Whenever elite media folks act as if they are smarter than the yahoos in the sticks, please keep the sad yet hilarious story of Charlotte Cowles in mind. She is the financial advice columnist of the New York magazine The Cut section and previously a weekly columnist in the Business section of the New York Times. She revealed on Thursday how, with a incredible level of gullibility, she handed a box containing $50,000 of most of her savings to a scammer in "The Day I Put $50,000 in a Shoe Box and Handed It to a Stranger."
Her long tale of financial scam woe runs well over 5,000 words but here a few highlights from someone who you have to scratch your head to remind yourself that she is a financial advice columnist.
On a Tuesday evening this past October, I put $50,000 in cash in a shoe box, taped it shut as instructed, and carried it to the sidewalk in front of my apartment, my phone clasped to my ear. “Don’t let anyone hurt me,” I told the man on the line, feeling pathetic.
“You won’t be hurt,” he answered. “Just keep doing exactly as I say.”
Three minutes later, a white Mercedes SUV pulled up to the curb. “The back window will open,” said the man on the phone. “Do not look at the driver or talk to him. Put the box through the window, say ‘thank you,’ and go back inside.”
The man on the phone knew my home address, my Social Security number, the names of my family members, and that my 2-year-old son was playing in our living room. He told me my home was being watched, my laptop had been hacked, and we were in imminent danger. “I can help you, but only if you cooperate,” he said. His first orders: I could not tell anyone about our conversation, not even my spouse, or talk to the police or a lawyer.
Because if a complete stranger tells you to place $50,000 in cash on the back seat of a car driven by someone you don't know, isn't that a normal thing to do? Well, perhaps if you are a financial advice columnist for New York magazine and previously had a column in the New York Times, where there is a distinct break from reality.
Cowles goes on to describe how she was so easily scammed. A woman named Krista who identified herself as from Amazon customer service called the mark named Charlotte about unusual account activity in her purchases. Krista then put Cowles in touch with an FTC investigator named Calvin who later put her in phone contact with a CIA guy named Michael. CIA? What have they got to do with domestic affairs much less unusual account activities at Amazon? Somehow this did not seem to occur to our financial advice columnist. We now pick up the tale in her own words.
Michael snowed me with the same stories Calvin had. They were consistent: the car on the Texas border, the property in New Mexico, the drugs, the bank accounts. He asked if I shared my residence with anyone besides my husband and son. Then he asked more questions about my family members, including my parents, my brother, and my sister-in-law. He knew their names and where they lived. I told him they had nothing to do with this. In fact, I was now sure I wanted to consult a lawyer.
“If you talk to an attorney, I cannot help you anymore,” Michael said sternly. “You will be considered noncooperative. Your home will be raided, and your assets will be seized. You may be arrested. It’s your choice.” This seemed ludicrous. I pictured officers tramping in, taking my laptop, going through our bookshelves, questioning our neighbors, scaring my son. It was a nonstarter.
After this, CIA Michael came to the point. Namely the cash.
He asked me how much cash I thought I would need to support myself for a year if necessary. My assets could be frozen for up to two years if the investigation dragged on, he added. There could be a trial; I might need to testify. These things take time. “I don’t know, $50,000?” I said. I wondered how I would receive paychecks without a bank account. Would I have to take time off from work? I did some mental calculations of how much my husband could float us and for how long. “Okay,” he said. “You need to go to the bank and get that cash out now. You cannot tell them what it is for. In one of my last cases, the identity thief was someone who worked at the bank.”
Cowles did as told and withdrew $50,000 in cash. However, she soon had a very brief moment of mental clarity.
As I walked back to my apartment, something jolted me out of my trance, and I became furious. No government agency would establish this as “protocol.” It was preposterous. “I need to speak with Michael,” I told the woman on the phone. He got on right away. “I don’t even believe that you’re a CIA agent,” I said. “What you’re asking me to do is completely unreasonable.”
Her skepticism did not last long because CIA Michael sent her a pic of his badge and that put Cowles back on track to be thoroughly scammed a short time later.
I met the SUV at the curb and put the money in the back seat. It was 6:06 p.m. Even if I’d tried to see who was driving, the windows were tinted and it was dusk. He maybe wore a baseball cap. When I turned around, I could see the backlit faces of my husband and son watching from our apartment nine stories above.
As I walked back inside, Michael texted me a photo of a Treasury check made out to me for $50,000 and told me a hard copy would be hand-delivered to me in the morning. He was working on setting up my appointment with the Social Security office. “You will receive a confirmation text shortly,” he said. “Stay on the line until you do.” I felt oddly comforted by this. An appointment would give me something legitimate, an actual connection to a government agency.
The question is, who in their right mind would ever again take financial advice from Charlotte Cowles?
