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Zach Frank

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.

When 37,000 Japanese Investors Discovered Their Dividends Were Now “Divine”

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Picture opening your quarterly dividend envelope in February 2007, expecting yen, one of the world’s most stable currencies, but instead finding paper vouchers denominated in “Enten,” which literally means “divine money” in Japanese. These heavenly tokens were only good in one man’s bizarre marketplace where you could buy bedding, socks, and produce, but definitely couldn’t pay your rent.

This actually happened to 37,000 Japanese investors who discovered their life savings had been converted into monopoly money.

In the latest Oh My Fraud episode, “Divine Yen, Devilish Fraud,” host Caleb Newquist unpacks one of Japan’s most absurd financial frauds. The story of Kazutsugi Nami and his Ladies & Gentleman company—yes, that was the actual name—offers critical lessons for accounting professionals in a time of growing cryptocurrency schemes.

A Career Built on Fraud

You might think a fraud conviction would end someone’s career in finance. Kazutsugi proved otherwise, repeatedly.

His criminal timeline reads like a fraudster’s greatest hits. In the 1970s, as vice president of APO Japan, he helped market fake exhaust gas removers through a pyramid scheme. The devices didn’t work, but 250,000 people bought in before the company went bankrupt and authorities came knocking.

Most people would have learned their lesson. Not Kazutsugi.

By 1973, he’d already founded Nozakku Co., selling “magic stones” that supposedly purified tap water. The timing was perfect, as Japan faced severe water contamination from rapid industrialization, and desperate people wanted solutions. At its peak, Nozakku pulled in roughly ¥2 billion annually (about $6-8 million in late 1970s dollars). The stones weren’t magic. They didn’t purify anything. By 1978, Kazutsugi was in prison for fraud.

In a move that should make every accounting professional pause, in 1987, while his fraud record was still fresh, Kazutsugi founded Ladies & Gentleman (L&G). Eventually, 37,000 investors would hand over billions of yen to a convicted fraudster. One victim later justified their investment because L&G had been “in business for a long time.”

The bizarre culmination came on February 4, 2009, when police arrived to arrest him. Instead of hiding, Kazutsugi held court at a restaurant, charging reporters ¥10,000 each to attend his breakfast press conference while he sipped beer at 5:30 AM. He’d even packed spare underwear, expecting the arrest.

When asked about defrauding investors, his response was pure theater. “Do you think I could behave openly like this if there had been a fraud?” Later, he added, “Time will tell if I’m a con man or a swindler.”

The Divine Currency Revolution That Wasn’t

Kazutsugi didn’t just promise returns; he promised revolution. He called Enten the future of money, a currency that would break free from Japan’s economic system. He claimed governments would eventually adopt it and that he had a divine decree to eliminate poverty worldwide.

At investor events that resembled religious revivals, Kazutsugi styled himself as a modern-day Oda Nobunaga, one of Japan’s great historical figures, who unified Japan through military conquest in the 16th century.

The 36% annual returns Kazutsugi promised should have been an immediate red flag. In 2007, when Japanese government bonds yielded around 1.5%, 36% guaranteed returns defied financial gravity. Yet thousands of investors, many elderly and seeking retirement security, handed over their savings.

The scheme’s genius was its gradual escalation. Initially, L&G paid dividends in real yen, establishing trust. Then in early 2007, dividends became partially Enten. Finally, they were paid entirely in this imaginary currency that could only be spent in L&G’s internal marketplace, essentially a curated flea market offering comforters, vitamins, and produce.

As Caleb observes in the episode, these are exactly the products “multi-level marketing companies love because you can just claim it’s enhanced by whatever mystical bullshit you are selling that year.”

When Vision Meets Delusion

During the episode, Caleb and producer Zach Frank explore fascinating parallels between cult leaders and modern tech CEOs. Both sell transcendent visions that attract devoted followers.

“They see themselves as right. They’re cocky, they know the way, and they’re the only ones who know the way,” Zach observes.

This absolute certainty becomes magnetic. Caleb notes how Elon Musk, before his political involvement exposed his character. “He had this vision for the world. We’re going to Mars and we’re going to save the world. And people are like, yeah, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Zach offers crucial insight about why these figures gain traction. “We’re in a time where gurus are becoming more popular than ever. It has to do with the lack of trust in institutions and science in general. People want to find someone to give them the answers to everything.”

When traditional systems seem to be failing, like during the 2007-2008 financial crisis when L&G was collapsing, the person who claims to have all the answers becomes irresistibly attractive.

The Spectacular Collapse

When L&G announced dividends would only be paid in Enten—no more real yen—investors understandably panicked. Some wanted to know whether they could exchange Enten for things like rent and food. They could not.

Like a classic bank run, investors crowded outside L&G locations demanding money and answers. The Japanese press pounced on the story. In November 2007, L&G filed for bankruptcy with estimated losses between ¥126 billion to ¥226 billion (roughly $1-2 billion USD). It was rumored to be Japan’s largest consumer investment fraud ever.

Even as police led him away, Kazutsugi insisted, “I am the poorest victim. Nobody lost more than I did.”

In March 2010, Kazutsugi was sentenced to 18 years in prison, a harsh sentence by Japanese standards. Even then, he insisted Enten was the future.

Lessons for the Profession

For accounting professionals, these patterns translate into specific warning signs:

  • Gradual shifts in payment methods that move from standard to non-standard practices
  • Closed ecosystems where value can only be realized within the company’s control
  • Recruitment-based growth models dressed up as community building
  • Attacks on regulators rather than substantive responses to concerns
  • Appeals to revolution that discourage traditional due diligence
  • Impossible guaranteed returns justified by proprietary methods

Distinguishing between legitimate innovation and sophisticated fraud requires more than technical knowledge; it requires understanding the psychology of persuasion.

Real innovations might disrupt industries, but they don’t violate mathematical laws. A 36% guaranteed return isn’t innovation; it’s impossibility. A currency that only works in one company’s marketplace is company scrip, a practice outlawed in most developed nations for good reason.

As Caleb warns, “If someone promises you a 36% annual return, but that return comes back to you in tokens that are only good for bedsheets, fruits, and the occasional pressure cooker, you are not diversifying your portfolio. You are subsidizing a cult with slightly better stationery.”

Listen to the full Oh My Fraud episode to hear the complete breakdown of this bizarre case, including more details about the victims and the reasons smart people fall for obvious frauds. The episode offers insights that connect historical frauds to modern schemes and the psychological vulnerabilities that transcend cultures and currencies.

Whether it’s cryptocurrency, NFTs, or the next financial revolution, the pattern persists: charismatic leaders promising transformation, impossible returns dressed as innovation, and schemes that create confusion where clarity is desperately needed. Our role as accounting professionals is to ensure that when someone claims to be building the future, they’re working with real materials, not divine intervention.

When Bots Listen to Robots and Real Money Disappears

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Picture this: a computer on stage playing songs to an audience of computers. No humans involved, just machines performing for machines in an endless digital loop. Yet somehow, millions of dollars change hands.

This isn’t science fiction. It’s happening right now on streaming platforms, and it’s just one of the mind-bending fraud schemes explored in this episode of Oh My Fraud. Host Caleb Newquist opens with a relatively new conspiracy theory called the Dead Internet, which suggests that most online activity, including posts, likes, followers, and streams, isn’t human anymore. It’s “bots talking to bots, talking to bots,” creating an information superhighway filled with self-driving cars that have destinations but no passengers.

But what happens when someone exploits this artificial ecosystem for real money? That’s exactly what we’re about to find out.

The $121 Million Email That Fooled Silicon Valley

Between 2013 and 2015, a Lithuanian man named Evaldas Rimašauskas pulled off something that shouldn’t have been possible. He convinced two of the world’s smartest companies, Google and Facebook, to wire him $121 million. His method wasn’t sophisticated hacking or complex algorithms. He simply pretended to be someone else.

Rimašauskas impersonated Quanta Computer, a real Taiwan-based hardware manufacturer that actually did business with both tech giants. He set up a company in Latvia under Quanta’s name and opened bank accounts in Latvia and Cyprus. Then his team got to work, calling Google and Facebook customer service lines to gather intelligence, including names of key employees, contact information, and other details that would make their lie believable.

Through phishing emails and what Caleb describes as “a maze of phony invoices, contracts, letters, and corporate stamps,” Rimašauskas created enough confusion to convince someone at Google to update the bank account they had on file for Quanta Computer. In 2013, Google sent $23 million to his account. Two years later, using the same playbook, Facebook wired him $98 million.

The money flowed through accounts across Latvia, Cyprus, Slovakia, Lithuania, Hungary, and Hong Kong. And here’s the kicker: these amounts were so insignificant to Google and Facebook that they “went virtually unnoticed.” As Caleb puts it, “$23 million and $98 million aren’t even rounding errors on the amount of revenue for Google and Facebook. It’s less than pocket change.”

Eventually, someone at Google caught on. Rimašauskas was arrested in March 2017, extradited to the U.S. that August, and pleaded guilty to wire fraud in March 2019. He got five years in prison, and both companies got their money back.

From IT Mogul to Music “Producer” to Alleged Fraudster

Our second story shifts from simple impersonation to something far stranger. Meet Michael Smith, a 52-year-old with a resume that reads like three different people’s lives smashed together.

According to the research, Smith made his first fortune in the 1990s with an IT business where he allegedly wrote “one of the main fixes for the Y2K millennium software bug.” He then ran chains of medical clinics, which landed him in trouble in 2020 when he and two associates paid $900,000 to settle Medicare and Medicaid fraud allegations.

But here’s where it gets weird. At age 39, Smith decided to become a music industry player. Despite having no apparent musical background, he somehow ended up judging a BET hip-hop competition called “One Shot” alongside DJ Khaled, T.I., and Twista. As Wired magazine described it, he was “a relatively unknown record producer with a checkbook” among actual stars.

When Caleb asked producer Zach Frank if he’d ever heard of anyone building a successful music career starting in middle age, Zach’s response was telling: “It’s extremely, extremely rare. Not without money, at least.”

The Streaming Revolution and Its Discontents

To understand Smith’s alleged fraud, you need to understand how dramatically the music industry has changed. Zach, who comes from a family of professional musicians, explained how streaming completely upended the business model.

In the old days, people bought physical albums for $12-15 at stores like Tower Records. Artists made real money from album sales. Then came Napster and peer-to-peer sharing, which Caleb admits using extensively in college. “People were listening to all this music completely in its entirety for free,” he recalls.

Today’s streaming platforms like Spotify and Apple Music operate on a subscription model. Users pay monthly fees for unlimited access, and artists get fractions of pennies per stream. Spotify made $17 billion in 2024 and claims 70% goes to the music industry, but individual artists see almost nothing.

The numbers are staggering. According to Spotify’s former chief economist, more music is released every single day in 2025 than in the entire year of 1989. And here’s what makes it worse: bigger artists negotiate better deals, while smaller artists, as Zach puts it, “get screwed.”

Building an Army of Fake Listeners

This is the landscape Smith allegedly decided to exploit. Starting in 2017, he orchestrated what the Department of Justice calls a scheme to steal millions in royalties by fraudulently inflating music streams.

The mechanics were brilliant in their simplicity. First, Smith created thousands of bot accounts using fake email addresses and names. He even told a coconspirator to “make up names and addresses” but to “make sure everyone is over 18.” He paid $1.3 million in subscription fees because, as Zach explains, paid subscribers generate higher royalty rates than free users.

By October 2017, Smith had 1,040 bot accounts spread across 52 cloud service accounts. Each bot could stream about 636 songs per day, generating approximately 661,440 total daily streams. At half a cent per stream, that meant $3,307 daily, $99,000 monthly, or $1.2 million annually.

But Smith had a problem: he needed content. Lots of it.

When AI Makes Music for Bots to Hear

Initially, Smith used music catalogs from coconspirators and even tried selling his streaming service to other musicians desperate for plays. But as he wrote in May 2019, “I can’t run the bots without content and I need enough content so I don’t overrun each song. If we get too many streams on one song, it comes down.”

His solution? Artificial intelligence. Smith partnered with Alex Mitchell, CEO of an AI music company called Boomy, who began providing thousands of AI-generated songs each week.

The song and artist names were gloriously terrible. Song titles included “Zygotic Washstands,” “Zygoptera,” and “Calvinistic Dust.” Band names ranged from “Calm Knuckles” to “Camel Edible.” As Caleb jokes, “I don’t know what camel edibles are. Perhaps they are THC gummies for camels.”

To demonstrate just how far AI music has come, Zach used Udio.com during the podcast to generate two complete songs about Oh My Fraud in just 10-15 seconds. The results were unnervingly good, professional-sounding tracks that could easily pass for human-created music. “There’s a lot of AI music on Spotify at the moment without people knowing it’s AI,” Zach notes.

Smith used VPNs to hide that all streams came from one location and spread activity across thousands of songs to avoid detection. When flagged for “streaming abuse” in 2018, he protested: “We have no intentions of committing streaming fraud.”

By February 2024, Smith’s scheme had generated 4 billion streams and $12 million in royalties.

Folk Hero or Fraudster?

The reaction to Smith’s indictment has been surprisingly divided. Some see him as a criminal who stole from real artists through the “stream share” system, where royalties are distributed based on each rightsholder’s proportion of total streams. Others view him as a folk hero exposing an exploitative system.

The case raises uncomfortable questions. When the band Vulfpeck released an album of complete silence and asked fans to stream it while sleeping—earning $20,000 before Spotify banned them—was that fraud or performance art? As Zach asks, “If someone’s playing blank music, who are they to say that’s not real?”

Smith has hired the prestigious law firm that defended Diddy and plans to fight the charges vigorously. This will be the first major streaming fraud case fully litigated, potentially setting precedents for how we define fraud in digital spaces.

What We Learned

As Caleb reflects at the episode’s end, these cases reveal something profound about our digital economy. Google and Facebook, companies worth trillions with founders worth hundreds of billions, got tricked by simple schemes. A middle-aged entrepreneur with a checkbook created a phantom musical empire that earned millions.

For accounting professionals, these are warnings about the future of fraud detection. When documentation can be perfectly faked, when bots are indistinguishable from humans, when AI creates content that only machines consume, traditional audit procedures become obsolete.

These cases force us to confront questions about power, technology, and authenticity in the digital age. When companies make billions while creators earn pennies, algorithms determine value instead of human appreciation, and the line between real and artificial completely disappears, that’s when people start rooting for the fraudsters. Not because they’re right, but because the system itself feels so wrong.

Listen to the full episode to hear Caleb and Zach grapple with these questions, including those AI-generated songs that sound disturbingly human. Because in an age where machines create for machines while extracting real value from real people, understanding these frauds helps preserve what makes us human in an increasingly artificial world.