Two men stood at an LAX mailbox, passing an envelope between them like a hot potato.
“I don’t want to mail it. You mail it.”
“I don’t want to mail it. You mail it.”
Hours earlier, they’d flown from Chicago with no plan. Their mission was to intercept a confirmation letter before lawyers could verify lease terms with a customer. They’d arrived at the customer’s Los Angeles office just as a courier walked in ahead of them. While one man distracted the customer with lunch options, the other snuck into a nearby room, forged a signature, and faxed it back to the law firm.
Now they just had to mail the original back and catch their flight home. The envelope slipped from their hands and fell to the ground. They checked their watches—the flight was boarding. Without another word, they picked it up together and dropped it into the mailbox.
This scene captures exactly where OPM Leasing Services ended up. In a recent episode of Oh My Fraud, host Caleb Newquist traces how two childhood friends built one of America’s largest computer leasing companies, only to watch it collapse into a fraud worth more than $190 million.
Two Friends, One Dangerous Bet
Mordecai “Morty” Weissman and Myron Goodman went way back. Same Brooklyn yeshiva. Same college. By 1969, they were brothers-in-law when Myron married the sister of Morty’s wife. So when they started a business together in 1970 above a candy store in Brooklyn, it probably felt natural.
They called it OPM Leasing Services. The name supposedly stood for “Other People’s Machines.” But as Caleb points out, the interpretation that stuck was more cynical and ultimately more accurate: “Other People’s Money.”
In the early 1970s, if you were in the computer business at the enterprise level, there was one company that mattered: IBM. As Caleb puts it, “they were the only game in town.” These days, IBM is what he calls “the Norma Desmond of tech companies”—iconic but past its prime. Back then, they were creating the future.
OPM’s business model seemed straightforward. Borrow money to buy IBM mainframes. Lease them to corporations. Use the lease payments to service the loans and pocket the difference.
But Morty and Myron had a clever angle. While competitors wrote three- or four-year leases, OPM offered seven-year terms. The result was lower monthly payments that customers loved. As Caleb observes, “there’s never a shortage of price-conscious customers out there.”
The catch was that OPM required “hell or high water” clauses—lease payments had to be made no matter what. To sweeten the deal, customers could sublease computers back to OPM after three years, and OPM would re-lease them to someone else. If those payments didn’t cover the original amounts, OPM would eat the difference.
The entire model rested on one huge gamble: that IBM wouldn’t release better computers for seven years.
When Technology Refuses to Stand Still
Throughout most of the 1970s, the gamble seemed to pay off. OPM grew to 250 employees across 11 offices, including plush Manhattan headquarters. Their customer list read like a Who’s Who of American business: AT&T, Revlon, Polaroid, Merrill Lynch, Xerox, American Express, General Motors. Their biggest customer was the aerospace and defense giant Rockwell International.
Morty and Myron lived well. They settled into estates in Lawrence, Long Island. Myron decorated what the New York Times called his “baronial estate” with a disco and a small movie theater. He pledged $10 million to Yeshiva University and became its youngest trustee ever.
Competitors remained skeptical. Edward Czerny, president of the nation’s second-largest leasing company, said OPM was “going 180 degrees against what the industry was doing.” But as Caleb notes, skeptics don’t always get it right. People were skeptical of Amazon losing money for a decade. They thought automobiles would never replace horses.
Then came 1978.
IBM launched its Series 3000 computers, which were faster, smaller, and cheaper than anything on the market. Every big business wanted one, including OPM’s customers. As the New York Times reported, customers immediately started turning in their old computers. OPM had to accept “knock down rentals” for obsolete equipment, resulting in shortfalls of up to $40,000 per month on individual deals.
That same year, Morty and Myron purchased First National Bank of Jefferson Parish, Louisiana. Why would two computer leasing guys from New York buy a bank in Louisiana? As Caleb dryly notes, owning a bank might come in handy “for one reason or another, like for a check kiting scheme.”
The Desperate Descent
Check kiting exploits the “float,” or the days it takes checks to clear. You write checks between accounts with insufficient funds, timing deposits to create the appearance of money that doesn’t exist. Caleb calls it “the financial equivalent of the spinning plate routine.”
Those plates stayed airborne for six months before bank officials caught on. In March 1980, OPM pleaded guilty to 22 felonies and paid a $110,000 fine. “Virtually no one outside of Morty and Myron heard anything about it,” Caleb notes.
But the desperation only grew. Single computers became collateral for multiple loans at different banks, and they fabricated lease documents. In one example, OPM claimed monthly lease payments of $54,500 when the actual amount was $463. Documents described four IBM computers worth $3.1 million in Texas, when Rockwell’s records showed three pieces of equipment worth $20,000 in Los Angeles.
Judge Charles Haight Jr. later revealed the forgery technique. “Mr. Goodman would crouch under a glass table with a flashlight, and Mr. Weissman would trace the forged signatures.”
Warning signs accumulated. Business Week questioned OPM’s practices in 1978. Goldman Sachs resigned as their investment bank. But customers wanted to keep believing. When Edward Czerny showed the Business Week article to customers, he said, “most of them didn’t care.”
Everything unraveled in February 1981 when a routine inquiry discovered “rather poor forgeries” of a Rockwell executive’s signature. Within a month, lenders sued, alleging fraud exceeding $100 million. The final tally would reach $190 million from 19 lenders.
The Professionals Who Should Have Said No
The bankruptcy examiner’s report revealed a network of enablers who chose client relationships over professional responsibilities.
Lehman Brothers knew about the check kiting but never reported it. They continued representing OPM to lenders in “the best possible light,” downplaying concerns when convenient.
Fox and Company, the audit firm, “yielded to pressure to certify materially false and misleading financial statements.” In 1976, they initially drafted statements showing large losses. Myron Goodman told the audit partner to “get back to the grindstone and try to figure out a way to show a profit.” Because the firm was being paid by the guy yelling at them, that’s exactly what they did, using what the report called “questionable accounting techniques.”
Singer Hutner Levine and Seeman, OPM’s law firm, took the brunt of the blame. Partner Andrew Reinhard, Myron’s close friend, allegedly knew about the fraud as early as 1978. The report called him “a reluctant but knowing accomplice,” though he was never charged.
The story of John Clifton, OPM’s internal accountant, shows how badly the system failed. Clifton found evidence of bogus Rockwell leases, consulted a lawyer, turned the information over to Singer Hutner Levine & Seeman, and quit, hoping they’d handle it. His letter arrived while Myron Goodman happened to be at the firm’s offices making a “partial confession of unspecified past wrongdoing.” Goodman intercepted the letter, and the specifics stayed hidden.
Singer Hutner Levine & Seeman continued working for OPM, closing more than $70 million in fraudulent loans before finally resigning in September 1980. The bankruptcy report said they’d gotten “the worst possible advice about its ethical obligations.”
The Reckoning and the Lessons
OPM filed for bankruptcy in March 1981. By December, five executives had pleaded guilty to defrauding lenders. A year later, Morty and Myron pled guilty and received 10 and 12 years, respectively.
Judge Haight didn’t hold back. OPM was “basically insolvent” almost from the start and “survived by means of just fraud and bribery.” The frauds were “without parallel in the history of this court.”
Caleb draws several lessons from the wreckage:
- Unorthodox business models deserve scrutiny. They’re not automatically fraudulent. After all, plenty of skeptics have been wrong. But when a company’s entire advantage rests on assumptions that defy common sense, like technology standing still for seven years, that’s worth examining.
- Desperation breeds fraud. “Fraud is often a temporary solution to a problem,” Caleb observes. People convince themselves it’s just this once, they’ll pay it back, everything will be fine. “It’s almost never fine.”
- “Too good to be true” still applies. OPM’s customers got deals nobody else could match. Even when Business Week raised questions, “most of them didn’t care.” People don’t want to stop believing they’re getting a great deal.
- Professional enablers make large-scale fraud possible. Banks, auditors, and lawyers “didn’t say no to their client. They were conflicted in many ways and allowed things to go on for too long.”
And finally, Caleb calls the check kiting “the dumbest fraud on Earth.” There’s only one way it ends. Either you stop and face the consequences, or “money falls out of the sky.” The sky rarely cooperates.
For accounting professionals, the pressure to find creative solutions hasn’t changed since 1978. When clients pay your fees and threaten to fire you if they don’t like your answers, the temptation is real. The OPM case reminds us that professional independence is the only thing standing between aggressive accounting and criminal fraud.
“If your plan B is kiting checks, then plan A might need some work,” Caleb concludes:
Listen to the full episode for more details about this spectacular fraud, including the thorny attorney-client privilege issues that emerged from Singer Hutner Levine & Seeman’s conduct. It’s a story that proves some lessons in fraud never get old; they just get more expensive.
