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Oh My Fraud

A $600 Credit Card Complaint Unraveled One of the Biggest Frauds of the 1980s

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The auditors stood in what looked like a massive insurance restoration job. Equipment everywhere. Workers milling around. Paperwork ready and in order. It looked like a thriving construction site.

Except it wasn’t real.

The workers were hired actors. The paperwork was fake. The project didn’t even exist. And the company behind it was worth hundreds of millions of dollars on paper.

This is the story of Barry Minkow and ZZZZ Best. On a recent episode of the Oh My Fraud podcast, host Caleb Newquist explained this financial crime with his trademark dark humor that resonates with accounting professionals and true crime fans alike.

Starting in the Garage

Barry was born in 1966 and grew up in Reseda, a middle-class suburb in the San Fernando Valley. He wasn’t an athlete or particularly popular. His classmates nicknamed his old Buick “the bomb,” which tells you where he stood socially.

But Barry wanted to stand out, and business seemed like the way to do it.

At 15, Barry started a carpet cleaning company out of his parents’ garage. He called it ZZZZ Best. The four Zs represented the number of kids he wanted someday. The name also put the company at the end of the phone book listings, which wasn’t great marketing, but he was 15. What did he know?

Actually, Barry knew more about the carpet-cleaning industry than most teenagers did. His mom worked at a carpet cleaning company, and he’d done telemarketing there as a kid. He understood how to pitch services, how pricing worked, and what customers expected.

The business was real at first. Barry hustled, running local ads, making aggressive sales calls, and working long hours. ZZZZ Best built a modest reputation by showing up when scheduled, charging what they quoted and working late to finish jobs. Compared to competitors known for bait-and-switch tactics, ZZZZ Best seemed like the most honest option.

But running a business as a teenager created problems. California law didn’t allow minors to sign binding contracts, so banks would shut down his accounts once they realized how old he was. He wasn’t even old enough to drive at first, so he needed rides from friends to meet customers.

The biggest problem was cash flow. There are upfront costs like equipment, supplies, advertising, and payroll. Revenue comes later, after you do the work. When you’re 15 with no savings and no credit, those gaps become huge problems.

That’s when the shortcuts started. Check kiting to cover expenses. Overcharging customer credit cards and only refunding if someone complained. He staged burglaries at his own office to collect insurance payouts and even sold his grandmother’s jewelry to raise cash.

These actions could have landed him in jail. But at this stage, it wasn’t massive corporate fraud. It was just a young business owner scrambling to keep something afloat.

The Pivot to Fake Restoration

The thing about solving cash flow problems with fraud is you’re not actually fixing anything. You’re just postponing the problem and adding new ones.

The carpet cleaning business was real, but it wasn’t wildly profitable. And it definitely wasn’t generating the kind of money Barry was starting to claim publicly. He needed something bigger. Something that could explain rapid growth and put impressive numbers on paper.

Enter insurance restoration.

The pivot made some sense. Carpet cleaning and disaster restoration overlap—smoke damage, water damage, that kind of work. But the real appeal was scale. Residential carpet cleaning might bring in a few hundred dollars per job. Commercial restoration contracts could run hundreds of thousands, sometimes millions of dollars.

Restoration work also offered complexity. Multiple parties were involved, including insurers, adjusters, contractors, and property owners. Work spread across multiple locations. Payments happened in stages. Lots of documentation. From the outside, it’s hard to tell what’s actually happening on any given job.

Around this time, Barry met Tom Padgett at a gym in the San Fernando Valley. Tom was an insurance claims adjuster and was established in the industry. He understood exactly how insurance companies documented and approved restoration claims. That gave him credibility Barry didn’t have.

Together, they began creating restoration projects that existed mostly on paper. Contracts showing large commercial cleanup jobs. Work orders and invoices—the kind of supporting documentation you’d expect if major restoration work was actually happening.

To make it more believable, they created Interstate Appraisal Services. On paper, it looked like an independent firm verifying restoration projects for insurers. In reality, it was part of the same scheme.

With those fake restoration contracts documented, Barry started factoring receivables. That meant selling ZZZZ Best’s accounts receivable to banks at a discount in exchange for immediate cash. Instead of waiting months to get paid, you get most of the money now. The bank collects the full amount later.

The problem was that the invoices weren’t tied to real projects, so there was nothing for the bank to collect. New contracts had to appear to cover old obligations. More documentation. More fake projects. Bigger numbers. It wasn’t exactly a Ponzi scheme, but it worked like one. Except the people being recruited were banks instead of investors.

By the mid-1980s, ZZZZ Best was reporting roughly $50 million in annual revenue. Most of it came from the restoration business that largely didn’t exist.

Fooling the Auditors

Going public would solve many of Barry’s problems. He’d get access to capital, legitimacy, visibility, and the kind of validation that makes lenders and partners more comfortable.

But there was one obstacle: auditors.

Before a company can go public, independent auditors must review the financial statements, verify revenue, and confirm contracts exist. The numbers have to reflect reality. That’s a big problem when much of your revenue is fake.

ZZZZ Best hired Ernst & Whinney, one of the then-Big Eight accounting firms. It was a serious firm with a serious reputation. Exactly the kind of name you’d want if you were trying to build credibility.

Ernst & Whinney did what auditors do. They asked questions. They requested documentation. Eventually, they wanted to see some restoration projects in person.

Paperwork alone wasn’t going to be enough anymore. So the fraud evolved.

Instead of just fake documents, Barry and his team created fake job sites. Barry temporarily staged buildings that weren’t ZZZZ Best projects to look like they were. They brought in equipment, added signage, and had workers show up. They prepared paperwork in advance. There was enough activity to create the impression of a functioning restoration job.

Put yourself in the auditors’ shoes. You’re visiting a site for a brief period. It’s your first time there. Management is guiding you through everything. From your perspective, everything lines up. The site visit confirms what you’re being told. Independent appraisals exist. The documentation matches.

Ernst & Whinney issued an unqualified audit opinion. They believed the financial statements fairly reflected the company’s finances. ZZZZ Best cleared a major hurdle.

The company went public in January 1986 through a reverse merger with a shell company already publicly traded. It’s a faster route to the stock market that can involve less scrutiny than a traditional IPO.

The stock began trading at around $4 per share. Within months, it climbed to about $18. Barry Minkow, barely out of his teens, was suddenly CEO of a publicly traded company worth nearly $300 million.

The $600 Complaint That Brought It All Down

For a while, everything looked like it was working. Media coverage was positive. Barry conducted interviews, leaning into the young-entrepreneur success story. But behind the scenes, pressure was building. Some lenders were asking more detailed questions about restoration contracts. Industry people wondered how such a young company had landed so many large jobs so quickly.

Then came a problem with a flower order.

Barry owned a small side business called Floral Fantasies. It wasn’t a major part of ZZZZ Best, just another little venture. A Los Angeles secretary named Robin Swanson was overcharged by about $600 on a credit card purchase. She complained and tried to get a refund. She kept calling but got nowhere.

Most people would eventually let it go. Not Robin.

She started asking questions, talking to other customers and comparing experiences. What she found suggested a pattern of repeated questionable charges tied to Barry’s businesses. She documented names, dates, and amounts and took it all to the Los Angeles Times.

When reporters started digging, they weren’t initially investigating the restoration business. They were looking at credit card complaints. But when journalists pull at one thread, they tend to find others. Questions about Floral Fantasies led to questions about Barry’s business practices, which in turn led to scrutiny of ZZZZ Best’s restoration contracts.

The article hit on May 22, 1987: “Behind Whiz Kid Is a Trail of False Credit Card Billings.”

At first, it didn’t look catastrophic. But it accelerated scrutiny that was already building. In early June, Ernst & Whinney abruptly resigned as ZZZZ Best’s auditor, citing unresolved questions about certain restoration contracts.

When your auditors suddenly quit, that’s about as reassuring as a smoke alarm going off in the middle of the night.

The stock price plummeted from $18 to the mid-$6 range. A proposed acquisition that might have stabilized everything fell apart. By July 1987, Barry resigned as CEO, citing health reasons. Shortly afterward, ZZZZ Best filed for bankruptcy.

When the dust settled, the company that once had a market value of nearly $300 million had remarkably little underneath it. Just some equipment and a few vehicles for a small, legitimate carpet-cleaning business. Investor losses topped $100 million.

Prison, Pastor, and More Fraud

In January 1988, a federal grand jury indicted Barry and several associates. The charges covered securities fraud, mail fraud, racketeering, bank fraud, tax violations, and conspiracy. After a trial lasting several months, Barry was convicted on dozens of counts.

In March 1989, Judge Dickran Tevrizian sentenced Barry to 25 years in federal prison and ordered him to pay tens of millions in restitution. Tom Padgett, who helped create the fake restoration projects, pleaded guilty and was sentenced to eight years.

That’s where most fraud stories end. But Barry’s story was just beginning.

While serving his sentence in Colorado, Barry went through what he described as a religious conversion. Raised Jewish, he became a born-again Christian in prison. He got involved in ministry programs and studied theology. He was released in 1995 after serving about seven and a half years.

Barry enrolled at Liberty University and earned a master’s degree in divinity. By the late 1990s, he was pastor of San Diego Community Bible Church. He also founded the Fraud Discovery Institute in 2001, positioning himself as someone who could spot fraud because he’d committed it.

He spoke at churches, universities, and accounting conferences. He wrote books about ethics and redemption. Media profiles framed him as a cautionary tale-turned-expert. By the late 2000s, Barry had rebuilt surprising credibility.

Then came Lennar.

The Fraud Investigator’s Fraud

Lennar Corporation is one of the largest homebuilders in the United States. In 2009, right after the housing market collapsed, the company was under pressure, as was much of the construction industry.

Barry released a report through his Fraud Discovery Institute accusing Lennar of accounting misconduct. He alleged financial irregularities and potential fraud at the executive level. He filed complaints with regulators and spoke publicly about the allegations.

Lennar’s stock dropped from about $11.50 to the mid-$6 range within weeks. Media coverage amplified the claims, prompting analysts to ask questions.

But there were problems with Barry’s allegations.

Before going public with his claims, Barry had taken short positions against Lennar stock, meaning he bet that Lennar’s stock price would go down. If negative news about Lennar came out, Barry would profit.

Also, a San Diego developer named Nicolas Marsch III, who was already suing Lennar over a failed real estate deal, hired Barry to investigate the company. The fraud allegations weren’t coming from a neutral source.

Federal investigators concluded that key elements of Barry’s fraud claims against Lennar lacked evidence to support them. Prosecutors charged him with conspiracy to manipulate Lennar’s stock through false allegations.

He pleaded guilty in 2011. Judge Patricia Seitz sentenced him to five years in federal prison and ordered him to pay $583 million in restitution, essentially the amount Lennar’s market value dropped after his report. She said Minkow had “no moral compass.”

The Pastor Who Stole from His Flock

While the Lennar situation was unfolding, something else was happening at Barry’s church.

During much of his time as pastor of San Diego Community Bible Church, prosecutors said Barry was embezzling money from the church itself. According to the U.S. Attorney’s office, he stole more than $3 million through unauthorized accounts, forged checks, and diverted donations.

Some victims were individual church members who knew Barry personally and trusted him spiritually. One victim was a widower who thought he was funding a humanitarian hospital project overseas. Investigators concluded the project didn’t exist.

Churches tend to operate on trust, which means financial oversight often relies on good faith rather than verification. That didn’t help here.

In January 2014, Barry pleaded guilty to conspiracy to commit bank fraud, wire fraud, mail fraud, and defrauding the federal government related to the church schemes. Federal prosecutors called him “a professional con man expertly plying his craft, a predator from the pulpit.”

The judge called it a “despicable, inexcusable crime” and imposed the maximum sentence allowed: another five years in federal prison on top of the Lennar sentence.

Lessons for Accounting Professionals

Barry was released from federal prison in June 2019. He reportedly works in addiction counseling now. He owes $612 million in restitution across his various convictions. He’ll be paying that back for the rest of his life.

His three-decade criminal career offers several lessons:

  • Fraud escalates. ZZZZ Best didn’t begin as a massive public company scandal. It started with check kiting and overcharging.
  • Small rationalizations become bigger ones. A “temporary” cash-flow fix becomes fabricated contracts that turn into staged job sites. Early ethical lapses are often leading indicators rather than isolated incidents.
  • Revenue deserves skepticism, especially when growth outpaces reality. ZZZZ Best reported explosive revenue from complex restoration contracts that few people fully understood. When you see rapid growth tied to opaque transactions, multiple third parties, or heavy reliance on estimates and documentation, that’s a cue to dig deeper.
  • Independence and professional skepticism matter more than reputation. A Big 8 firm with a string name wasn’t immune to being deceived. Don’t outsource your judgment to management narratives, staged environments, or impressive paperwork.
  • Verification beats trust. The fake restoration sites worked because auditors saw what they expected to see. Fraudsters exploit expectations. Time pressure and client relationships can dull the instinct to “trust but verify.” Independent confirmations, third-party evidence, and corroborating documentations are essential safeguards.
  • Culture and governance are risk factors. ZZZZ Best was led by a charismatic founder with little oversight and a board that lacked the experience or backbone to challenge him. That same pattern reappeared at the church and in the Lennar situation. Weak governance structures and concentrated authority create environments where fraud can thrive. When evaluating clients, ask hard questions about the tone at the top and real accountability.
  • Small complaints can uncover big problems. ZZZZ Best started unraveling over a $600 credit card complaint. Pay attention to the outlier, the small anomalies, and the client who keeps asking questions. Those moments often reveal more than polished financial statements ever will.

When the Paperwork Looks Perfect, Look Closer

The story of Barry Minkow and ZZZZ Best is part cautionary tale, part masterclass in how fraud evolves and how even sophisticated professionals can be misled.

For accountants, auditors, and advisors, it’s a reminder that our role is both ethical and technical. It requires curiosity, courage, and the willingness to challenge narratives that feel too neat.

For a full breakdown, listen to the complete episode of Oh My Fraud. It’s a fascinating look at one of the most audacious frauds in modern business history and the lessons it still holds for the profession today.

Your Most Trusted Employee Is Your Biggest Fraud Risk

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If you’re an accountant cramming in your last CPE credits while reading this, Caleb Newquist has a message for you: “Have fun. You’re in for something.”

The host of Oh My Fraud just wrapped up 2025 with 26 episodes of financial fraud stories that share one depressing pattern: they were completely preventable. In episode 101, Caleb and co-producer Zach Frank sat down to recap a year that started with co-host Greg Kyte’s departure and continued with tales of embezzlement, gambling addictions, and presidential pardons.

The biggest takeaway? The person most likely to steal from you isn’t some sophisticated hacker. It’s the assistant who sets up your bank accounts, the business manager you’ve trusted for years, or the administrator who’s been ordering computers for decades.

When Your Interpreter Controls Your Bank Account

The year’s most talked-about fraud case involved baseball superstar Shohei Ohtani and his interpreter, Ippei Mizuhara. The setup was almost embarrassingly simple. Ippei handled everything when setting up Ohtani’s bank account during spring training in Arizona: the setup, the passcodes, and the access. Ohtani himself couldn’t access his own money. Neither could his business manager.

“Don’t let your assistant set up your account for you,” Zach emphasized during the recap. The only person who could touch that money was the interpreter who eventually stole from it.

The DOJ charging documents revealed desperate text messages between Ippei and his bookie. When the bookie suggested Ippei might be covering for Ohtani, Ippei insisted, “No, this was all me.” He made phone calls to the bank pretending to be Ohtani, claiming he was buying cars while actually funneling money to cover massive gambling debts.

Ippei is now serving time at Allenwood in Pennsylvania, after which he’ll be deported. Lionsgate TV and Stars are developing a series about the scandal, because apparently financial disasters go great with a side of popcorn.

The Business Manager Who Managed Beyoncé (Before the Fraud)

Episode 81 was the podcast’s most popular of the year, featuring an interview with Jonathan Todd Schwartz. Before stealing $7 million from Alanis Morissette, Schwartz managed finances for Beyoncé and Gwyneth Paltrow, back before they became the cultural forces they are today.

“Everyone loves hearing from the person who committed the crime and hearing why and how they committed the crime,” Zach noted. Schwartz’s story connected directly to another recurring theme of 2025: the devastating combination of gambling and drug addictions creating pressure that makes theft seem like the only solution.

Both the Ohtani and Morissette cases featured one person with total financial control and zero independent oversight. They’re failures of basic internal controls that any first-year accounting student could spot.

When Yale Lost $40 Million in Computers (And Nobody Noticed)

If celebrity cases seem distant from everyday fraud risk, consider Yale Medical School. An administrator within the finance function stole approximately $40 million in computer equipment over several years by simply keeping purchases under $10,000 to avoid triggering review thresholds.

“Forty million dollars should replace every computer at that entire school,” Zach pointed out. “Not just the medical school, like all of Yale.”

The university’s multi-billion dollar endowment meant these losses barely registered as statistical noise. As Caleb noted, Yale wasn’t exactly a sympathetic victim, “but that doesn’t mean you should steal $40 million worth of computers and sell them on the black market.”

The solution was painfully obvious. Omri from Routable (the podcast’s sponsor) summed it up in an earlier bonus episode: “A procurement process probably solves that problem.” Not revolutionary thinking; just basic purchasing controls that require someone other than the person ordering equipment to also receive and verify it.

The Columbus Zoo Plays Hardball

The Columbus Zoo case from episode 79 showed what happens when organizations decide to fight back. After executives were convicted of misspending and stealing funds, the zoo didn’t stop at criminal prosecution. They sued three executives to foreclose on their homes, determined to recover restitution.

The case came to light thanks to investigative reporting by the Columbus Dispatch, a reminder that journalism often serves as the last line of defense when internal controls fail. It’s a pattern that repeated throughout 2025: local reporters doing the unglamorous work of following paper trails and asking tough questions.

The Mental Gymnastics Olympics

Understanding how fraud happens mechanically is one thing. Understanding why people convince themselves it’s okay is another entirely.

Carlos Watson’s Ozy Media case pushed rationalization to its limits. Watson, who was convicted of fraud but subsequently pardoned by President Trump (with his restitution expunged), reportedly did “whatever it took” to make his business succeed. The SEC decided not to pursue further civil litigation after the pardon.

“The mental gymnastics that guy must have been going through in order to rationalize what he was doing,” Caleb observed. “Weird, but impressive.”

The Spotify streaming fraud case included another common justification: “Who am I really stealing from?” Perpetrators faking streams saw themselves taking from faceless tech giants rather than individual artists. The same logic appeared in cases involving fake invoices to Google and Facebook.

Where Are They Now? The 2025 Updates

Beyond the new cases, the year brought updates on ongoing sagas:

  • Mair Smyth, the con artist featured in Johnathan Walton’s episode was sentenced to four years in UK prison for mortgage fraud. Walton helped Northern Ireland authorities locate her. He flew to the UK for the trial but remains frustrated by what he sees as a light sentence for a career criminal.
  • First NBC Bank. A listener from New Orleans shared a local rumor that the bank’s massive Directors & Officers insurance policy allowed CEO Ashton Ryan to draw out his legal proceedings for seven years before finally being sentenced. He’s now in a prison infirmary.
  • Miriam Baer, the podcast’s first guest of 2025, left Brooklyn Law School to become Dean and President at California Western School of Law in San Diego.
  • The Rare Book Find. Caleb tracked down a copy of Australian con man Johann Friedrich Hohenberger’s ghost-written autobiography at a Maryland rare book store. When he apologized for taking months to complete the purchase, the seller reassured him, “In the rare books business, this was actually fast.”

What 2025 Taught Us (Again)

The year’s cases delivered a maddeningly consistent message: basic controls work, but only if you actually use them. Whether it’s a baseball star’s interpreter, a rock legend’s business manager, or a university administrator, the pattern never changes.

“The classics constantly get covered because people are going to constantly fall for them and commit those crimes,” Zach summarized. Ponzi schemes, embezzlement, and wire fraud are not going anywhere.

For accounting professionals, it’s crucial to maintain skepticism about single-person financial control. It’s not paranoia; it’s professional responsibility. Those boring internal controls you learned about in school are boring because they work.

Want the full conversation, including discussions about whether crypto is just one giant Ponzi scheme, why procurement departments exist, and how the hosts feel about having to do it all over again in 2026, listen to episode 101 of Oh My Fraud.

Because if you’re going to learn about fraud, you might as well learn from people who can make you laugh about it, even if the punchline involves prison sentences and presidential pardons.

The Auditors, Lawyers, and Bankers Who Watched a Fraud Unfold and Kept Billing Hours

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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.

Three Fraud Schemes, Two Decades, and a Quarter-Billion Dollars in Stolen Money

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On January 20, 2021, the last day of Donald Trump’s first presidential term, Eliyahu “Eli” Weinstein got a phone call that would rank among the best days of anyone’s life. The President of the United States had commuted his sentence, freeing him after eight years of a 24-year prison term for running a $200 million Ponzi scheme.

Six months later, he was already planning his next fraud.

In this episode of Oh My Fraud, host Caleb Newquist traces the jaw-dropping story of a fraudster who got a presidential second chance and immediately used it to steal another $44 million. It’s a tale that spans two decades, three separate fraud schemes, and over a quarter-billion dollars in losses.

The Community Leader Who Betrayed Everyone’s Trust

Eli wasn’t some shadowy figure operating from the margins. He was a pillar of the Orthodox Jewish community in Lakewood Township, New Jersey—home to Beth Medrash Govoha, the largest yeshiva outside of Israel. The son of a Jewish community leader and school principal from Brooklyn, Eli was known for his devout faith and generous donations to religious organizations. He spent millions on Judaica, Jewish devotional artwork and artifacts.

Starting around 2004, Eli began raising money for real estate deals. His pitch was simple: he had access to below-market properties, could flip them quickly to developers he had lined up, and everyone would make guaranteed returns with little risk. In the tight-knit Orthodox community, where deals often happen on handshakes with minimal paperwork, a respected leader’s word was his bond.

According to the 2011 federal indictment, just three investors—two in the UK and one in Bronxville, New York—put in over $136 million. The total losses exceeded $200 million.

The details in the indictment would be darkly funny if real people hadn’t lost everything. Eli raised $5.4 million for a project involving a national supermarket chain in Trotwood, Georgia. The only problems were there is no Trotwood, Georgia, and the supermarket chain had never heard of him.

Then there was the widow in Los Angeles who worked to help orphaned and poor children in Israel. Her dream was to open a music school for these kids. Eli convinced her to give him $1.2 million, promising to repay it in three weeks with interest. When she emailed asking him to “stop screwing around” and return her money, Eli’s response was two words: “f— you.”

He told a widow who helps orphans to go *$#%! herself.

But wait, it gets worse. When meeting with one victim’s representative, Eli asked what the representative’s wife and Eli had in common. When the man said he didn’t know, Eli replied, “We both f***ed you.”

The Judge Saw Right Through Him

At sentencing in February 2014, Judge Joel Pisano didn’t mince words. “You are a cheat. You lied and your deception is relentless. You’re consumed by deception.” He sentenced Eli to 22 years in prison, plus $250 million in restitution and $215 million in forfeiture.

But Eli couldn’t stop, even while awaiting trial. In February 2012, already under indictment, he started pitching investors on pre-IPO Facebook shares and Florida real estate he didn’t have. He used the money he raised to pay his lawyers for the fraud case.

That earned him an additional 24 months, bringing his total sentence to over 24 years. By white collar crime standards, it was harsh. But Eli had something most convicted fraudsters don’t: connections to people who could get his case in front of the President.

A Second Chance Immediately Squandered

The campaign for Eli’s clemency was well-organized. Criminal justice reform advocates argued his sentence was excessive. The White House statement noted that “numerous victims had written in support” and emphasized his seven children and loving marriage.

On Trump’s last day in office, he granted clemency to more than a dozen people facing fraud charges, which was a dramatic break from historical norms. As Caleb notes in the episode, white collar criminals were “very infrequently chosen for clemency” before Trump.

By July 2021, just six months after his release, Eli was building his next scheme. But his name and face had been everywhere. So he became “Mike Konig.”

The vehicle was Optimus Investments, Inc., supposedly dedicated to brokering deals on personal protective equipment (PPE) like masks, gloves, and hand sanitizer. This was mid-2021, when COVID supplies were still the hottest commodity on earth. “Mike Konig” claimed to have networks of government agencies, Turkish factory owners, and Israeli lawyers. He was always cagey about details. If everyone knew his contacts, he said, they could “reverse engineer him out of business.”

Richard Curry and Christopher Anderson started Tryon Management Group to raise money for these deals, eventually bringing in tens of millions. Investors received regular updates with videos of factories producing masks. “This is something that potentially has major legs,” Curry wrote enthusiastically.

Except almost none of it was real.

The Elaborate COVID Con Unravels

The deception was breathtaking. They hired temporary staff to pretend to be factory workers for videos. Someone in Vietnam procured just enough medical gear to fill a few kits for show. They purchased 5,000 empty boxes, wrapped them, and put them on pallets to represent orders.

The red flags were everywhere. A spreadsheet of Optimus’s expenses included a line reading “mystery expenses” next to $41,028,233.05. As Caleb observes, “A company dealing in medical supplies should not have mystery expenses. The only type of business that should have mystery expenses is whatever Scooby-Doo and the gang are always up to.”

Everything unraveled when Alaa Hattab, an Optimus associate, accidentally revealed the truth to Curry and Anderson. The baby formula deal was fake. The biggest mask deals were fake. The first aid kit deal was also fake.

Then came the bombshell: Mike Konig was actually Eli.

Curry and Anderson confronted him with hidden recording devices. On tape, Eli admitted, “I finagled and lied to people to cover us.” Then he asked them to keep his secret and help him continue. Incredibly, they agreed—at least temporarily.

By November 2022, with inflation surging and investors demanding their money, Tryon halted redemptions. When investors compared notes and found inconsistencies, one filed an SEC whistleblower report. The FBI arrested Eli at his home on July 18, 2023.

The Lessons for Accounting Professionals

After a seven-week trial, Eli was convicted in 2025 of securities fraud, wire fraud, money laundering, and conspiracy. In November 2025, he received a 37-year sentence. Over two decades, he had stolen more than a quarter-billion dollars.

Yitz Grossman, who had championed Eli’s clemency, told Bloomberg, “I still feel sick and embarrassed to speak with some of these people who gave me a letter to help out this family. My conclusion is he’s sick and he can’t control himself. He’s a deal junkie. He thinks he’s smarter than everybody else.”

This case is a reminder to accounting professionals and fraud examiners to look out for red flags appear over and over again, like:

  • Guaranteed returns with little risk
  • Short turnarounds that seem too good to be true
  • Minimal documentation or transparency
  • “Mystery expenses” in the tens of millions
  • Deals involving places that don’t exist

It also highlights how affinity fraud remains devastatingly effective because it weaponizes the trust that holds communities together. Eli’s victims trusted someone who demonstrated a commitment to their shared values.

On the political front, Obama’s administration created the Financial Fraud Enforcement Task Force in 2009 to prosecute financial crimes. Trump terminated it and replaced it with his own version. As Caleb observes with characteristic bluntness, Trump is “mercurial, petty, vindictive” and wouldn’t be above granting clemency to people Obama prosecuted simply because Obama prosecuted them.

The broader lesson is that when we reserve mercy for the wealthy and connected while ordinary offenders remain incarcerated, that’s not mercy at all. “That’s callous. That’s malevolent. And now maybe it’s American,” Caleb says. 
Eli’s lawyer maintains his innocence and will appeal.

Listen to the full episode of Oh My Fraud to hear all the jaw-dropping details, damning quotes from court documents, and Caleb’s sharp commentary on what this case reveals about fraud, mercy, and American justice. Because when someone uses a presidential pardon to immediately start stealing again, we all need to pay attention.

Your Voice Assistant Works Today Thanks to Fraudsters Who Destroyed a $10 Billion Company

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February 1998. Bill Gates, the richest man in the world, walks up the steps of a Brussels government building. He turns to wave at someone behind him, smiling as he faces forward again. Then it happens: a cream pie hits him square in the face. Then another. And another.

Just days earlier, Microsoft had invested $45 million in Belgian speech recognition company Lernout & Hauspie. The pie-throwing activist who orchestrated this pastry protest later described his feelings as “the exhilaration of victory, exquisite pleasure.” But the real mess Microsoft had just stepped into would prove far stickier than whipped cream.

In this episode of Oh My Fraud, host Caleb Newquist unravels one of tech history’s most fascinating fraud cases. It’s a story where revolutionary innovation and elaborate deception became so intertwined that even today, the technology you speak to through Siri carries the DNA of a spectacular Belgian scandal.

Two Guys, One Vision: Kill the Keyboard

In late 1987, two West Flanders natives started what seemed like an impossible mission: eliminating the computer keyboard. Jo Lernout, the visionary salesman, was a former teacher turned MBA who’d worked his way through sales positions at Merck and Wang Laboratories. Paul Hauspie was the detail-oriented worker type who’d inherited his father’s accounting firm but spent his spare time developing software.

Together, they founded Lernout & Hauspie Speech Products (L&H) in Ypres. While we take voice assistants for granted today, in the late 1980s, the idea that computers could be operated by voice alone was revolutionary.

The technology was groundbreaking. By 1997, their products could recognize more words than a standard collegiate dictionary. The system could even handle tricky sentences like “Please write a letter right now to Mrs. Wright. Tell her that two is too many to buy.” For the late 1990s, this was nothing short of miraculous.

But like many startups, the early years were brutal. Lernout and Hauspie proved resourceful in securing financing to keep the lights on, including from local residents and the Flanders government. But year after year, they plowed money into research and development while making virtually no revenue.

When Your Hometown Believes in You (Maybe Too Much)

The company’s roots ran deep into West Flanders soil. One account described it as “a company set up by West Flanders natives with West Flanders capital and a West Flanders mentality: work hard and smart, take well-calculated risks.”

Lernout and Hauspie genuinely wanted their success to benefit their home region. They helped create the Flanders Language Valley, convincing the government to make Ypres a tax haven for tech companies. Research grants flooded the area, spawning new businesses.

In 1994, when L&H needed more funding, they tapped into the locals with something called automatic convertible bonds. These were essentially IOUs that would turn into stock if the company ever went public. Through sheer personal will and persuasion, Lernout and Hauspie raised money from 600 small Flemish investors, each contributing an average of $33,000. These weren’t venture capitalists; they were farmers, grocers, and small traders betting their savings on their hometown heroes.

The duo even approached a local pig farmer for investment. After hearing their pitch, he produced a half-eaten bank savings certificate worth about $60,000 that he’d salvaged after it was accidentally fed to his pigs. The farmer said if the bank would accept the damaged certificate, he’d let them invest the funds. After much convincing, the bank took it.

The technology started attracting serious attention. AT&T invested $10 million in 1993. Intel put in $30 million. Then came Microsoft with $45 million in early 1998, with their chief technology officer declaring they were “taking a big leap forward in transforming that vision into a reality.”

The company went public on the Nasdaq in November 1995 at $12.50 per share, despite skepticism from analysts who worried the technology was still too primitive. But beneath this genuine innovation and community support, troubling signs were already emerging.

The Art of Moving Money in Circles

As L&H struggled to generate revenue, it constructed an increasingly complex web of related-party transactions to maintain the illusion of explosive growth.

The centerpiece was the Flanders Language Valley Fund (FLV), co-founded and advised by L&H’s founders. This venture fund took a 49% stake in the Belgian unit of Quarterdeck Corporation, which just happened to be L&H’s largest customer, accounting for 30% of its revenue.

The new CEO of Quarterdeck was Gaston Bastien, a Belgian executive infamous for rushing Apple’s Newton operating system to market to avoid losing a wine cellar bet. The result was faulty handwriting recognition that disappointed consumers. Now he was running L&H’s biggest customer, which was partially owned by a fund controlled by L&H’s founders.

L&H also created something called Dictation Consortium to keep expensive R&D costs off its books while somehow claiming $26.6 million in revenue from this entity in 1996 and 1997. Who owned 61% of Dictation Consortium? The FLV fund. The other investors, according to Lernout, were “five or six people who were anonymous because they were rolled up into companies that were organized in Luxembourg and the British Virgin Islands.”

Even Microsoft threw $3 million into the FLV fund alongside their $45 million L&H investment, apparently missing these red flags entirely.

The Asian Revenue Miracle That Wasn’t

The real magic happened in Asia. In 1999, Bastien (now L&H’s CEO) claimed Asian sales had exploded to more than $150 million versus just $10 million the year before. Korean revenue jumped from $97,000 to $58.9 million in a single quarter—a mind-boggling 60,000% increase. Singapore contributed $80.3 million in 1999 after generating less than $300,000 the previous year.

But here’s where it gets weird. Singapore sales then mysteriously plummeted to $501,000 in the first quarter of 2000. Bastien had perfectly reasonable explanations for everything, of course. The company had sold licenses in Singapore that couldn’t be sold again. Korea had opened up thanks to an acquisition. Everything was great.

When Wall Street Journal reporters investigated these miraculous Asian numbers in August 2000, they uncovered a house of cards. Some companies that L&H identified as Korean customers said they did no business with the company at all. Others said their purchases were much smaller than L&H claimed. Only one customer would go on record confirming the numbers were accurate.

One major customer, Hung-chang Lin, supposedly doing between $5 million and $10 million in business with L&H, had a CEO who didn’t even know about the joint venture that was allegedly purchasing the products. When confronted about the discrepancies, L&H’s contact at Hung-chang admitted they had lied about everything.

The scheme involved creating sales agreements that let “customers” defer paying licensing fees until they made money from L&H’s products. The company booked these as sales anyway, then made deals with banks where the banks would take over the receivables in exchange for cash. L&H claimed these were sales of receivables, but they were essentially disguised loans.

The $100 Million That Vanished

The drama reached its peak in November 2000 when new CEO John Duerden flew to Korea to retrieve $100 million the company desperately needed to avoid bankruptcy. After waiting an hour, Duerden was grilling the Korean unit head about the missing money when three men kicked open the door, shouting and gesticulating before dragging the unit head out of the room.

Duerden fled the country, later telling the Journal, “The only thing I know for certain is that the money is not in the bank accounts.”

The end came officially on November 9, 2000, when L&H announced it would restate its financial filings due to “errors and irregularities.” The company admitted its third-quarter revenue would be about $40 million less than reported. Lernout and Hauspie resigned as executive co-chairmen, though they kept 30% of the voting rights. Weeks later, the company filed for bankruptcy. The stock that had soared to $72.50 in March 2000 (a 2,500% increase from its IPO price) was worthless. Ten billion dollars in market value had evaporated.

Justice came slowly. In September 2010, a full decade after the collapse, Lernout, Hauspie, and Bastien were found guilty in Belgium. Lernout and Hauspie each received five-year sentences with two years suspended. In December 2021, a Belgian court awarded 4,000 shareholders €655 million—but as one news source noted, “the compensation ruling is largely symbolic as the six former board members don’t have the financial means with which to pay it.”

The Technology Lives On (Under New Management)

Lernout maintains to this day, “The technology was real and great.” And he’s not wrong.

After ScanSoft acquired L&H’s assets from bankruptcy in 2001, the speech recognition technology began a remarkable journey. ScanSoft merged with Nuance Communications in 2005. By 2013, Nuance’s natural language processing algorithms, which were built on L&H’s foundation,  powered Apple’s Siri. In spring 2021, Microsoft acquired Nuance for $19.7 billion.

The same technology that L&H claimed would revolutionize computing actually did—just not under their ownership. The speech recognition in your phone and the voice assistant in your home all carry the DNA of a company that destroyed itself through fraud despite having a product that actually worked.

Lessons for the Number Crunchers

For accounting professionals, the L&H case offers a masterclass in red flags:

  • Circular related-party transactions: When a company’s venture fund invests in its own customers, the revenue isn’t real
  • Explosive geographic revenue shifts: A 60,000% increase should trigger every skeptical bone in an auditor’s body
  • Anonymous investors in tax havens: Luxembourg and the British Virgin Islands aren’t known for transparency
  • Revenue recognition without cash: Booking sales to customers who don’t have to pay isn’t revenue; it’s fiction

As Newquist emphasizes, “It isn’t enough just to have a great product or just great tech. If you cook the books, it doesn’t matter how good your product is. Bad numbers are bad numbers, and people get real upset about bad numbers.”

The L&H story proves that no amount of revolutionary technology can overcome the fundamental truth of financial reporting: when you cook the books, everyone gets burned except, ironically, the technology itself, which lives on in every voice command you give your phone today.

Listen to the full Oh My Fraud episode to hear Newquist’s complete investigation into this cautionary tale. CPAs can earn free NASBA-approved CPE credits through the Earmark app while learning these crucial fraud detection lessons. And remember, if you win a wine cellar on a bet, make that idiot pay up.