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The Alleged Criminal Saga of an All American Bandit from Brunswick

Breaking Dad

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Larry Gore's your go-to Allstate guy in Medina, Ohio. He's got you covered on the things that matter most: your family, your home, your car, your business. Hell, even your boat. "My knowledge and understanding of the people in this community help me provide customers with an outstanding level of service," Gore's Allstate page attests. "I can help you prepare a strategy to achieve your financial goals."

Not exactly a practice-what-you-preach guy, though, Larry Gore — that is, if you're inclined to believe the cops. Or the neighborhood rumors, for that matter. Just today, Gore's strategy to achieve his own financial goals took a discouraging turn. You might say the strategy collapsed, or that it imploded, or that it ran its natural course. But whatever it did, Gore's got a chance, twiddling his thumbs in the Medina County Sheriff's Office, to mull it over.

It's been an unseasonably chilly few days down here in Cleveland's deep southern suburbs, but the interview room where Gore's now being held has to feel colder and more sterile than anyplace outdoors in Brunswick, where he lives, or Medina, where he works, or Valley City or Columbia Station, where he is alleged to have robbed banks.

Gore was pulled over more than an hour ago in Brunswick Hills and arrested on the spot by a detective sergeant with the Medina County Sheriff's Office. He was taken into custody right away and has been sitting here for half an hour. It's not until 12:09 p.m. that detectives James Cartwright of Medina County, James Rico of Lorain County, and Mary Gross of Medina arrive and start probing him for information.

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"This is the room where everything I say is used against me," Gore chides them, familiar with his rights. And even though in some ways he wants to unburden himself — to find, even here, a sympathetic ear ­— he won't disclose all the details the detectives are after. Not about this morning's robbery at the FirstMerit Bank on Royalton Road in Columbia Station, and not about three other robberies in 2014 that he's suspected of as well.

At least not right away, he won't.

"I think from here on out," Gore advises his interrogators early on, "I need to talk to a lawyer."

That's a prudent request — though its legal ambiguity would be debated in pre-trial motions — and one should expect nothing less from an insurance agent of Gore's caliber and cred. But not even Allstate's Mayhem Man (a suddenly relevant, if cruelly ironic, mascot) can protect Larry Gore from a hankering to talk. One senses he's been dealing with a tremendous amount of stress.

And who wouldn't, with a juggernaut mortgage to fend off (he lives in the nicest home in Brunswick's Waite Farms development; price tag: $361,000); mounting college tuition to cough up; an insurance business to sustain; and, at 47 years old, an archetypal image (the All-American family man, the golden suburban dad) to uphold?

Detectives Cartwright, Rico and Gross know there's nothing more they can do once Gore has invoked his right to an attorney. They stand to leave the interview room, but at the door Mary Gross turns back and offers a kind of condolence.

"If you have any questions for us, we'll answer them the best we can," she says. "We know you're not a bad guy."


The robberies began on July 23, 2014.

Larry Gore killed the engine of his black Honda Accord in the parking lot of the freestanding Medina FirstMerit on State Route 3, Court Street. It was late morning, and the sun was out and warm. This particular branch was only five minutes south from his AllState franchise in the plaza on West Liberty Street and was secluded from the miniature bustle of downtown Medina. It was certainly a safer bet, as far as robberies go, than the branch up the street on Medina's Public Square.

Moreover, the Court Street location had drive-through teller service on the back side, which meant it was seldom crowded indoors: Fewer witnesses. Fewer threats.

Despite the summer heat, the robber (who is believed to be Gore) was dressed — almost parodically — as a cat burglar: dark athletic pants, hooded jacket, blue knit ski cap, sunglasses. The sandy dusting of his facial hair was barely visible in the shadows. He carried no weapon and he did not speak.

At 11:19 a.m., he hopped the 5-foot counter — a spry and driven former athlete, Gore — and compelled the teller to fork over the dough.

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In banking, tellers (almost always bottom-rung employees) are advised to keep only $3,000 to $5,000 in a top working drawer and the balance of their station's currency in a locked second drawer. The theory is that the second-drawer money is immediately available to a teller who might need additional cash but not to the stick-up man.

Gore knew about the second drawer. Prosecutors would later claim that having a relative who'd worked for many years in the banking industry clued him into the terminology. Regardless, he drove away from the FirstMerit with $5,317 in hand. No one was harmed. No one was caught.


"It might be a few minutes," says detective James Cartwright, poking his head into the interview room at the Medina County Sheriff's Office to keep Gore abreast of his processing. "Can I get you a glass of water?"

"Yeah, that'd be great," Gore says.

Cartwright gets the water and returns, asking the seated and handcuffed Gore if he needs help taking a sip.

"No," Gore responds, but he knows he does. Just not with the water. "Hey, can I talk to you for a second?"

Cartwright obliges.

Gore's attorney, David Sheldon, would later attempt to have his client's incriminating statements at the sheriff's office deemed inadmissible because he'd already requested an attorney. The prosecution would counter, in back-and-forth pretrial motions, that even if the court were inclined to interpret Gore's requests as unambiguous (which the prosecution sure didn't), Gore's right to communicate through counsel was rescinded the moment he re-initiated conversation with police.

Whether it's admissible or not, Gore begins talking with Cartwright, and detective Gross re-enters the room:

"Everything other than today's robbery is circumstantial," Gore tells them, for example. "You had the GPS tracker. Why didn't you arrest me before?" he wants to know.

"How much time would I be looking at?" he asks.

Gore does periodically say that he ought to speak to an attorney. And at one point, he even references his right to remain silent. But the detectives know he's wobbly, and they capitalize.

"We'd like to recover the clothing that was worn in the robberies," Cartwright mentions.

Gore pauses.

"What if that stuff happened to be destroyed?"



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Blue jeans, hooded jacket, dark coat, hat and shades for robbery No. 2. Same outfit, different bank. This time, four months after the FirstMerit job, Gore allegedly drove to the PNC in Valley City. It was a 20-minute trip west, via the backroads, from his Brunswick home.

In a diagonal parking spot on Center Road, the tiny town's main (and only) drag, Gore gazed into the windows of the stern and sober government building-turned-bank. An American flag rapped against its flagpole in the biting late-autumn air.

It was Nov. 21, 2014, and at that time, Gore couldn't have been trying to outsmart authorities. After all, the robbery he was about to commit was so logistically similar to the one he'd committed in July that county investigators immediately began working to validate the probable connection.

On paper and in practice, all signs pointed to the same guy. The getaway vehicle was a black Honda Accord, model year 2011 or 2012. The robber wore similar clothes and arrived at almost precisely the same time. (The incident in Valley City occurred at 11:32 a.m.) Witness statements on Gore's physical build differed: Two women at the Valley City PNC, a customer and a bank teller, identified him as shorter and younger than he was, in part because (like at the Medina FirstMerit), he hopped the counter to demand money from a teller. Surveillance video would later corroborate Gore's real physical description: 6-foot-1-inch, 210 pounds.

This time, though, Gore spoke.

"Where is the second drawer?" he demanded. "Give me the fucking money! I want 100s!"

And this time, Gore drove off with a haul less than half the size of his first: only $2,202. That wasn't even enough to pay his monthly mortgage ($2,341) on the Waite Farms home he purchased in 2007. The stressors ­— and the bills, one imagines ­— were continuing to mount.

Investigators, hypothesizing a serial offender, swept the area and discovered a discarded plastic Pat O'Brien license placard on the southbound lane of Lester Road. Lester runs south from Valley City, parallel to Columbia Road, and would be an optimal route for a getaway vehicle heading, say, toward Medina. (Detective Cartwright would initially claim officers found the placard in a ditch off nearby Neff Road, but prosecutors have argued that that was an honest mistake.)

The Pat O'Brien placard had impressions on the back, dirt marks mostly. Investigators believed the suspect placed the placard over his actual license plate, and that the dirt, salt and snow from the plate's numbers were transferred to the Pat O'Brien shield.

BP(?)8920. Or maybe BR(?)8920. That's what the Medina cops, poring over the placard with flashlights, were able to decipher. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to go on.


"I still think I need to talk to a lawyer," Gore is telling Cartwright and Gross in the interview room, and Cartwright and Gross are getting antsy. A transport will be arriving shortly to take Gore out to Lorain, and they want to get all they can before he's gone. They tell him an attorney will be provided for him before walking out.

But five minutes later, they return. "What do you think?" Gross says.

"I think I am just going to wait until I have an attorney," Gore responds.

"You sure you want to go that way?" Cartwright asks.

Gore ponders the question for a moment, and is ultimately dislodged from his reticence. He starts making several more "statements against his interest" over the course of five minutes before he advises the detectives — for the fourth time — that he still thinks he'd like to talk to a lawyer.

Fair enough.

Having been questioned, on and off, for an hour and a half, Gore is transported to the Lorain County Sheriff's Office. But once he arrives, he is placed, yet again, in a soulless interview room and submits to questioning. It's just detective James Rico this time, and Rico advises Gore that his Miranda rights still apply. "You have the right," Rico starts, and Gore nods.

Rico wants to talk about the robberies that occurred in Lorain County, he says, and then he wants to talk about Gore's personal finances.

Rico would claim, during questioning at a pretrial hearing, that in the hallway of the Medina Sheriff's Office, on Gore's way out, Gore told Rico he wanted to talk to him once he arrived in Lorain. That claim is vigorously disputed by Gore and his lawyer David Sheldon. But Rico said he was "100 percent sure" the conversation happened.

"I have nothing against Mr. Gore," Rico would say. "I like Mr. Gore. If it wasn't for the robberies, I could see myself having a beer with him."


Two thousand bucks doesn't make much of a dent in the regular expenses of a Brunswick lifestyle, especially not if you're spending long hours at the Horseshoe Casino, as neighbors say Larry Gore was known to do in the months preceding his arrest. It's unclear what role the rumored gambling might have played in Gore's private financial calculations, though: Like robbing banks, was it a high-risk, high-reward strategy for achieving his financial goals, which at that time, one surmises, were little more than "stay afloat"? Or was it the gambling — like the mortgage and the tuition — that the robberies helped underwrite?

The Waite Farms neighbors don't like to speculate, at least not in public. And Gore's closest friends prefer to say nothing at all rather than risk saying something inadvertently incriminating. A long list of them contacted by Scene declined to talk on the record about their friend and neighbor, but there are stories.

Gore's wife Tiffany, for instance, a bombshell cheerleader at Brunswick High back in the '80s, was known to tell friends that they were paying their kids' college tuition in cash. One Brunswick High alum told Scene that Tiffany had been disliked (and still is) by many classmates because of her haughtiness. Another, a current close friend of Tiffany's, said that neighbors are all emotionally behind the Gore family, and that Tiffany's biggest priority is keeping the house in Waite Farms — at least until their youngest graduates high school.

Tiffany had long been a stay-at-home mom, her friend said, but her college degree is in education, and since her husband's arrest, she's been "picking up some days as a sub."

The Waite Farms house was foreclosed on in June, three months after Larry's arrest. At the time, the Gores owed $335,000 on it, including interest and late fees for missed payments. Tiffany didn't respond to multiple requests for comment. And when reached through a friend, she declined.

Both Tiffany's father, Ron Less, and her brother, Ron Less Jr., are AllState franchise men like Larry. In fact, the phone number for Gore's AllState business, which closed shortly after his arrest, now redirects to the office in North Royalton — Ron Less Jr.'s shop.

"No one here has anything to say about that," said an associate, when reached by phone and asked about the case. Multiple attempts to contact Ron Less Jr. were unsuccessful.

It's still not known whether and how much Tiffany Gore knew about the robberies.

What's obvious, though, is that the $2,200 Gore is alleged to have stolen on Nov. 21, 2014, didn't last long, wherever it went. After getting away with two robberies within four months (and 10 miles) of each other, a ballsy Gore allegedly did it once again. At 10:52 a.m. on Dec. 8, he robbed the Fifth Third Bank on Royalton Road in Columbia Station. It was less than three weeks removed from his previous job.

On the very same day, however, detective James Cartwright obtained a GPS tracking warrant from Medina County judge James Kimbler for Larry Gore's car. Cartwright had filed an affidavit establishing probable cause that Larry Gore was the perp.

In Medina County, there were 64 registered owners of a black 2011-2012 Honda Accord. In addition to surveillance video and at least one accurate eyewitness account of Larry Gore's physical build, his license plate — FPW 8320 — was similar to the impressions left on the back of the Pat O'Brien placard: BP(?)8920 or BR(?)8920.

Per the affidavit:

"The formation and the edges of the letter B is similar to the letter F, and the only discrepancy with the numbers is the second numeral, of which a three (3) could appear rounded on top to look like a nine (9)."

Attorney David Sheldon would argue that the above info was nowhere near sufficient evidence to establish probable cause, and that detective Cartwright exaggerated the similarity between the Pat O'Brien impressions and Gore's plates. At this, the prosecution essentially rolled its eyes.

As it happened, Cartwright had to file for two extensions on the GPS tracking warrant. Gore had entered into a period of hibernation, it appeared, and Cartwright suggested to Medina judges that when the sun reappeared, so too would Larry Gore.

And he did.

On the morning of March 24, 2015, Larry Gore took his daughter to school. Then, at 10:42 a.m., he allegedly robbed the FirstMerit on Royalton Road in Columbia Station, in plain sight of the Fifth Third branch he robbed on Dec. 8. Fitting, perhaps, that Gore should end where he began, at a FirstMerit Bank. He was pulled over by the officers who were tracking him and arrested at 10:54 a.m.

Inside Gore's Honda, investigators found money from the robbery, a ski mask, and a temporary license placard that Gore had used to conceal his plates during the robbery.

Deputy sergeant Kevin Ross, the arresting officer, would later testify that Larry Gore was looking directly at him while on his stomach, handcuffed and being read his rights.

He appeared "shocked" and "surprised," Ross would say, at the events unfolding around him.


On April 30, 2015, Gore pleaded not guilty to all 18 counts stemming from the four robberies. The trial, originally scheduled for late June, has been pushed back time and again as the opposing sides mount their cases. The jury trial was most recently slated for Nov. 16, but David Sheldon filed another motion for continuance last week. The trial has been pushed back to Dec. 28, though has not yet officially been court-ordered for that date.

Gore's defense hinges on the admissibility of evidence obtained in interviews after he had requested an attorney. Furthermore, David Sheldon wants evidence obtained from the GPS tracking warrant suppressed because, he argues, the warrant was issued with insufficient probable cause. The assigned judge in the case, Joyce Kimbler, has recused herself at the defense's request because her husband, James Kimbler, was the judge who issued the warrant.

Throughout the pretrial proceedings, Gore has been held at the Lorain County jail on $1 million bond. David Sheldon has said that neither he nor his client would speak to Scene if we intended to write anything that put his client in a negative light. "There has already been," wrote Sheldon, "a great deal of negative press."

If convicted, the aggravated robbery count alone carries a prison sentence of 3 to 11 years. The second degree robberies (four counts) carry 2 to 8 years each. The third-degree felony burglaries carry 9 to 36 months. The five lesser counts of theft (license plate) and possessing criminal tools each carry 6 to 12 months. If convicted of all, and if on the receiving end of a maximum consecutive sentence, Gore would spend 40 years in prison.


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