Fraud

It’s December 1971, in a comfortable living room in Toluca Lake, Los Angeles. Two men sit on a couch, sharing some Scotch and maybe a Quaalude. One is Art Lewis, a 28-year-old executive. The other is Alan Green, a 21-year-old actuary who’s been working at Equity Funding for over a year while finishing his senior year at UCLA. They’d become friendly. Alan and his wife had even gone skinny-dipping in Art’s pool on a previous visit. This wasn’t a smoke-filled backroom of hardened criminals plotting a heist. It was a casual evening between a young employee and his boss.

It ended with Alan agreeing to help fabricate tens of thousands of fake insurance policies.

On this episode of Oh My Fraud, host Caleb Newquist, joined by co-producer Zach Frank, sits down with Alan, an actual insider from the Equity Funding scandal of the early 1970s. Alan wasn’t just another participant. He automated and scaled the creation of phony insurance policies at the center of one of the largest financial frauds in American history. (If you’re not familiar with the Equity Funding case, listen to Episode 66, The Case of Equity Funding Corporation of America. You’ll need the full backstory to understand the magnitude of what Alan is describing.)

What makes Alan’s account so unsettling is that he wasn’t a criminal mastermind. He was a talented kid who said “yes” because being chosen felt good. When Art revealed the scheme and asked for help, Alan didn’t hesitate. He felt “special.” His story shows the most devastating schemes aren’t built by obvious villains. They’re built by ordinary, capable people who are seduced by a sense of belonging and reassured that no one’s really getting hurt.

The Price of Belonging

The line between an honest employee and a convicted conspirator often has nothing to do with greed. For Alan, it was about something far more ordinary: the human need to belong.

Alan was exactly the kind of hire any company would want. The son of a pension consultant, he’d discovered his gift for numbers early. At UCLA, he took a computer programming course in Fortran, aced it, and switched his major to the brand-new field of math computer science. When he started working afternoons at Equity Funding in 1969, he was newly married and still finishing school.

His first day at the small Beverly Hills office felt “like walking into a party.” The entire actuarial department worked in one room, everyone young and friendly. “All my future friends were there,” Alan recalled. “It really was family.”

For over a year, Alan did normal actuarial work, like calculating insurance premiums using massive paper spreadsheets and projecting income and expenses. He had no idea that Mike Keller, working in the office next door, was creating fake insurance policies.

Then Mike quit at the worst possible time. It was December 1971, year-end was approaching, and Equity Funding needed certain numbers on the books. That’s when Art invited Alan to his house.

Sitting on Art’s couch, both men feeling good from drinks and drugs, Art revealed the scheme, or at least the part he wanted Alan to know about. The company had been creating fraudulent insurance policies and selling them to reinsurance companies for cash. They needed Alan’s programming skills to continue the work.

“How did you feel?” Caleb asks Alan about that moment.

“Special,” Alan answers. He said yes immediately. No negotiation or agonizing. Art valued his abilities, and that recognition was everything.

Decades later, Alan still wrestles with that moment. “Why did I say yes? Why was I so flattered?” The answer he’s found has little to do with money. Art offered membership in what Alan privately called “the fellowship,” his name for the scheme, borrowed from Tolkien. “We want you to be in our group,” is how Alan describes the appeal. “We’re inviting you to have a secret family.”

How Talent Became a Weapon

Once Alan said yes, his professional instincts took over, and that’s when a crude fraud became an industrial operation.

The numbers tell the story. When Mike left at the end of 1971, about 10,000 phony policies existed. By the end of 1972, after Alan’s improvements, that number had exploded to between 64,000 and 66,000.

Nobody told Alan to automate the fraud. “That was just my inclination,” he said. He did what any good programmer would do. He streamlined the process, built flowcharts, wrote programs, and documented everything so clearly that “it could easily be handed to the next person.”

The mechanics were sophisticated. Equity Funding sold the fake policies to reinsurance companies for cash. To keep the books consistent, Alan had to weave the fraudulent data through multiple systems. Fake policies required fake commissions. The computer even determined when fake policyholders would “die” so the company could collect death benefits. A $50,000 payout then equals about $500,000 today, Alan notes.

Most cleverly, Alan embedded hidden codes in each fake policy. They were markers only he could read. This let him mix real and fake policies so seamlessly that “you can’t tell the difference when looking at a listing.” When investigators later tried to separate legitimate from fraudulent policies, they discovered Alan was “the only one who could do that.”

The lesson is chilling. The same qualities that make employees valuable, like initiative, systematic thinking, and technical skill, can scale a fraud beyond anyone’s imagination. Alan turned forgery into an assembly line, complete with documentation for the next shift.

The Architecture of Denial

How did twenty-five people participate in this fraud for years without anyone stopping it? The answer lies in how Equity Funding compartmentalized the conspiracy and delayed the victims’ appearance.

Alan’s isolation was nearly complete. In his entire time at Equity Funding, he never once met CEO Stanley Goldblum. “Never saw him,” he emphasizes. He barely knew President Fred Levin or executive Lloyd Eaton beyond glimpsing them at parties. When asked about the accounting department that was cooking the books at the corporate level, Alan says he was “completely” isolated from them.

He knew nothing about the other frauds happening simultaneously, like the forged bond certificates, the gold-plated bricks placed in the vault to fool auditors, or the bugging of the conference room where auditors worked. As Alan learned later, “the higher up they were, the more they knew.” Everyone else saw only their piece.

The culture helped maintain the illusion of normalcy. Alan tells a story about Fred calling down from the 28th floor one night because he’d received a delivery of cannabis but didn’t know how to roll joints. Could anyone in the actuarial department help? Alan could and did, keeping a little for himself. “He had a lot better stuff than we could afford,” Alan notes. In his telling, drugs were “an equalizer” that dissolved hierarchy and made the company feel like a family rather than a criminal enterprise.

Even the fraud itself felt routine. The infamous “signing parties” gathered department heads around a conference table to forge signatures on fake policies—doctors approving medical exams, agents closing sales. Ordinary managers, sitting together, manufacturing fraud like it was paperwork.

Most importantly, while the scheme ran, there were no visible victims. “When it’s going on, there are no victims,” Alan explained. “The victims come at the end.” The stock kept climbing. Reinsurance companies collected their premiums (funded by selling more fake policies to other reinsurers). Everyone was “getting what they expected to get.”

There was also a comforting story that this was temporary. Art told Alan they wanted to wind it down. According to Art’s later recollection, executives even pleaded with Stanley Goldblum to pause the scheme for just one year. Stanley refused. Earnings per share had to rise from $1.80 to $2.00 to $2.25, no exceptions. “Growth at all costs,” as Caleb puts it.

When the Music Stopped

Alan left Equity Funding in January 1973, not from guilt, but from wanderlust. “My lifestyle was really turning very bohemian,” he explains. “I really needed to cut free and go explore the world.” Art wanted him to stay but didn’t push hard. Alan suspects Art’s first thought was, “Are you going to talk to anybody?”

Alan didn’t talk. But three months later, in April 1973, another employee named Ron Secrest did. When the scandal broke, Alan got a call from a friend still at Equity Funding warning him to cooperate now, and there might be immunity. Alan immediately agreed to help.

The investigators couldn’t tell which policies were fake. Alan was the only one who could identify them, thanks to his hidden codes. He returned on a contract basis, spent about a week reversing his own work, and gave investigators the evidence they needed.

The meeting location shows how serious things had become. Investigators first met Alan on a golf course road where “you can see anyone coming.” They knew it might be dangerous.

When sentences came down in October 1974, Alan got the lightest, with three months at minimum-security Lompoc. He brought his own box of books and played bridge nightly with three fellow conspirators: Attorney Jim Banks, head of policy service Bill Symonds, and Larry Collins, the head of underwriting. They never discussed the fraud.

Stanley Goldblum got eight years, served four, and paid a $10,000 fine, pocket change for a fraud this size. He kept his Beverly Hills house and later got caught in a 1990s workers’ comp scheme. In his seventies, he was arrested again for trying to get a bank loan with fraudulent information.

The real victims appeared when the company collapsed. Shareholders lost everything when the stock went to zero. Legitimate insurance agents lost their careers. Alan tells one story that haunts him. A friend’s father, an agent who’d been advised to hold the company stock, lost everything when it crashed. He had a heart attack and died.

Lessons from the Fellowship

Alan’s story isn’t about a criminal mastermind. He was a talented young programmer who wanted to belong, said yes to feel special, and automated a fraud because that’s what good programmers do—they make things efficient.

The warning signs aren’t always in the numbers. Watch for cultures where forgery becomes routine, departments are so isolated that no one sees the full picture, and growth targets are so sacred that leadership won’t pause even for a year. Watch for the quiet seduction of the inner circle, the promise of belonging to something special.

Most unsettling of all, watch your best young hires. The same talents that make them valuable, like systematic thinking, technical skill, and the drive to improve processes, can transform a small deception into an industrial fraud. As Alan still asks himself: “Why did I say yes?” His answer has less to do with greed than with being human.

Listen to the full conversation with Alan on this episode of Oh My Fraud. Because sometimes the biggest frauds are orchestrated by ordinary people, one yes at a time.

In January 2018, a video exploded across social media. It showed a massive, futuristic semi-truck silently gliding down a desert highway. The caption read, “Behold the 1,000-horsepower, zero-emission Nikola One semi truck in motion.”

People lost their minds. The truck looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Nikola Corporation was going to revolutionize trucking with hydrogen fuel and zero emissions. The future had arrived.

There was just one problem. The truck had no motor, no fuel cell, and no gears. It wasn’t driving. It was rolling.

In a recent Oh My Fraud episode, host Caleb Newquist traces Trevor Milton’s journey from a college dropout with a string of failed ventures to the founder of a $30 billion public company built on claims that were, in the most literal sense, rolling downhill.

 

The Making of a Serial Entrepreneur

Trevor Robert Milton was born in 1982 in Layton, Utah. He grew up in Kanab, a small town in southern Utah with a population of a few thousand and more red rock than anything else. His dad worked for Union Pacific Railroad. His mom was a realtor. She died of cancer when Trevor was 15. 

By any normal resume standard, Trevor wasn’t the obvious candidate to become a billionaire truck company founder. He dropped out of Utah Valley University after one semester. He had no engineering background, no finance background. But he could walk into a room, start talking, and make people feel like whatever he was selling was the future.

He later described his learning style this way: “I gained all my knowledge in the real world. I like to learn by touching things.” As Caleb observes, this was “a charming way of saying ‘I figured it out as I went.’”

For a surprisingly long while, that worked.

A Pattern of Failure and Forward Motion

Trevor’s first company was St. George Security and Alarms, a home security installation business. He sold it to a Nevada businessman named Glen Pilz, who drained his 401(k) and savings account to buy it. Glen later told CNN the books weren’t what they appeared to be. He described the experience as a section of his life that “sucked.”

Then came uPillar, an online classified site for used cars. Trevor later said, without apparent irony, the company “would have ended up being Amazon, but they grew too fast.” As Caleb notes, “uPillar was not Amazon. It was a used car website in Utah.”

Around this time, while investors were waiting for revolutionary technology, uPillar sponsored what it hoped would be the world’s largest silly string fight. Thousands of people, strobe lights, 8,000 cans of silly string, and money cannons blasting cash into the crowd. What did this have to do with selling used cars online? Nothing. Nothing at all.

Next was dHybrid, a company that converted diesel truck engines to run on compressed natural gas. This venture landed a deal with Swift Transportation, one of the largest trucking companies in the United States. Swift gave Trevor $2 million up front and a $322,000 loan to get conversions rolling. By the time the money was gone, dHybrid had completed exactly five test conversions. Swift and another investor sued. The company failed.

These early investors weren’t all sophisticated funders. One man put in $40,000, which was basically everything he had. Another scraped together about $3,000, partly with credit card cash advances. All of it was gone, but Trevor kept moving forward.

The Birth of Nikola and a Very Expensive Prop

In 2015, Trevor founded Nikola Motor Company in Salt Lake City. The name wasn’t subtle. Nikola Tesla’s last name was already on Elon Musk’s electric car company, so Trevor took the first name.

Trevor talked about Elon constantly, sometimes admiringly, sometimes competitively, often both at once. When Elon announced it was time to go all out on the Tesla Semi, Trevor responded publicly, saying, “He doesn’t like us, and that’s okay.” He told journalists with complete sincerity, “There are very few people who can out-Elon in this world, and I’m one of them.”

The pitch for Nikola was ambitious. He wanted hydrogen-electric semi-trucks to replace diesel across the American trucking industry. And not just the trucks. Nikola would build hundreds of hydrogen fueling stations across the U.S. and Canada, bundling the trucks and the fuel together. Nikola was going to be the next Tesla AND the next ExxonMobil, too.

On December 1, 2016, Trevor walked onto a stage in Salt Lake City. Behind him, hidden under a large white sheet, sat the Nikola One. Trevor built to the reveal, addressing his doubters. “For every person out there that said, ‘There’s no way this can be true. How can that be possible?’ We’ve done it.”

When the sheet dropped, the crowd went wild. The truck was enormous and futuristic, with swooping lines and aggressive angles. It looked like someone asked a Hollywood designer to imagine trucking in 2050.

Trevor told the crowd, “This thing fully functions and works.” He joked about putting up a chain to keep people from driving off. He explicitly stated the truck was “not just a pusher,” which is industry slang for a vehicle that looks real but has to be pushed around.

The crowd didn’t know that a few weeks earlier, Nikola’s chief engineer had told Trevor the truck wouldn’t be functional for the unveiling. He recommended postponing, but Trevor proceeded anyway. According to Bloomberg, gears and motors were missing, and there was no fuel cell on board. The Nikola One was, in the most literal sense possible, a very expensive prop.

The Video That Changed Everything

More than a year later, in January 2018, Nikola posted a video called “Nikola One in Motion.” It showed the truck cruising down what appeared to be a flat desert highway. The company framed it as proof the technology worked.

But remember, the truck had no motor, fuel cell, or gears. So how was it moving?

Hindenburg Research, the short-selling firm that eventually exposed everything, sent an investigator to find the filming location. They found it on a remote stretch of road on the old Mormon Trail south of Grantsville, Utah. Straight, lightly traveled, and sloped downhill just enough to get a 21,000-pound truck rolling at what looked like highway speed.

Nikola had towed the truck to the top of the hill, positioned cameras so the road looked flat (even slightly uphill in some shots), and filmed it rolling down. When challenged, Nikola’s official response was that it “never stated its truck was driving under its own propulsion in the video.” 

An Ocean of Lies

The false claims cascaded across nearly every aspect of Nikola’s business. Trevor claimed Nikola was producing hydrogen at costs that undercut competitors. If true, Nikola would have the trucks, the fuel, and the stations. But Nikola wasn’t producing hydrogen.

The Nikola Badger pickup truck, announced in 2020, was described as “built from the ground up” using Nikola’s own technology. The actual plan was to rely on General Motors technology through a partnership the company hadn’t yet finalized.

Trevor talked constantly about billions in reservations, a backlog proving the market wanted what Nikola was building. He didn’t emphasize that most were non-binding, there were no deposits, and customers could cancel their orders anytime for free.

Then there was Trevor’s brother, Travis, appointed director of hydrogen production and infrastructure. This job required deep technical expertise in engineering and manufacturing. According to Hindenburg Research, Travis’s prior experience “appeared to consist largely of construction and remodeling work in Hawaii.”

The Perfect Storm for Fraud

Nikola went public on June 4, 2020, by merging with a special purpose acquisition company (SPAC) rather than going the traditional initial public offering (IPO) route. This gave Trevor far more room to promote future projections than he would have had in a traditional IPO process. And Trevor, as Caleb says, “exploited that room with everything he had.”

The timing was perfect. The pandemic had shut down the economy and trapped millions at home with stimulus checks they weren’t sure what to do with. Commission-free trading apps like Robinhood made buying stocks feel as easy as ordering takeout. A new generation of retail investors piled into the market, many for the first time.

These people hadn’t spent years looking at balance sheets. They’d watched the market recover from 2008 and missed it. They’d seen early Tesla investors become millionaires and were looking for the next Tesla. People who were home, online, scrolling, and susceptible to a great story told with confidence.

Trevor went straight for this audience. He posted on Twitter “like a man who had nothing to hide, which was a very effective thing to do when you had everything to hide.” He answered questions from random retail investors like they were old friends. When skeptics pushed back, he made doubt look like jealousy. They were haters, paid attack accounts, Tesla fans trying to tear down a competitor.

Within five days of going public, Nikola’s stock had more than doubled. On June 9, it peaked near $80 a share. The market cap briefly touched $30 billion, surpassing Ford, a company that had been manufacturing vehicles for 117 years. Nikola had zero revenue and hadn’t delivered a single truck. Trevor’s personal stake was worth around $12 billion. He bought a $6 million Gulfstream jet with Nikola stock from a Nikola board member.

The Two-Day Partnership

On September 8, 2020, Nikola announced a partnership with General Motors. GM would receive an 11% stake, valued at roughly $2 billion, in exchange for supplying technology and manufacturing the Badger. Trevor called it “a partnership made in heaven.”

General Motors had just legitimized Nikola. Trevor had parlayed what Hindenburg called “an ocean of lies into a partnership with the largest auto OEM in America.”

It lasted two days.

On September 10, Hindenburg Research published its report. It included text messages from former employees, recorded phone calls, private emails, and behind-the-scenes photographs. It detailed everything, including the hill, the hydrogen claims, and the Badger.

Trevor’s response was to call it a hit job on Twitter. “It will take the rest of the day to address the one-sided false claims,” he wrote. “In the meantime, troll on.” He never addressed them. Ten days later, he resigned as executive chairman and deleted his social media accounts.

Trial, Conviction, and a Presidential Phone Call

The Securities and Exchange Committee (SEC) and the Department of Justice (DOJ) launched investigations. The GM deal fell apart. In July 2021, a federal grand jury indicted Trevor on securities and wire fraud charges.

The trial testimony was devastating. CEO Mark Russell testified he learned only after joining that the Nikola One never had a working turbine or fuel cell when Trevor unveiled it. He, CFO Kim Brady, and chief counsel had staged what he called “an intervention” with Trevor over his public statements. Mark threatened to quit but didn’t, worried it would destabilize the company.

Kim offered perhaps the most revealing detail. When Nikola’s stock fell by $5 on its first day of trading, Trevor called Kim to ask if something was wrong with the Nasdaq. Kim explained it was simply supply and demand. Trevor insisted Kim contact the exchange. Kim didn’t because, as Caleb puts it, “that would be insane and humiliating.”

The jury convicted Trevor on three of four counts. Judge Edgardo Ramos sentenced him to four years in prison, a $1 million fine, and sought $660 million in restitution for investors.

Then, on March 27, 2024, while Trevor was still free on bail, President Trump called him personally to offer a full and unconditional pardon. Trevor posted a celebratory video, calling it a “pardon of innocence.” That’s not what a pardon is. As Judge Emmet Sullivan noted in the Michael Flynn case, “The Supreme Court has recognized that the acceptance of a pardon implies a confession of guilt.”

Trump’s explanation was straightforward. Trevor “was one of the first people who supported a gentleman named Donald Trump for president.” Trevor had donated almost $2 million to Trump’s efforts. The pardon wiped away the prison sentence and the $660 million in restitution. Nikola had already filed for bankruptcy. The investors got nothing.

By October 2025, Trevor was CEO of SyberJet Aircraft, staffed with former Nikola employees. He told the Wall Street Journal, “I love to find products that are unreal and need someone with vision or guts to be able to bring it to market.” Unreal is right.

Lessons for Accounting Professionals

Caleb distills several crucial lessons from the Nikola fraud:

• “Fake it till you make it” isn’t a legal defense. There’s a difference between selling a vision and stating things as fact when you know they’re false. Founders are allowed to be optimistic. They’re allowed to sell the vision. They’re not allowed to tell investors they’re producing hydrogen when they’re producing no hydrogen at all.
• SPACs deserve extra scrutiny. The SPAC structure gave Trevor far more room to promote future projections than a traditional IPO would have, and he used it like a personal marketing budget. The SEC has since tightened disclosure rules around SPACs, but the lesson stands. If a company goes public via a SPAC, consider whether what the founder has said publicly is actually verifiable.
• Watch the people around the founder, not just the founder. If a company promises to build a national hydrogen infrastructure network, and the person running that effort has a background in home remodeling, that’s a red flag.
• Retail investors can be a target. Trevor went looking for people who were emotionally invested, unlikely to do professional due diligence, and hungry for the next Tesla. Green tech companies that promise to save the world still have to deliver the goods. 

The Truck That Couldn’t Drive, But Almost Got Away With It

Trevor built a $30 billion company on a truck that rolled downhill. He was convicted on three counts of fraud, sentenced to four years in prison, and then pardoned before he served a single day by a president he’d donated nearly $2 million to support. The retail investors who lost everything got nothing.

What makes the Nikola story worth studying is how long the lies worked, and who bore the cost when they didn’t. The engineers and executives knew. The CFO testified that Trevor’s statements “could be inaccurate or exaggerated.” And yet the company kept going, the stock kept climbing, and ordinary people kept buying in.

That’s the part that should keep accounting professionals up at night.

For the full story, including Caleb’s breakdown of the infamous downhill video, the GM partnership that lasted 48 hours, and the pardon that wiped away $660 million in restitution, listen to the full Oh My Fraud episode. 

In 1992, a professional basketball league folded overnight because something had gone catastrophically wrong at a discount drugstore chain in Youngstown, Ohio. When Phar-Mor went down, it took with it 25,000 jobs, $1.1 billion in investor money, and a basketball league with one bizarre rule: no players taller than 6’5″.

This wild story comes from Oh My Fraud, the true crime podcast where host Caleb Newquist digs into financial scandals with the kind of detail accounting professionals love. In this episode, Caleb unpacks one of the largest retail frauds in American history and how it started with something shockingly simple.

Picture a young CFO walking into his boss’s office with bad news about company losses. The boss takes the report, crosses out the real numbers with a pen, and writes in fake ones. Then, after doing this himself for four months, he hands the pen to the CFO and says, “Your turn.”

That’s how a $1.1 billion fraud begins.

 

The City That Needed to Believe

To understand how Phar-Mor fooled everyone, you first need to understand Youngstown, Ohio, because the two are inseparable.

For most of the 20th century, Youngstown was a steel town where mills ran 24 hours a day. The entire regional economy was essentially one giant bet that steel would stay relevant forever. Starting in 1977, during a period locals still call Black Monday, the mills began closing quickly. Tens of thousands of jobs vanished. Within a few years, the city lost a quarter of its population.

The mayor of Youngstown later described the city’s psychology this way: “You’re always insecure when you lose 5,000 jobs. It’s kind of a neurosis in a community where people assume the worst. Someone who has been beaten up so much expects to be beaten up again.”

Michael “Mickey” Monus walked into this beaten-down environment in 1982. A Youngstown native educated at Babson College, Mickey wasn’t naturally charismatic. Newsweek described him as someone who “seems to have been born without any natural grace. His large, fleshy face wasn’t brightened by warmth or an easy smile. He liked to dress casually, but still looked stiff.” A local columnist was even more blunt, calling Mickey “Unprepossessing.”

But Mickey had the ability to make people believe. And in a city desperate for hope, that was everything.

Power Buying and Phantom Profits

Mickey partnered with David Shapira, heir to the Giant Eagle supermarket empire, to launch Phar-Mor. The concept was simple: a deep-discount drugstore selling everything at prices so low they almost didn’t make sense. Mickey called it “power buying.” Stockpile goods when suppliers offer rock-bottom deals on huge volumes, then pass the savings to customers.

The growth was explosive. One store became two, then eight, within a year. By 1988, there were about 100 stores. By 1990, more than 200 stores were generating over $2 billion in annual sales.

Sam Walton, the legendary founder of Walmart, publicly stated Mickey and Phar-Mor were the only competition he genuinely feared. As board member Anthony Cafaro recalled, “Sam couldn’t figure out how Phar-Mor’s prices were so low. He could not understand it.”

There was a good reason Sam couldn’t figure it out. Phar-Mor had been losing money every single year since it opened, and almost nobody knew.

In the mid-1980s, Mickey hired Patrick Finn as CFO. Patrick was loyal, relatively inexperienced, and someone who found genuine meaning in accounting’s orderliness. As he later testified, “You could see yourself going after problems, challenging yourself, solving problems in accounting. Things are either right or wrong.”

Patrick found the wrong answer quickly. When he brought the losses to Mickey, his boss took the report, crossed out the real numbers with a pen, and wrote in good ones. Mickey did this himself for four months before turning the job over to Patrick.

“You knew you were doing something wrong, but you never understood how wrong,” Finn later reflected. “Give him time, and he’ll fix the problem.”

So Patrick gave him time. And the fraud grew.

Bucket Accounts and Driving Inventory in Circles

By 1988, the scheme had evolved into systematic inflation of inventory on the balance sheet. Patrick’s team created what they called “bucket accounts.”

After counting inventory at a store, the accounting team would prepare legitimate journal entries for the real books. Then they’d create fraudulent entries to inflate the inventory numbers and dump them into these bucket accounts. The fake entries had telltale signs, like round numbers, no journal entry numbers, vague account names like “accounts receivable, inventory, contra,” and zero supporting documentation.

At year-end, right before the auditors arrived, they’d empty the buckets and spread the fraudulent entries across individual stores, making sure no single location looked obviously wrong.

They kept the real numbers in a separate set of books. John Anderson, brought in from Youngstown State University to help maintain them, later described the culture. “Pat always had an aggressive approach to accounting. Call it aggressive or call it creative. That’s the way it was done ever since I remember.”

By 1990, when Stan Cherelstein joined as comptroller, John closed an office door, pulled out the subledger, and told him the financial statements were misstated by approximately $150 million. Stan stayed, rationalizing that they might be able to fix it through legitimate means. He also admitted to fearing that if he went over their heads, some harm would come to him.

The fraud kept growing, and to survive, it needed auditors who weren’t looking too closely.

The Watchdog That Never Barked

Coopers & Lybrand was one of the world’s most respected accounting firms when it won the Phar-Mor audit. It won with a very competitive bid, which meant a very low price and pressure to cut costs.

Instead of auditing inventory at every Phar-Mor store (there were more than 300), Coopers checked just four stores out of 300. They also told Phar-Mor management months in advance exactly which four stores they’d check.

Think about what that means. If you know Store A is being counted on Tuesday and Store B was counted last week, you load a truck with inventory from Store B and drive it to Store A. The auditors count a beautifully stocked store on Tuesday. On Wednesday, the truck takes everything back. As Caleb puts it, “Hundreds of millions of Phar-Mor’s reported inventory was just merchandise driving around in circles on trucks.”

In 1989, three years into serious fraud, Coopers & Lybrand signed off on financial statements showing Phar-Mor had earned a record profit. A company that had never been profitable was suddenly reporting record earnings, and the auditors said everything looked great.

Patrick couldn’t produce documentation for a single one of those fraudulent journal entries. The auditors kept signing off anyway.

When later asked about it, Coopers’ associate general counsel offered this defense: “An accountant is a watchdog but not a bloodhound.” Caleb counters the watchdog was asleep.

Meanwhile, warning signs kept getting ignored or suppressed.

Red Flags and Ripped-Up Memos

In November 1990, a secretary accidentally sent David the wrong financial report with the real numbers, not the fake ones. David called Patrick to his office, but Patrick didn’t panic. He said those were just preliminary numbers that needed adjustments. David believed him. When you have that much riding on something, you don’t go looking for problems.

Then came Charity Imbrie, Phar-Mor’s legal counsel. At a Las Vegas convention in 1991, she heard vendors complaining about unpaid bills and being pressured to support something called the World Basketball League. She wrote a confidential memo documenting her concerns and sent it to David.

He advised her to “rip it up.”

At the bottom of the memo, Charity noted that David said it was “particularly important to rip it up now because of pending financing.” The $200 million deal closed four weeks later. David stood to make more than $2 million from it.

By spring 1991, Phar-Mor was holding back $150 million it owed to vendors. Stan described the scene: “We had cabinets stuffed with held checks at the company. We couldn’t mail them because if we mailed them, the checks would have bounced.”

Vendors stopped shipping products. Shoppers started noticing empty shelves, a terrible look for a company whose whole promise was low prices on everything.

While the fraud machine was falling apart behind the scenes, Mickey was living a life that should have raised its own questions.

Basketball Leagues and Gold Wedding Dresses

Mickey drew a salary of about $500,000 a year, but he also took extra company money for home renovations, credit card bills, and an engagement ring. His second wedding at the Ritz-Carlton in Palm Beach featured a bride in an 18-karat gold mesh gown valued at more than half a million dollars. The dress came with two armed guards.

He had a suite permanently reserved at Caesars Palace. His associate Tom Zawistowski described the lifestyle: “Life was a game. You’ve got all this money coming through your hands, whether you own it or not. That’s for someone else to decide.”

Then there was the basketball league. In 1987, Mickey co-founded the World Basketball League with one bizarre rule: no player could be taller than 6’5″. Despite having Hall of Famer Bob Cousy as co-founder, real teams, and a TV deal, the league lost an estimated $13,000 per game. Mickey structured it so he owned 60% of every franchise. At its peak with 14 teams, that meant he was covering the majority of massive losses, and it was all bankrolled by Phar-Mor.

Back in Youngstown, Mickey built a 14,000-square-foot mansion with an indoor pool and basketball court. He was part of the ownership group pursuing what would become the Colorado Rockies. In Youngstown, he was bigger than life, a civic deity who could do no wrong.

Until an $80,000 check changed everything.

The Check That Brought Down an Empire

Edward DeBartolo Sr., the shopping mall developer and one of Ohio’s wealthiest men, noticed something odd: an $80,000 check from a Phar-Mor account to a travel agency for the World Basketball League. He tipped off the board. The board started pulling threads. The threads didn’t stop.

The collapse was swift:

• July 28, 1992: Mickey demoted to vice chairman
• July 31: Mickey, Patrick, and two executives fired
• August 1: The World Basketball League implodes mid-season
• August 4: Phar-Mor announces a $350 million charge against earnings
• August 17: Bankruptcy filed. 25,000 jobs gone.

The community was divided. One radio caller said: “Al Capone, Dillinger, Monus. They’re all the same. He played Youngstown for a bunch of hicks from Mayberry.” Another defended him, saying, “The Monus family has done more good for this valley than any harm.”

The half-finished mansion sat abandoned behind police barricades, insulation exposed, birds moving in.

Justice, Sort Of

A grand jury indicted Mickey on 129 counts in January 1993. The first trial ended in a mistrial because one juror had been bribed by a Mickey associate. Both were charged with jury tampering.

The second trial in May 1995 produced the expected result: guilty on 109 counts. Mickey got 19.5 years, served ten. Patrick served 33 months. John Anderson and Stan Cherelstein, who knew everything and testified, served no prison time at all.

Coopers & Lybrand settled claims for hundreds of millions of dollars. The reputational damage contributed to their merger with Price Waterhouse, forming PricewaterhouseCoopers in 1998.

What This Means for Accounting Professionals

Caleb distills four crucial lessons from the Phar-Mor disaster:

• Fraud snowballs. Patrick wasn’t hired to commit fraud. He made one small adjustment, then another, then he was maintaining fake books and helping truck phantom inventory between stores. Each step feels only slightly worse than the last until you’re $1.1 billion deep.
• Audit procedures matter (a lot). Counting four stores out of 300 and telling management which four a field trip, not an audit. The procedures give fraud room to breathe.
• Fishy journal entries are red flags. Round numbers, no documentation, no entry numbers, and vague account names are signs somebody is making things up.
• Watch the lifestyle. When someone’s spending is completely detached from legitimate income, it’s worth questioning.

The Phar-Mor case shows what happens when pressure meets rationalization meets opportunity. The red flags were everywhere, from unexplained journal entries to vendors screaming about unpaid bills and a CEO whose lifestyle made no sense. Every procedural shortcut, unchallenged rationalization, and warning memo that gets ripped up creates space for fraud to grow.

Want to hear the full story with all the jaw-dropping details? Listen to the complete Oh My Fraud episode.