Life was good. I passed my employment drug screen, I met up with my friend Dina, and I sat under the sunshine at Tresidder sipping a delicious iced latte. To top it off, I had just received a $3,500 check in the mail. There was a small problem — I had no idea who the check was from, since it was mailed from a Cathy, issued by a Kelly, and signed by an Olivia — but hey, it had my name in the “Pay to the order of” line, so it legitimately belonged to me.

Still, I reasoned that the sooner this mysterious money made its way into my bank account, the better. I sprinted up the stairs to the nearest Bank of America ATM, inserted my card, inserted the check, held my breath for three seconds and — voila — I was $3,500 richer. Yes, life was definitely good.

But as I left the ATM, something didn’t feel quite right. Maybe it was the fact that I had no idea who the check was from, or that it was issued by a bank I never heard of, or that it was mailed all the way from Florida…>wait, Florida, that sounded familiar…

And I reluctantly remembered my recent SU Post advertisement. I was selling my fall quarter IHUM books, and a John Malkinson from Florida had offered to buy them. He promised to pay by mailing a check, and I agreed. After all, what dude in Florida wouldn’t be up for buying three used $5 books required for a particular IHUM Stanford class?

But when I returned to Larkin and saw the “I made [sic] mistake while writing the check please get back to me after you cash it from the bank” message from this John Malkinson, I suspected he wasn’t after the $15 used IHUM books after all.

The next morning, I checked my email and my stomach churned. There was a request for my SU Post Math book. There was another one for my Spanish book. And even, in all its glory, another request for the very same IHUM books. All the requests were from John Malkinson. It was suspicious enough when he wanted the IHUM books the first time, and requesting a second copy along with every other used book on campus wasn’t exactly helping his case.

So the next day, I did what I always do when I have a serious problem that I can’t postpone any longer: I called my parents.

“Hey, Mom,” I began, trying to sound as innocent and carefree as possible.

“What’s wrong?” How did she already know I was in trouble? I made a mental note to stop calling her only in times of an impending apocalypse.

“I got this mysterious $3,500 check in the mail, so I immediately deposited it into my account, and now the dude wants the money back…” That pretty much summed up the situation.

“Back in Russia,” my dad began. “Some bandits would leave a wallet on the ground and hide. Then as soon as you picked up the wallet and took the money, they would come out and claim you took their money. Then they would take your wallet and everything that was in it — both the money you just picked up and anything you had before. There was just no way to prove what had been yours and what you had just picked up.”

I felt glad that I wasn’t “back in Russia,” since I suspected I would have been an easy target for that neat trick. As I wondered how a criminal could benefit from giving me $3,500, my mom proposed a “back in America” version:

“The check is fake.”

Suddenly, it all made sense: John mails me a fake check, says it was a mistake, and asks for the money back. I mail him real money, a week later the bank discovers the check I deposited was fake, and — c’est la vie — I’m in jail for a criminal offense, not to mention down $3.5K.

“That’s not good.” I voiced the obvious.

“No, it’s not. E-mail Bank of America immediately to say that the check was probably fake.”

And after receiving another e-mail of “Go and cash the moey [sic] from the bank and then send the remaining balance” from John Malkinson, I followed my mom’s advice. The $3,500 was promptly withdrawn from my account, and I was told the matter would be settled as soon as I visited my local Bank of America branch.

Fortunately, the story ended well enough. I opened a new bank account, transferred my balance, and adjusted the security settings. I did get a 2:34 a.m. call from John Malkinson soon after, which I promptly returned at 4:00 a.m. the following morning for some moral revenge. But apart from that and a friend request on Tagged a week later, I haven’t heard from John Malkinson ever since. Life is good again.

Valeria Fedyk ’14

Daily Fellow