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Posted on 12/29/2003 12:42:35 AM PST by sarcasm
ORLANDO, Fla. — In a windowless room, in a nondescript house on the other side of the world, Rupert Sessions glimpsed his fortune.
It was a metal suitcase, choked with $100 bills and protected by armed guards and a combination lock. The money had brought Sessions, an Ormond Beach, Fla., retiree, all the way to the Persian Gulf.
He and a West African associate were there to collect the $21.5 million in the case. But he was concerned because the bills looked discolored.
Don't worry, officials told him, that's just a security measure. We can clean the cash up.
Finally, Sessions thought, it's ours.
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There was, of course, no $21.5 million. Sessions, a 73-year-old retired electronics specialist, had been fleeced by what may be the most widespread fraud on earth. He had poured more than $300,000 into a "Nigerian 419" scam, the label describing the e-mails that promise millions but deliver nothing.
He sold stock, got a second mortgage and hocked two of his cars. For more than a year, he gave virtual strangers every dollar he had. He bought them gold pens, cellphones and a laptop computer. He spent so much that he now fears losing his home.
"It's all gone," Sessions said. "Everything."
Still, Sessions was so mesmerized by the well-spoken West Africans that to this day he does not think he was scammed. He ignored police warnings that the deal was bogus and instead blames his losses on corrupt foreign governments. He has not filed a complaint with authorities, and he keeps on his coffee table the carved wooden elephant and antelope given to him by his "associates."
"I consider them my friends," he says. "They're not criminals."
Authorities say they are, and they're part of a long-running fraud that takes its name from Section 419 of the Nigerian penal code. The scam emerged from that country in the 1980s, with swindlers sending letters and faxes. The Internet broadened their reach to millions of targets.
Today, everyone with an e-mail address has seen the pitch: A West African lawyer, banker or dignitary wants to get a huge stash of money out of the country. If the victim helps, he'll be cut in.
As the mark gets hooked, he is asked to help finance the transaction. The payoff is always just over the hill.
Rupert Sessions' trip to financial ruin began Feb. 2, 2002.
A man claiming to be a banker in the West African nation of Togo e-mailed Sessions saying he was worried about millions of dollars left in the account of a dead German businessman.
The account had been dormant for years — ever since the businessman and his family died in a plane crash, the e-mail said. The "banker" needed help moving the money. Otherwise, the government would confiscate it.
That's where Sessions fit in.
All he had to do was fill out some forms and allow the banker and his associates to transfer the money to his account. Then the group would divvy up the cash.
Sessions was wary, but intrigued. His $250,000 nest egg had been scrambled by the stock market's slide. He and his partially disabled wife needed the money.
So he responded. Tell me more, he said, but don't ask me to do anything illegal.
No worries, his prospective associates replied. The deal was risk free. Trust us, they said.
And Sessions did. The more he corresponded, the more credible the West Africans appeared. They sent the German family's death certificates — "Certificat de Deces, Republique Togalaise" — and an inheritance document.
They earned his confidence, saying in one e-mail, "God has brought us together as brothers."
Sessions had no idea the story about the dead executive had been around for 20 years. He didn't know that the scammers routinely exploit a victim's faith in God. And he never noticed that the "government documents" looked more like certificates a first-grade teacher might hand out.
Instead, he blamed — and still blames — corrupt government officials. If only they paid off the right people, he thought, the money would be released.
"With every move, the government comes up with another ridiculous fee," he said. "It's incredible."
Even more incredible is how much victims lose. The figures are fuzzy, but a 1997 U.S. State Department report put worldwide losses at "hundreds of millions of dollars" annually. Last year, the FBI said 74 people were taken for $1.6 million.
Most victims aren't taken for as much as Sessions was — the typical amount people lose is $3,800, according to the FBI.
The scammers are often well-educated and quick on their feet. The group, the State Department report says, "are the best in the world for nonviolent spectacular crimes."
And the most spectacular phase of their sting is the face-to-face meeting with the victim. To make the fraud work, the scammers need people to play guards, a chemist and government officials.
They also need a victim, and in this case they had a good one. By the time Sessions boarded a plane for the Persian Gulf in February 2003, he had spent almost a year preparing for the role. When he checked into Dubai's Marriott Hotel, he was more than ready.
Sessions had worried about this trip, but now, as he and one of his West African contacts rode through the city, he wondered if things were falling into place.
Their car stopped at a modest home in a Dubai suburb. The house, he said, was a quasi-governmental office — "almost like an extension of the Togo embassy."
Sessions said he was led past armed guards into a room with no windows. In the room there was a large, gray metal suitcase. In the case was the prize Sessions' had spent his life savings on: $21.5 million in stacks of $100 bills.
But the money looked strange. It was covered with black, chalky powder.
"What's that?" he asked.
Don't worry, his hosts said. Cash was routinely coated with the substance to protect it from being stolen and spent. It was easy to clean, they said; just watch.
A man wearing rubber gloves and a doctor's mask stepped forward. He poured a solution into a small saucer and pulled three bills from the case. He dropped the bills into the saucer and rinsed them.
A few seconds later, they emerged clean and green. Sessions heart raced as he inspected the bills. They were authentic.
But before Sessions could celebrate, the officials delivered the bad news: They'd run out of cleaning solution. They could make more, but it wouldn't be cheap.
The chemicals and continued security would cost $285,000. Sessions was stunned. But he was already in for so much, he felt he couldn't turn back now.
So Sessions took a $25,000 cash advance on his credit card — one of about 16 he'd gotten — while his associate promised to stay in Dubai to ensure the deal worked out.
When Sessions returned home, he and his wife sold or borrowed against everything they had left in stocks, insurance and annuities. He wired the proceeds to his partners.
Eight months later, they had all the money they needed. Sessions' share was between $60,000 and $80,000.
"You kind of lose track," he says.
With the money in place, Sessions planned a return trip. He bought plane tickets and made hotel reservations. But the day before the flight, his partners sent an urgent message.
The chemist had tried to clean the money, but it had turned red. His partners wanted to try again for an additional $60,000, but Sessions had had enough.
Or more correctly, he had nothing. There was no more money to bleed from him.
Sessions can't easily say what the last two years cost him. Between selling his investments, running up credit-card bills, depleting savings and borrowing against his house, the total comes up to about $320,000. Most of that is new debt.
Sessions, retired for a decade, is scrambling for work and putting his prized 1967 Cadillac convertible up for sale.
Anything to raise money.
To him, the scammers are corrupt foreign governments. His "friends" and the money are real.
"There was never any attempt by them to defraud me," he says.
Paul Elliott, a Secret Service agent in Jacksonville, Fla., said it's too painful for some victims to accept they've lost everything to a fairy tale.
There are moments when Sessions seems to understand. It's little things he says while leafing through the 3-inch stack of e-mails. Maybe part of him knows.
"I guess not knowing the people should have made me suspicious," he says. "They never did really explain how they got my name."
Today, the answer doesn't matter much. Sessions has more pressing things to worry about — like how to keep a roof over his head.
"I have to figure out a way to pay the bills," he says. "I thought this would help do that. Instead, it's ruined us."
To quote a great movie line to express my incredulity:
"Holy mother pus buckets!"
Check out this web site for a list of reverse scams by a guy in Australia. Click here
Friar Augustus Tuck is an exceptionally good one.
Or, in the words of the immortal Mordecai Jones:
"You can't cheat an honest man."
I recieved an invitation to speak at this conference, but for some reason they wanted my bank account information first.
And what about his poor diabled wife? Is she mentally disabled along with her husband? Sad, but completely avoidable.
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