hotel--

now the Grand Hyatt.

Just as I was about to get to the front door of the hotel,

out stepped an Eastern Airline flight crew onto the sidewalk.

I couldn't help but notice the captain, the copilot,

the flight engineer, about three or four flight attendants

dragging their bags to the curb to load them in the van

to take them to the airport.

As they loaded the van, I thought to myself, that's it.

I could pose as a pilot.

I could travel all over the world for free.

I probably could get just about anybody

anywhere to cash a check for me.

So I walked up the street a little further

to 42nd and Park.

I went to crossover.

I heard a huge helicopter.

So I looked up, and there was New York Airways

landing on the roof of the Pan Am building.

Pan Am, the nation's flag carrier, the airline

that flew around the world--

I thought, what a perfect airline to use.

So the next day, I placed a phone call

to the executive corporate offices of Pan Am.

I remember distinctly when the phone was ringing,

I had absolutely no idea what I was going to say.

When they answered, "Pan American Airlines.

Good morning, can I help you?"

Yes, ma'am.

I'd like to--

I'd like to speak to somebody in the purchasing department.

"Purchasing?

One moment."

The clerk came on.

I said, yes, sir.

Maybe you can help me.

My name is John Black.

I'm a copilot with a company based out of San Francisco.

Been with the company about seven years, but never

had anything like this come up before.

"What's the problem?"

Well, we flew a trip in here yesterday.

We're going out later today.

Yesterday, I sent my uniform out through the hotel

to have it dry cleaned.

Now the hotel and the cleaners say they can't find it.

I'm with a flight in about four hours--

new uniform.

"Don't you have a spare uniform?"

Certainly, back home in San Francisco.

But I'd never get it here in time for my flight.

Do you understand this will cost you the price of a uniform, not

the company?"

I understand.

"Hold on.

I'll be right back."

He came back and said, my supervisor

says you need to go down to the Well-Built Uniform

Company on Fifth Avenue.

They're our supplier.

I'll call them and let them know you're on the way.

Well, that's exactly what I wanted to know.

So I went down to the Well-Built Uniform Company.

Little fella, Mr. Rosen fitted me out

in the uniform, black aberdeen with three gold stripes

on the arm.

I certainly looked old enough to be the pilot.

When he was all done, I said, how much do I owe you?

"Well, the uniform's $286."

I said, no problem.

I'll write you a check.

"No, um, we can't take any checks."

Oh, well, then I'll just pay you cash.

We can't accept cash.

You need to fill out this computer card.

Then in these boxes, put your employee number.

Then we bill this back under uniform allowance,

comes out of your next Pan Em paycheck.

Well, that's even better.

Go ahead and do that.

New York had two airports--

LaGuardia and Kennedy.

LaGuardia was 20 minutes from Manhattan, Kennedy was 50.

Naturally, LaGuardia being the closer of the two,

that's where I went.

I spent most of the morning walking around LaGuardia

in the uniform, trying to figure out now

that I had this uniform, how the hell do

you get on these planes?

I got a little hungry.

So about lunchtime, I walked in the luncheonette