Seniors citizens snared by lies on the line

The Dallas Morning News (MCT) - The phone rings, and Vivian steps toward it. The 90-year-old still walks with ease, but her living room is choked by clutter. Stacks of old papers, books and opened mail _ heaps of it _ force her through a narrow path to the grimy receiver.

"Hello?"

"Did you take the check down to the center yet?" asks a man with an odd accent.

He has preyed on Vivian for months, dangling the promise of a huge lottery win. In recent years, he and others have stolen perhaps $125,000 from her.

She sends them "fees" or "taxes," falling for a scam that officials say siphons millions of dollars from Texans who can least afford to lose it.

Her niece has called authorities. A Dallas nonprofit has tried to step in. Adult Protective Services has been notified.

But Vivian keeps picking up the phone. She has even helped the man scam others. She cashes checks sent to her by elderly victims, then wires him the money.

But on this day, she tells him she hasn't taken the check yet.

"OK, you're just getting ready to leave?" he says.

"Yes."

"Oh dear, oh ...," he says. "I want you to see if you can have it done and get back home."

"OK."

"All right, dear," he says. "All right. Safe journey. Bye-bye."

'MICHAEL BROWN IN ENGLAND'

On a string around Vivian's neck hangs an ancient pair of glasses with one lens missing. But she looks younger than her age. Her wavy hair turns from gray to blond as it reaches her shoulders.

She grew up on a farm in Indiana, the oldest of seven children. She married in 1940, and she and her husband moved to Dallas in 1960. They bought a three-bedroom brick house in the Glen Oaks neighborhood.

They had no children, and her husband died of bladder cancer in 1973. Since then, Vivian has lived in the house alone.

The smell of mildew floats about. Tiny bugs wander the dusty carpet. In the bathroom, the sink is stopped up, and every inch of the counter is covered with old plastic cosmetics bottles.

She's a capable artist. Dozens of her paintings crowd the home, including a portrait of a brown mutt named Fuzzy.

"He was my little pal for 16 years," she says.

Vivian traces the lottery notifications back to at least 2002.

"Michael Brown in England was going to send me $6 million, $6-˝ million, and he wanted $90,000, which was more than the value of my house at the time," she says.

It's not clear how much she has sent to phone scammers like him, but her losses have been great. Her home had been paid for since 1984, but two years ago she took out a $50,000 mortgage. Last year, she upped that loan to $75,000.

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In addition to that debt, her brother has injected $50,000 to get her out of financial trouble, says Vivian's niece Kathy Kunkel, who lives in Indiana.

"I'm really shocked that he would do it," Kunkel says, explaining that the two don't get along. "But he obviously felt sorry for her."

After hanging up with the man on the phone, Vivian slips into tennis shoes and prepares to go cash the check. She's not sure where she is going.

"I don't think I can take it to a bank," she says. Her branch is on to the scams. "I'll have to take it someplace else."

The $2,450 check is from another victim, an 80-year-old woman in Fort Kent, Maine. Police there learned the woman was wiring money to Jamaica.

"She was going to put a new roof on the church with the money, the million dollars that she was getting," says Fort Kent Police Chief Kenneth Michaud.

The chief was able to prevent her from wiring more money. But the man on the phone persuaded her to start writing checks to Vivian. The woman sent tens of thousands of dollars before her daughters took control of her finances recently.

So this latest check is no longer any good, but Vivian doesn't know that. She climbs into her 2003 Honda Civic and puts the key in the ignition. For some reason, it won't turn. She shakes the steering wheel back and forth, but it won't budge.

She tries again and again, seething with frustration. With the air conditioning not running, she is sweating. One of the car's indicators beeps insistently.

"Shut up!" she snaps.

Finally, she returns to the house.

AN EMOTIONAL BOND

On some level, Vivian understands the scam.

"They seem to be working with seniors and taking their money with no regard for them being humans, or having any money," she says.

Yet she remains convinced that a pot of money somewhere awaits her.

"The major thing is, I don't know how many of them are true and how many of them are false," she says. "You can't ask them."

And she admits that the callers provide her companionship. "Maybe it's because you're, you know, by yourself, and that's somebody you can talk to," she says.

The paradox in her outlook does not surprise forensic psychiatrist Bennett Blum of Tucson, Ariz., one of the country's leading experts in financial exploitation. He hasn't met Vivian, but he has worked with many like her.

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Those who are stressed by issues like loneliness or health problems, as the elderly sometimes are, often get to a point where something inside them shifts, Blum says.

"People that they previously would never trust _ and even now they may intellectually say that they don't trust _ emotionally, they feel very bonded and tied to them," he says.

One day last month, two women paid Vivian a visit. Elizabeth Hart works for The Senior Source, a private Dallas agency set up to help the elderly. Rebecca Weirether is a caseworker for the state's Adult Protective Services.

They knocked on the door, and Vivian answered.

"Hi, Miss Vivian. Good morning. I tried to give you a call and let you know that I was on my way over," Ms. Hart said.

"Well, I can't see you today," Vivian replied.

"Are you busy?"

"Yes. I'm busy."

Hart kept trying to talk her way in.

"Oh, ducky! Go on, get out of here! I'm not kidding!" Vivian finally yelled, and slammed the door.

"Does she have any firearms inside?" Weirether asked Hart.

"I have no idea," Hart replied.

"Miss Vivian, I'm a social worker with the state, and I'm very worried about you," Weirether said through the door.

There was no response.

POLICE 'NO THREAT TO THEM'

The Senior Source has reported Vivian's situation to Dallas police.

Sgt. Mark Stallo, who supervises a financial crime squad, says he encounters the situation often. But local police can do little beyond education and prevention, he says.

"Once they send money out of the country, it's basically gone."

The swindlers know it's difficult for U.S. authorities to find them, much less arrest or prosecute them.

"They don't care about law enforcement," Sgt. Stallo says. "We're no threat to them."

It's unclear whether Adult Protective Services might try to force Vivian to accept help.

"There are certain types of cases where you can seek legal intervention to be able to provide the person with services that they need," says APS spokeswoman Marissa Gonzales. "I don't know if that will take place in this case specifically."

Vivian's niece says Vivian is not close to her brothers and sisters, and she wouldn't stand for them to step in. Neither are they anxious to involve themselves.

"I know nobody would want her on the street," Kunkel says. "But I don't know what anybody would really be willing to do, either."

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The caseworkers could hear Vivian's phone ringing inside the house, but she wasn't picking up. Weirether walked around the house to the back yard.

She encountered Vivian under the carport, car keys in hand.

"Go away! Get out of here!" Vivian screamed. "Go on about your business!"

"Why won't you let me help you?" Weirether asked.

"I'm busy!"

"What are you busy with?"

"None of your damn business!"

By this time, Vivian was shoving her.

"Get out!"

Weirether retreated to the front yard.

Moments later, the caseworkers heard the Honda's engine rev to life. And they watched her speed away.

Since then, other caseworkers have knocked on Vivian's door. She hasn't let them in.

___

© 2008, The Dallas Morning News.