Con games on text, e-mail

Angela’s e-mail was a pained narrative of her naiveté, carelessness – and greed. But it ends with a warning to others not to be like her:

"I remember it was a Thursday when I received a text message from a Joyce Enrile, saying my cellphone number was chosen one of the lucky winners in their Charity Foundation Inc.’s grand anniversary raffle. She said I need to call her for the guidelines to claim the P385,000-cash prize. Wow!

"When I called, Joyce repeated everything she had texted, then congratulated me. A part of me couldn’t believe it, but a part of me wanted to. It was heaven-sent. I needed the money. My father was diagnosed with cancer and needs chemotherapy.

"She told me to text her my full name, address, age and work, then she’d text me the ‘security code’ in five minutes. She said our conversation was being taped, and that I was not to use any landline or other cell. I did as told and waited. Only the next day did she text the code. I asked for her landline; she said it was under repair. Doubts formed in my mind, but I persisted. Joyce texted me the cell number of an Atty. Enriquito Perez, with instructions to verify that everything was true, and to learn the guidelines. I could claim my prize through an ‘affiliated bank,’ she added.

"I rang the attorney. He congratulated me and said it’s going to be a bank-to-bank transaction. He asked for my name, address, age, work, bank branch, account number. By this time I was sure they weren’t lying, that I was going to be P385,000 richer. Again I asked for his landline, again he said it was under repair. What the heck. He said I had won P404,500, but because they belong to an institution bound by Central Bank rules, I was to remit a tax of P19,250 first. I told him I didn’t have that kind of money. He insisted that I remit the amount that day, Friday, so he can endorse me at once to one Atty. Ricardo Serrano. I didn’t have money, I repeated. He told me to just pay P10,000, balance to follow after claiming my prize.

"I borrowed from a friend, then called Atty. Serrano. He instructed me to deposit the P10,000 in the name of Elvira Deleverio, the Central Bank rep for my bank. Upon depositing, I was to text him the validation number. After which, he would call in 20 minutes about my prize withdrawal. I did as told and waited.

"Twenty minutes passed, then an hour; no call came. Frantic, I called a friend for advice. She said I’d been duped. I couldn’t believe her. I called Joyce Enrile, Atty. Perez, Atty. Serrano. Their cellphones were off. I called again and again and again. No answer. My money was gone.

"For the first time in my life I decided to trust strangers, believe in luck, hope for a miracle, but everything was a hoax. I never thought this could happen to me. You’ll think I was stupid, yes I am stupid. I wanted so much to help my parents with the hospital expenses. I don’t even know what Elvira Deleverio looks like. One thing I can do is share my experience with all of you. Don’t be their next victim."

It had all the ingredients of a confidence game, starting with familiar names, and officious or intriguing terms like "affiliated bank", "security code" and "guidelines". Angela fell for glib talk and cajolery. Con artists play on normal human reactions to pleasant surprises: doubt, curiosity, denial, urgency, impatience. They sense the victim’s gullibility, then move in for the kill.

There are variations of that Charity Foundation Inc. scam. The Bangko Sentral has been warning since Nov. about a fake monthly raffle in its name. Same modus operandi: the winner is supposed to pay the tax first before he can withdraw the prize. Why, the texting swindlers even sent an enticement to Gov. Rafael Buenaventura.

Other stings are done by e-mail. A European lottery will inform you that you have just been picked randomly by computer as one of ten lucky chaps from your continent to qualify for the grand draw of $100 million. You are to reply by stating your full name, address, occupation. After a few more exchanges, you’ll be asked for your bank account number. Then, the usual "tax", so you can withdraw your winnings.

A variation is a frantic letter from a wife or widow of a deposed or jailed despot, pleading for help to withdraw huge sums of cash or gold tied up in their Central Bank somewhere. Same modus: you have to deposit an amount first. They keep thinking up new names of ill-fated rulers from all over. One time they even used the name of Loi Ejercito. It will enrich your knowledge of world events, but it’ll send you to the poorhouse.

All this is the hi-tech version of the old dugo-dugo (bloody) trick. The land line was used back then. A stranger would call the house of the victim whom he knows to be out. The maid would answer, and he would tell her that her employer met a terrible accident and needs cash quickly for blood transfusion. Careful instructions would be given for the frantic maid to pry open her boss’ locker, and bring all the money and jewelry to a "friend" at the hospital.

In the 2003 movie Matchstick Men, Nicolas Cage plays a divorcé who meets for the first time his 14-year-old daughter, who in turn discovers that he’s a con man. "I don’t steal their money, they give it to me freely," he justifies his job to her. His long-time partner in crime plays the biggest trick on him, in cahoots with a would-be victim and his own (fake) daughter. He loses the millions of dollars he had stashed in a safety deposit box for early retirement. A year later he bumps into his apologetic "daughter." He has no hard feelings. "You didn’t steal it," he says, "I gave it to you."

What to do if you receive a conning text or e-mail? Ignore your urge to reply, and pray to God for help in shunning greed. Better still, report the senders to the NBI or the National Telecommunications Commission. For all you know, somebody out there has put up a reward for their capture, dead or alive. Then again, there might not be any.

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Catch Sapol ni Jarius Bondoc, Saturdays at 8 a.m., on DWIZ (882-AM).

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E-mail: [email protected]