MAGAZINE TITLE: I Was a Witless Co-conspirator in a $6,000 Scam

SUBTITLE: Today, I am penniless. I am embarrassed. And I need to tell my story

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Some of you, reading the title, may commiserate with me on the human level, and for that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I suspect that not one of you feels that you could fall victim to a scam. You are too educated, too street-smart, too savvy. Hey, I get it!

I was all of those. Like you, I had been armored by exposure to countless public service announcements and magazine articles; I’d watched personal interviews on the 11 o’clock news with those always bewildered-looking victims giving their story in the hopes that … yada-yada-yada. I would watch it and sigh, shake my head, and then let the news take me to the fire department’s rescue of a cat stuck in the unlikeliest of places.

Besides, scams always happen to the other person, don’t they? You’d be ready.

I know I certainly was.

The innocent beginning: Oct. 11, 2023

I was feeling exhilarated. The night before, I had submitted a story to The Narrative Arc, and during a lull in my daily writing stint, I checked my emails to see if “The Arc” had accepted it.

As I scanned down the email list, something struck my attention — someone who Johnny Carson had dissed on the old Tonight Show™. Interesting, no? I clicked on it. It offered a snippet of information before the print faded out, and a continue button gave me a chance to read more. I chose to. Another snippet. Then, about the third time through the process, there was a prompt — I believe it said “Next.”

When I clicked on that, my screen suddenly lit up with a carnival of very bright warnings that my computer had been compromised. It had been hacked. This had happened to me before. So I didn’t panic. I simply shut down my computer and closed the lid.

A half-hour later, I lifted the lid and turned on my computer to see a more subdued message in a box covering the lower right quarter of my screen. It warned me that I had indeed been hacked. The note was from the Microsoft™ Service Department. No sirens, no flashing lights. I was advised to call the 866 number for Microsoft customer service to have my computer restored.

And the story unfolds

I can objectively look at myself now, as I’m sure each of you is looking at me. Try to understand that nothing but my newly acquired Dell™ computer was at stake. But as a regular contributor to various publications, my computer is my only — though very promising — source of income in my retirement. So, having it restored was absolutely essential.

I called the number, and I was directed to one of those call-routing boards offering Spanish or English as my choice, whether it was a Microsoft Billing problem, etc., until finally, Microsoft Customer Service was the choice. I clicked on it. I got a recording asking for my patience, but my call would be accepted in the order that it was received. Now, I ask you, does that sound like a Scam organization?

A female named Jessica answered after the second recorded message. She apologized for the delay. Very sweet, very professional. She asked me to write down her identification number. MSS41279. I did, and she had me read it back. (Tiny things, but they combine to make the transaction sound legitimate.) She asked me to tell her how the problem originated.

I explained everything to Jessica. She was very sympathetic. “We can fix your problem, Jay,” she said, “but let me ask a few questions.”

Since the virus in my computer could spread to other computers, cell phones, etc., she needed to know how many computers I had, whether they were turned on when the hacking occurred, and how many people used my computers. And with just those few questions, I gave her a butt-load of information:

I lived alone. I was married, but separated. I don’t pay any bills on my computer — my wife pays all the bills for me. She lives 50 miles away. Oh, yes, Jessica, we are cordial, ha-ha. We keep in contact by phone fairly regularly. No, on our cell phones. We don’t have a landline. Haha, does anyone? My age? Oh, I’m 84. Sure, I drive, to buy my necessities, but that’s about all. I’m a writer. I read, and I write.

End of questions. She was ready to help me out. She had me press two keys together: the Microsoft 4-window key plus the letter “r” key. Then a box appeared, and she had me write in some numbers, letters, and symbols and hit enter. I did. The screen went black, and lines of white numbers and letters scrolled down the page. Then I punched CTRL + ALT + DELETE. My screen went black. She had me turn it back on, a white blur of numbers again raced down the screen, and then something appeared at the bottom. She wanted me to write it down. I wrote:

“Banking hacked, internet hacked, phone lines hacked, IP address hacked.”

She paused after I read them back to her. “Oh, Jay, I’d hoped it was just your computer. But it’s far more serious.”

She couldn’t see my hands held up as in surrender, my eyes as large as quarters. I could hear my own breath, labored and rapid. “What? How — how serious?”

“How long ago did the first hacking message occur?”

I looked at my watch. “Over an hour — an hour and a half.”

A question of urgency

“We’ll have to hurry, Jay. By now, they’ll have already hacked into your bank accounts. What’s your bank’s name?”

I hesitated, but I gave it to her. “Valley Strong Credit Union™.”

I need to call your bank’s fraud department. Can you get me the phone number? It’s on the back of your debit card.”

I got the card out of my wallet. Then it dawned on me. “Why don’t I call them myself?”

“Look at the third item on that list I gave you. They’ve hacked into your phone lines, too. They’d love to be listening in to your conversation with Valley Strong.”

I read the phone number.

“Now … I’m going to call the fraud department. Don’t worry, Jay. We’ve caught this in time. We’ll take care of you. It’s going to take about five minutes on our end. Hold on a sec … let me check … okay, here it is. You’ll get a call back from a Steve Wilson. Again, Jay, do not call out on your phone. Mr. Wilson’s area code is … wait a sec … yeah, 323. So, only pick up the phone if it is from the 323 area code. Got that? Remember, no outside calls.”

About four minutes later, I got a call from the 323 area. I connected to it. Steve Wilson from the fraud department introduced himself. Not perky like Jessica. All business and urgency. He also gave me his identification number, VSCU98174, and asked that I write it down.

Urgency squared

From here on, it starts getting dicey. Over the next four hours, I did some absolutely inane things, stupid STUPID things! (I wish you could hear me shouting this as I’m slamming down the keys to spell it.) But please try to understand that at the time, I was convinced that I was working with the good guys. The Fraud Department had a fiduciary responsibility to secure my funds in their care, and they were employing me to help them.

In the interest of space, I’m not going to go into the details as I did with Jessica. Rather, I want to enumerate the points that Steve Wilson laid out for me.

1. From that moment on, I could not have any outside contact with anyone on my phone or in person.
2. I was to have an open phone connection with Mr. Wilson at all times. By now, he knew (because I told him! — since we were both good guys working for a common end) that I had a Visa™ debit card and a Discover™ credit card. Happily, he didn’t ask me for the numbers on each card because I would certainly have given them to him .… so sure I was of his authenticity.
3. He assured me that the hackers had already emptied my checking account and my savings account, but what they had was a voucher for the $3,000 in the checking and $2,000 in savings. It was “theirs,” but they couldn’t have the use of it for 12 hours.
4. Our job was to use my debit card to systematically transfer the $3,000 into individual gift cards. Six gift cards, each loaded for $500. Once the Fraud department had the full $3,000 worth of gift cards, that account was safe and secured. And the hackers had only worthless paper.
5. Next, we would work on the voucher the hackers had for our $2,000 in savings … getting that converted to gift cards.

Putting the plan into action

All that I numbered above was preparatory to my actually doing the groundwork. The last thing Mr. Wilson said to me while I was still home was to make sure I had my driver’s license, my debit card, my Discover card, and my eyeglasses. I assured him I did, and we were off, the phone on speaker mode in the front seat next to me.

Now, I want to mention the odd dynamic of having this constant on-the-line connection with me. I began to feel like he was actually sitting next to me. In the Walmart™ parking lot, he told me, “Now, when you go into the store, take your phone off speaker. Go directly to the gift card section. I want you to look for the Apple™ gift card that can be loaded for between $10 and $500 dollars. Get six of them, loaded for $500 each. Each one must be receipted separately. Six separate receipts.”

When I told him I understood it all, his approval felt like an actual pat on my back.

It was at this time that my phone alerted me of an incoming call. “It’s my wife,” I told him.

“Don’t answer it,” he said. “I’ll have Jessica text your wife about all this.”

I ran into a snag inside when the checker wouldn’t do the transactions separately. “Store policy,” she said.

Returning to my car, I told him of the problem. He asked where the nearest CVS Drug Store™ was. While I was doing the reckoning in my mind, my son, Joe, texted me. It was followed by a frantic text from my daughter. “I’m at your house. Where are you?”

My kids have been trained to stop by and check on my well-being when I’m not answering their calls or texts. “Mr. Wilson,” I said, “my kids are worried about me. They know this isn’t like me.” I felt a gnawing emptiness in me.

“They’ll be fine, Jay. I’m sure when Jessica calls Roseana” (her name was part of the information I gave sweet Jessica), “she’ll let your kids know why you can’t talk to them. Everything’s fine. Meanwhile, there’s a CVS on Mt. Vernon. Do you know it?”

“I’ve been there.”

“Good. Let me know when you’re in the parking lot.”

My first big success

I returned from the CVS drug store with six Nordstrom™ gift cards for $500 each. I opened them one by one and read to him the 16-digit number, as well as the access code for each. He congratulated me warmly.

I must have glowed.

“Next, we’ll go to Foods Co™.”

On the way over, I got a text from my wife. I pulled over to the curb and read it, while all the time, I felt like he was eavesdropping beside me. “Jay — call me! ASAP!”

I told Mr. Wilson, “It’s an emergency. I need to call my wife.”

“Jay! You listen to me. This is the emergency. We’re almost finished. Then you can call Roseana. This is something you’ll laugh about together later.”

I was feeling lightheaded. I hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and it was going on one o’clock. Nor had I taken my morning heart medication. My assignment was to get four more $500 Apple gift cards using my debit card. I thought we’d already secured the safety of the checking account at CVS. But in all honesty, my body was robbing me of my ability to think straight. And on top of it, I suffered a horrendous sense of guilt over not calling Roseana.

Foods Co. rejected my first Apple card. The clerk had me try it again. Rejected again.

“One more place,” Mr. Wilson told me in the car. “We’re going to Rite Aid Drugs™.”

“The last one, right?” I needed his assurance.

“The last one. Use your Discover card this time. Four $500 Apple cards. That will secure your savings account.” Just as I was leaving, he added: “I’m going to be hanging up the phone for ten minutes while you’re getting the cards. Do not call or text anyone while I’m gone. Only answer the 323 area code. That’ll be me calling you back. We’re gonna get it done, Jay.”

Like a coach during half-time.

I went in, retrieved the cards, and went to the check-out. The first Apple card was rejected. “How can that be,” I asked the clerk. It’s not a debit card. It’s a credit card.” I felt like crying. Mr. Wilson would be furious with me.

“You might try calling Discover to find out why it’s being declined.” I called the number on the back of the card, and a recording informed me of a ten-minute wait.

I went outside.

Five more minutes passed, and I felt faint.

Is the madness coming to an end?

“Parps!” It was the pet name that Joe always called me by.

I turned.

“Where have you been?”

“Where have I been? I’ve been taking care of business. I can’t — talk about it right now.”

“Where are they?” Joe’s a very easy-going, six-two, 240-pounder. But today, anger flashed in his eyes. They darted all about. “Are they inside?”

“Who’s they?”

He shook his head. “Mom’s in really bad shape, Parps. Why haven’t you been answering our calls or texting us back?”

I just stared at him. I needed to sit down.

“Are you okay? The cops are looking for you, you know.”

“The cops! Why?”

“Because we called them.” Then suddenly, he was jumping up and down, waving his arms. “He’s over here!” A squad car pulled into the parking lot, followed by another. Three officers got out and approached me. Joe stepped back.

“Are you Mr. Squires?” the highest-ranking officer asked. He was a clean-cut kid, maybe twenty-five.

I told him I was Jay Squires.

“Are you all right?”

“I haven’t eaten all day,” I told him, “and haven’t taken my meds.”

“Should I call the ambulance? Have them check you over?”

I declined; he asked Joe to go into Rite Aid and get his dad an ice cream cup.

With Joe gone, he continued his grilling. “We’ve been to your house. Been through every room, closet, under the bed, in the garage. Your whole family’s been looking for you. They really care for you, you know. They thought you’d been abducted. I asked if they knew whether you had a girlfriend. Do you, Mr. Squires?”

I smiled at the thought, but shook my head.

“CVS had you on their camera buying something. We found out it was six $500 gift cards. Why in the world would you want to spend $3,000 on gift cards?”

I hung my head. The full impact of his words came crashing down on me at that moment.

“You were a victim of a scam, weren’t you, Mr. Squires?”

I nodded and closed my eyes.

“I know it’s embarrassing,” the officer said. “I was scammed myself in college. It’s hard to face. Were they with you?”

“No. It was by phone.”

As if on command, my phone started ringing.

I looked at the number 323 area code. “That’s him now. Should I answer it?”

“No, it wouldn’t do any good. That’s just a transfer number. He’s out of state — Did you — did you give him the numbers off the cards?”

I let out a puff of air and nodded. The phone rang a few more times, then stopped.

“Do you want us to file a Scam Victim’s report?”

“Would it do any good?”

“It won’t get your money back.”

Joe came out with my cup of ice cream in one hand and his phone pressed to his ear with the other. He handed me the cup while he mouthed the words “Mums” — an endearment for “Mom” — and leaned against the building wall, talking to her.

I turned to the officer. “Then, why bother? Thank you for looking for me.”

He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. This happens to more people than you think.” And he returned to his car.

Joe handed the phone to me. I put it to my ear. “I’m — so — sorry ….”

“You’re sorry.” I could hear her sobbing on the other end. I waited for her to finish. “You’re sorry! You should be sorry. You just wiped us out financially.”

I moaned. I wanted to release it all. I wanted to pound my head against the wall and cry. But all I could do was moan like a steer in the throes of death. When the words returned to me, I could only repeat, “I’m — so — sorry ….”

There was a long silence at the other end. Then … “Are you okay, though? I thought I’d signed your death warrant. I took your name off the Discover card, and all I could think of was that now you were no use to them — I was picturing them with a gun in your ribs, and after they already had all our savings, you were just a liability.”

She started sobbing again. She stopped but continued sniffing between her words. “The main thing is … that you’re alive. Do you know … do you even know how much your family loves you?”

“I don’t know that I’m — worth — ”

“They love you, damn it! Can’t you see that? We’re going to have to start over — build everything up from zero. But we have such a family, Jay. They love you. And damn it! I love you too. We can’t live together, but you need to know I love you.”

Joe was watching me. I fought back the tears. “I know you do. And — I love you so much!” I turned my body away from Joe. “I ruined us. I’m such a fool!”