PRIDE GOES BEFORE A FALL; I’VE BEEN SCAMMED

There are at least two ways to tell a story. I could take you through the process, the tension, the fears, the resolution, the relief, the chagrin, and the therapeutic action, or I can start with the conclusion and then tell you the story. I’ve chosen the latter. Where does the pride come in? Mine. I thought I was perfectly immune to any kind of scam. Not only am I smart enough not to respond to e-mails from Nigeria, I thought I knew all the possibilities. I know I should never send money to a cause I haven’t initiated or explored fully, especially if I’m asked to do it in a hurry. Daily I check my accounts to be sure nothing weird is happening. I’ve had clients with whom I’ve sympathized when they’ve sent money off for the prize that never came or got caught in other scams. I do lots of things to protect myself, not all of which I’ll report here because I now know there are really bright people ready to turn anything into a plan.

I also want to say up front that, while all this was going on, my grandson Erik was innocently going about his daily business, oblivious to the way he and his voice were being used. And I want to express my high regard for the talent, creativity, and skill of the scammers. Boy! Were they good!

Grandparents among you, please take notice. My cousin in Florida tells me (Now she tells me!) there are warnings all over Florida about this scam, Florida being a great location to catch caring grandparents. I guess the scammers are now targeting wider and less informed territory.

Personally I am hurt. I’ve spent the summer being very careful so I could save for next summer’s vacation and I was just about there. But that’s all that’s lost. I can still pay my mortgage, enjoy my concerts and plays, give to the causes I care about. In other words, it’s not very bad. I’m mildly chagrined, but as the story unfolds, you’ll see how convinced I was that I was talking to Erik. So, on with what I’ve learned.

When I agree to keep a secret, my mind clamps down on it and imprisons it in a special place. Given my career, I think I’m especially susceptible to that. I’m also pretty good at not agreeing to keep a secret until I’m sure I want to and can. But when my grandson, in stress, asks me to keep a secret, I’m quick to agree. First step in the scam, of course. Don’t tell anyone.

What else have I learned? (1) Good people try to intervene when they suspect something may be wrong. (2) Western Union is the one untraceable way to send money. (3) An American accent calling from the police department in Canada should raise suspicions. (4) Essential to a good scam is lots of realistic detail; (5) the scammers could have been right next door to me, ‘cause phones can be rigged easily to appear to be coming from almost anywhere; (6) We hear what we expect to hear; (7) For a couple of reasons I think they were targeting me specifically, or at least my town of Chaska; (7) But here’s the clincher which I learned from my military friend who was once connected with the CIA, people can be, and are, trained to pick up someone’s speech patterns. It takes a short time for talented people, and it’s useful in the job they do. (As I said to my cousin, “Hmm, do you suppose my scammer was once trained with my tax money?)

My immediate reaction once I knew I’d been scammed and Erik was safe was to follow basic therapeutic principles and look for a way to get control of the situation. The money’s gone, but I could still look for a way to follow my former husband’s advice, “Turn a defeat into a victory,” or the saw “When you’re given lemons, make lemonade.” So I sent off a note to a local TV channel offering my story. They haven’t responded, but here I am hoping you’ll hear it to good purpose.

On Friday morning at about 9:30 a.m. I answered a call from a number I didn’t recognize.

Hi Grandma,

Erik, Hi. How are you? [Can’t you just imagine the victory signal in the hotel room? They had me.]

I’m OK Grandma, but – well – can you promise not to tell anyone for now?

Sure. What can I do for you?

Well, Grandma, Craig’s grandfather died suddenly a couple of weeks ago, and he loved his cabin in Canada, so the family came here to leave his ashes. Craig asked me to come, and yesterday, after everything was done, we found a nice fishing spot – kind of isolated and really nice. There were a couple of other guys there too and we got to talking. They seemed really nice, so we invited them to come back with us for a barbecue. On the way there, we got stopped for a broken taillight that Craig didn’t know was broken. The two guys in the back freaked out and the police made us all get out of the car. It turns out those two guys are known drug dealers, and one of them had slipped his stash under my seat. So they arrested us all. They charged us with using, dealing, and intent to transport over the border. So now they’re going to keep us here until the trial unless I can come up with bail. Grandma, I can pay you back tomorrow if you could just send it for now so I can get out of this place. I don’t want to spend another night in this box, and this is my only phone call. Craig’s grandmother has already bailed him out.

How much is bail?

$5,220

Oh my God! I haven’t got that kind of money!

That’s OK Grandma, if you can’t do it.

Of course I can find it! How do I get it to you?

[OK, You folks who are reading this now, knowing it’s a scam, I want you to understand that all this time it’s Erik’s voice. It’s Erik I’m talking to.]

I’ll let the officer tell you.

Officer John Bannon gets on to tell me that Craig and Erik both tested clean for drugs, though the other two didn’t. Then he explains to me what to do. I need to get cash and send it via Western Union to someone named Williams Prince in Miami, Florida. Sgt. Bannon emphasizes the “s” on the end of William. [ohmygod, looking back, isn’t that a suspicious name? Sure. Everything is clear once you know what’s going on.] He’s the person who handles bonding for U.S. Citizens, he tells me.

“Come on, I said, “You must know they aren’t guilty.” And Officer Bannon says, “If it were up to me, I’d let them go, but you know… “

Do I really need to leave home to do this? I have a client coming at 11:00. Can’t I just give you my credit card number? [Oh Mona. Were you ever hooked or what!?] Fortunately he declined that offer.

“It may not take that long,” says Sgt. Bannon. “Where do you live?” I tell him I’m in Chaska, MN. “Let me look it up on the web,” he says. “There’s one right there in Chaska at County Market. And let me know when you’ve sent it so we can let the bondsman be on the lookout for it. And be sure to keep track of the fee for sending it, because we’ll reimburse it.”

Yes, but my bank is in Excelsior. Isn’t there a Western Union there? He asks me to spell “Excelsior” and takes time to “look it up on the web” and tell me there isn’t a Western Union there. [See why I think Chaska was targeted?]

Now I’ll shorten the tale into a narrative. I called my client and asked her to postpone until Monday because of a family emergency. She kindly agreed. I went to the bank where dear Beckie asked me “Are you sure this isn’t a scam.?” I was sure. I had been talking to my grandson (but of course I didn’t tell her – sworn to secrecy, you know.) I asked the teller to look up on the web and see whether there is a Western Union in Excelsior. “Yes, there’s one at TCF bank,” she said, looking at the web. [I know, I know. I know. Why didn’t I catch on then? But I had been talking to Erik!] At TCF bank I learned they had given up the Western Union desk, so I found the County Market in Chaska.

At County Market I left the Western Union order on the order phone and gave the guy the money. “Are you sure this isn’t a scam?” he asks. Of course I’m sure. I’ve been talking to Erik. Once that’s done, I call the phone number I’d been given where a guy answers “Niagara Police.” I ask to speak to Sgt. John Bannon. The 'officer who answered' gets him on the phone, asking what the fee was for Western Union so they can reimburse me. I’ll be getting the check in about two weeks, he says. He tells me they’ll call me when Erik is released. The time goes deep into the afternoon and I’m about to go off with Doug, so I call the number again and the “Niagara Police” answer. “We’re processing it,” he tells me. It will probably get to be midnight or so. “Is Erik going to need a lawyer” I ask? “I don’t think so,” he says. “The charges will probably be dropped.” You can call anytime, though you might get a different officer tomorrow. "Tell Erik I’m going to be with Uncle Doug. Is it OK to tell him?” ‘Officer Bannon’ turns to ‘Erik” who says “No. I’d rather wait until I can explain it to the family tomorrow.” [Something about this is weird. The kids never keep anything from Doug. Is he really that embarrassed?]

Off I went with Doug. No phone call, and no phone call in the morning. Finally I called the number for the ‘Niagara Police” and got a recording in French, followed by an English translation, that no one is answering at that number. Getting scared for Erik’s safety I leave him a message on his cell phone. “Where are you?” and I check the web for reverse phone numbers. There is no one attached to the number of the “Niagara Police.” I call 911. “It’s a scam,” I’m told. “I’ll send an officer to talk to you.” Now I was really scared for Erik. I had been talking to him. Had they kidnapped him? Just as the cop arrived, Erik called. “What do you mean where am I? I’m in Philadelphia, of course.” When I told him the story, he said “I don’t even know a Craig.” I was so relieved Erik was safe. Money is only money.

And there you have it. Erik’s safe, and I’ve learned a lot. Oh, by the way, when I was believing the story of being stopped by the cops, I thought what a great way for smugglers to get their stuff across the border, hiding it in the car of the innocent and letting colleagues on the other side fetch it.

Camp Woodstock and stuff

I goofed! If you are on the automatic recipient list, please disregard the too-large double-spaced thing that just came through. Now I'll start over.

I haven't written here because I've been wrapped up in two things, trying to learn Italian, and enthusiastically writing "Riding in the Back Seat," a book no one will probably ever want to read, but I feel compelled to write it. Anyway, I decided to include one segment (the equivalent of pages 74-76.) I'm trying to keep each chapter/segment to 1000 words.

Reactions would certainly be appreciated, but in the meantime, I hope you'll just enjoy ...

CAMP WOODSTOCK: JOY, FUN, ACCOMPLISHMENT, AND SAD ASSOCIATIONS

I just googled myself right back there – into the wood smell of the cabin and my upper bunk, canoes in sweet blue waters, the barn with its long meal tables, craft stations for interlacing leather belts and lanyards that went home as gifts and souvenirs. Two-weeks at the YMCA camp in Woodstock Valley, Connecticut; the feel of total immersion. If that sounds like a form of baptism, it’s pretty close to the truth. The intimacy of the immediate and the sublime was realized in one of my favorite spots, the hallowed Cathedral in the Pines. Nestled in the trees, sweetened by the smell of living wood and the calm of blue lake waters, it was the site of formal worship, and more important, the place of escape from whatever was too much of the good and bad to bear in the busy day.

Hallie was with me in 1942; World War II was in full horror overseas; the outcome was unclear; and we were twelve. Gas cards were saved to fuel us there. We outlined the initials of our latest crush in tape on our upper legs so there would be a white imprint of sorts left after we got really tan. I chose the initials HB for Harry Belmar. He, of course, had no idea I had a crush on him – a cute blond guy who was in my confirmation class – a joint venture of our Forestville church with the Bristol church that shared the same pastor. I’m not sure I even felt an attraction for him. It was more important to have a crush than to experience it.

I received a blue ribbon, designed especially for me. Something like, “Most surprising progress in diving,” or whatever nice way they came up with saying it. The fact is, although I loved swimming and had no fear of the water, I did fear going in upside down. Learning to dive involved kneeling on the dock and going in headfirst. Having mastered that, one proceeded to do the same thing from a standing position, ultimately to propelling oneself into the water from the diving board. Daily, as everyone moved beyond me, I knelt on the dock trying unsuccessfully to invert myself into the water. Night after night in my bunk, I imagined the feeling of diving. On the last full day, I walked out on the board and, quite nicely if I do say so myself, executed the headlong catapult into the water that I had been imagining. I picture counselors huddling to discuss possible ways to recognize that astonishing feat which would not have been noteworthy had I not displayed a long period of failure.

It taught me something I later used in some of my classes; I discovered that athletes have been known to do that kind of practice in imagery – a great example of the intimacy of mind and body.

Overcoming shyness, I sang in the talent show. First time successfully performing in front of people – makings of a college professor?

I wish I could honor the memory one of our counselors by recalling her name; she was tall, blond, pretty, and very nice. On November 28, 1942, she died in the Coconut Grove fire in Boston, one of 492 killed, closed in by boarded up windows, locked doors, a revolving entrance trapping people unable to move either in or out, lax enforcement of insufficient fire laws, and overcrowding by 500 over the limit. Death by painful violence, unlike my Uncle Emil’s quiet demise at home.

I still find remnants of the empathic frustration and anger I felt at the image of people trying to escape out the limited exit space. I thought of her in my classes when on occasion I’d talk about the study that observed people pulling their own rope-attached beads out the neck of a coke-like bottle. When people cooperatively took turns, all their beads got out. Not so when people competed to be first to save themselves. The Coconut Grove fire spread so fast it was basically impossible for anyone to help anyone else, to say nothing of take turns. Even the firefighters couldn’t get in to help. I experience even more intensified anger when people have been trapped more recently in similar fires because a choice has been made to keep exit doors locked. More should have been learned from the Coconut Grove fire, or the concern for people’s welfare over profit.

By the way, googling reveals the photo of a Coconut Grove matchbook advertising dinner for $1.50. Among the dead was Buck Jones, in town to promote War Bonds and his own films.

In the mid 1980s, I had just finished teaching research related to pro-social behavior. It involved [fake] smoke creeping under the door and people’s reactions under varying conditions. As we were discussing those results, and the deception, another faculty member gestured me into the hall, pointing out the fire in the ceiling. I returned to the classroom, requesting that people leave calmly and quietly, because flames had been detected. Of course, they didn’t leave – not about to be fooled - until I sent one student out to validate the observation.

A few years back, after a picnic on the palace grounds in Colonial Williamsburg, the fireworks display ended in a sudden downpour of rain. In demonstration of the beads-out-of-the-bottle effect, some people huddled under the exit gate, making it almost impossible for the rest of us to get out. The following year that event was cancelled, citing the “riot” that occurred in the rain.

And there you have it – the juxtaposition of personal delight, war, terrible civilian tragedies, and very uncomfortable but minor inconveniences. That’s part of the accordion effect – juggling the simple and glorious with the complex and tragic.

When my children were of late childhood age they went to Woodstock. It was a nice experience for them, but not the thrill it was for me. We can’t relive our own pleasures by exposing our children to them.