Imagine you’re a freelancer. A potential client gets referred to you by a trusted colleague. It’s a colleague you’ve been working with for years, and everyone he’s connected you with has proven to be a serious prospect. You’re so excited that you make a rookie mistake known to anyone who’s gone on a first date in the last decade: you don’t Google this guy.
The project at hand — a script for a workshop — has an aggressive deadline of less than one week. The client, oddly, says he doesn’t care about the tone or style of the text; he just wants it to be “informative.” And he wants the file not as an easily editable Microsoft Word or Google document, but as a PDF.
Why is this odd? Most people who hire a ghostwriter at least want to tweak writing that goes out under their name; rare is the client who just accepts exactly and entirely what you’ve drafted.
So these requests constitute red flags. But then, they also make your job easier. Your mind is pulled toward this latter consideration.
You jump on the phone with the prospect. You explain that his budget of $3,000 won’t cover the scope of work — your rate is $5,000, which you require upfront. He says “okay,” without pause, and asks you to text him your address.
That’s odd — his budget exploded by 66%, yet he didn’t blink. And he doesn’t even ask for an invoice. You get a receipt when you buy fries at McDonalds, but this man of mystery is happy to shell out five grand without so much a single contractual sentence.
Still, the risk seems minimal. You’re getting paid in full, upfront.
The client says he’ll overnight you a check. Then he mentions, ever so casually, that the amount will be less than what he agreed to. His explanation is muddied and his English is broken, but it seems that a third party is footing the bill and someone screwed up.
You figure that you can live with being shorted a few bucks. Then the check arrives. Your jaw drops. He said the amount would be less. In fact, it’s a lot more — it’s $9,980.
Also, the check isn’t from your client, but from a public library in a different state.
Before you can process this turn of events, the client texts you. He wants you to deposit the check and to send him a copy of the confirmation slip. You do so.
Then comes the next set of demands. And in case you’re wondering, this all happened to me. I’m reprinting the subsequent messages verbatim:
“The money will be cleared into your account by tomorrow so when it cleared cashout 5000 and I will tell you whom to send it to because we need to get everything set for the workshop.”
Hmmm. This isn’t how people do business. But then, you just pulled down $10,000 — twice what you’re owed.
The next morning, you get another text. “How are you doing?” he asks. “Working hard on your script,” you reply.
“Thanks for the work,” he replies, “but I want you to listen to my instruction on how to send the leftover of $5000. The money has been cleared into your account so I want you to reply my message.”
Then your phone rings. “You didn’t respond to my text,” he states.
“If you want me to finish the script by Friday, then I need to focus on writing,” you reply. “If you want me to respond to text messages within eight minutes, then I won’t have the time to complete the project.”
He wants to argue, so you try a second tactic: “To be honest, this situation is making me uncomfortable. You have my word that I’ll pay you back the difference after I finish writing.”
He says “okay,” and hangs up.
An hour later, he changes his mind. This time, he emails you. He says that you can, in fact, find time to go to the bank today. It’ll only take 15 minutes to do a wire transfer, he promises. He even offers you $1,500 for lunch, $50 for gas, and $200 “for the inconvenience.”
Fifteen minutes later: “Sorry I made mistake I intend to give 150$ for your lunch not 1500.”
Okay, something is definitely off here. You leave a voicemail for your contact at your bank. Meanwhile, you continue to write; after all, you’ve cleared your schedule for the next few days.
As you wait for a call back, emails start piling up in your inbox. The subject lines blend desperation with pressure — those princes of Nigeria would be proud.
Fortunately, your banker responds within the hour. He explains that the situation bears all the signs of a classic con. The “mistaken” overpayment via physical check; the demand for reimbursement via wire transfer; the fluctuating amounts; the urgency; the mangled grammar; the suspiciously detailed knowledge of the banking system.
There’s even a name for this — the “Overpayment Scheme.”
“But the check cleared!” you protest. “It’s no longer ‘pending’ or ‘processing.’”
“We do that as a courtesy,” the banker says. “It can take up to 60 days before we validate payment. We’re quick to grant you access to the funds because the banking system wouldn’t work otherwise. But if a check is returned, as the payee you’re ultimately responsible.”
And yet, you still cling to a sliver of hope. You can’t believe something like this could happen to you — you, with your finely honed B.S. detector; you, with your payment-upfront stipulations. Plus, you’re deep in the throes of what economics call “sunk costs”: You’ve already spent a day writing, so you’re emotionally invested in the assignment. Thus, you take your banker up on his final suggestion: You call the bank that issued the check.
You say you suspect fraud; they ask you to send a picture of the check. Seconds after they receive your email, you hear the words you were dreading: “I wouldn’t deposit this.”
Oof.
“To be honest,” the representative continues, “this looks like it was printed on a home computer. Also, there are some formatting issues.”
In other words, this check was almost certainly forged. The whole thing was a brilliant, sophisticated swindle. Thank God you didn’t wire any money.
Had you done so, the con artist would have received your funds immediately, making them unrecoverable. And then, within weeks, your bank would have notified you that your sudden windfall was fraudulent. It would erase the entire amount from your account, and you’d be out about $5,000 of your own money, in addition to the time you spent writing the script that never mattered in the first place. Meanwhile, your emails and calls to the client would go unreturned.
How could I have avoided this ambush? First, always question the source. If someone refers a client to you, ask how they know this person. Is your contact “just the messenger,” or have they vetted the prospect?
Second, Google your prospect. The only digital trail for my newfound cash cow was a LinkedIn profile with three connections and no headshot.
Third, when it comes to funds, insist on an electronic transfer. There’s a reason I was snail-mailed a paper check, even as I was exhorted to send payment back electronically. Wire and A.C.H. transfers cannot be forged or even reversed; they’re the equivalent of cash.
Finally, if you sense a scam, resist the temptation to be a hero or a detective. If you do anything, call both your bank and their bank and report your suspicions. Then consider yourself lucky that you caught the con early.
I thought I was pretty savvy. How could I be so naïve? It turns out that I was just plain arrogant: I thought something like this couldn’t possibly happen to me.
Of course it could have.
Jonathan Rick is a ghostwriter in Washington, D.C. As long as you’re not a Nigerian prince, he’d love to help perfect your slide decks, Wikipedia articles, LinkedIn profiles, op-eds, website copy, and more.
