#71: I Got Scammed

Well, almost.

A few weeks ago, I received the following inquiry through my website:

^ If the text is too small, click the image to make it bigger!

I responded with interest and he messaged back quickly, describing the California school district he worked for and the five illustrations he needed for an upcoming student workshop. He even provided screenshots of art I’d created in the past as a reference point, and I was flattered by the amount of research he’d done. I did some of my own, googling his full name to make sure he (and the school district) actually existed. According to the internet, he did. It did.

Soon we had the project budget, timeline, and deliverables all worked out. I sent over a contract. He signed it immediately. 

From the subject line of this newsletter, I’m sure you can guess that this project did not end up going as planned. I’ll admit I noted a few beige flags early on: He wanted to pay upfront (awesome, but unusual), he had absolutely no edits for the first completed illustration (also awesome but unusual), and when the payment arrived, it came in the form of a cashier’s check. In retrospect, I realized I never filled out a W-9, and the number of times the client asked if I had deposited the check bordered on harassment. 

Even still, I trucked along, convincing myself that the weird feeling I got every time he emailed was classic overthinking.

But then, those beige flags turned red.

The client reached out to let me know that he no longer needed me to do the second half of the project. He asked that I refund a portion of the check immediately.  

“He signed a contract,” Gideon said after I told him about the situation over breakfast. “They should have figured out their budget and plan way before contacting you.”

“But I don’t want to just keep their money because of that.” I took a long sip of coffee. “I think I’ll send the refund. And I’ll say I can’t make any more changes to the contract after that.”

The client began emailing me a few times an hour asking for an update on the refund, and I felt my intrinsic need to dissipate conflict flare up like a rash.

I tried to transfer the money to him, but it didn’t work (thank GOD). I emailed him an update and he immediately requested I send it a different way. Overwhelmed, I shut my laptop, and decided to go for a swim.

An hour later, just moments after getting out of the pool, my phone rang.

On the line was a kind woman from my bank’s fraud department. She asked if I’d tried to deposit a cashier’s check in the last few days. 

“Yes, from a client,” I said.

“Have you met this client in real life,” she pressed, “or just online?”

“Oh. Um, online.”

From there I recounted everything—the constant emails, the sudden refund request, the fact that he’d not only sent his Zelle information, but also his CashApp and Paypal accounts. 

“Oh. Oh no. This is a textbook scam.” The woman gently talked me through the facts, that the person who emailed me likely wasn’t who he said he was, that I hadn’t actually lost any money, that they would look out for any weird activity, that I could go into any branch to learn more about protecting myself against future scams. I thanked her profusely, hung up the phone, and cried. 

When I was twenty-two, I almost fell for a scam phone call in which the caller claimed to be from the IRS and told me I hadn’t properly filed my taxes. Unless I wired the money to her, she told me, there’d be a warrant out for my arrest. I talked to this caller for over thirty minutes outside the office of my first job, tears streaming down my face. I even put her on hold so I could go tell my boss that I was having a “tax emergency.”

When I finally hung up and called my dad for advice, he laughed. “Haley, the IRS will never call you.” It became a joke amongst my work friends, which even I can admit I deserved.

But the icky feeling of trusting someone only to realize it was a trick? That was harder to shake.

Nine years later, I felt even stupider than I had back then. I’d worked hard on the (fake) project. It was one thing to receive a scam phone call, but entirely another to think I’d scored a great gig, that I was an artist worth hiring, that I made “incredible work,” as the scammer’s first email had said. The situation was a blow to my security and my ego.

I know I can be too trusting at times. I know I have a tendency to believe the best in people—a trait I usually value. But when something like this happens, I’m shaken to my core. My sense of self falters. I question my intelligence, my empathy, my optimism. 

It helps to know I am not the only person who might be a little too gullible. Upon telling my mom about this on the phone, she reminded me of her friend (a CFO!) that almost got scammed out of tens of thousands of dollars. I’ve listened to countless episodes of Scam Goddess, a podcast that details a wide range of con artists and swindlers. And of course, I read that one viral article from the Cut about the woman who got scammed out of $50,000. I clung to the following quote from that piece:

I did indeed report my experience to the FTC. I also sent a final message to the scammer, telling them my bank caught the fraudulent check and that I would not be communicating with them anymore. This happened a week ago, and I have yet to hear back. I know everything worked out quite well in the grand scheme of things, but still. I feel anxious about my inability to sniff out ingenuity, and I’m struggling to trust that I can run my own business without making an expensive mistake. 

I am telling you this not to garner sympathy (though I’ll take it!). Instead, I’m putting it out there as a reminder that this sort of thing happens, that scams come in all different forms, that they can even creep up in spaces that have felt safe for years. And of course, if you are an artist and receive an email from a potential client claiming to be part of a California school district, proceed with caution.

Take care of yourselves, sweet friends.