man 1, bank 0

[Zydeco]

this worth a read. http://www.man1bank0.com/home.cfm?page=2

[180crafter]

Can you post in the body for us losers with jobs? Thanks.

[BuudWeizErr]

i'm pretty this has already been posted here.

[Axel Grungy]

pretty good read, kinda long but worth it

[The Mic]

Dude, I absolutely HATE BOFA!! (bank of america). 5 times I found amounts of $30-$60 mysteriously missing from my account! Anyways, I closed all my accounts today from that god forsaken bank. Any Suggestions for a new bank? Citibank? Washington Mutual?

[PoorManQ45]

Here ya go:

I opened my junk mail and there it was -- a fake check -- on light blue paper, made out in my name, for the amount of $95,093.35, complete with electronic banking numbers along the bottom and an "authorized signature." It looked so real, except for the words "non-negotiable" printed clearly in the top right-hand corner.

I scooted Hobbit, my cat, off of the keyboard and to the right of my monitor. A letter, attached to the fake check by a perforated score, read:

Patrick Combs, I expected to hear from you by now. Take a close look at the check above. It's just a sample of the money you could be receiving.

We took in that amount in just three weeks. Other mailboxes have also made hundreds of thousands of dollars. In fact, your mailbox, at 326 Carl Street, could soon be stuffed full of checks in varying amounts and free merchandise. This is the same offer you’ve seen on TV! Patrick, I know what you must be thinking, "Is this for real?" Let me assure you, it is very real.

I knew it was a bogus come-on from some junk mail scammer, but I liked it none-the-less. I loved seeing my name attached to so much money. I was in $40,000 of credit card debt that I’d run up in the last two years launching myself as a professional speaker. $40,000 of debt sucks, especially when you're only twenty-eight.

The fake check seemed too good for the trash. I figured that there had to be something fun I could do with it. It was, at the very least, a good novelty item deserving a place on my wall...

But then I thought of something even better...

Deposit it.

Yeah... That's funny!

It could prompt quite a funny conversation with my bank. ... "Ah, Mr. Combs, we've got some disappointing news. The check you deposited yesterday, for $95,000... Do you know what non-negotiable means?" a banker might say.

"That I can't negotiate with you for more money, like ninety-six or ninety seven thousand?" I might say back.

I could so easily picture a good laugh - especially with my bank since they are extra-friendly as evidenced by their amazing $5 Perfect Service Guarantee which states that if anytime they make a mistake, point it out to them and they'll give you $5 cash, on the spot.

Yes, a joke like this was something my bank could really enjoy, so I headed out to make the silly deposit. As usual, there was a line at the ATM machine's attached to the outside wall of the Haight Street branch. But it didn't take long. Within minutes the check was disappearing into the scrolling mouth of the ATM. To me, this was really, really funny. As far as I was concerned, the bank had just accepted Monolopy money. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I walked away from my bank laughing.

Saturday and Sunday passed without incident.

Monday, I expected to hear from my bank but didn't.

Tuesday, I didn't think once about the deposit.

Then, on Wednesday while running errands, I withdrew $40 from my automated bank machine. Out spit the two twenties and the little banking statement. I stared at it. It looked like Ed McMahon had sent it. My bank balance was almost a hundred thousand dollars.

The bank had accepted the phony $95,093.35 deposit!

End of Part I

"Cashing In"

I forgot about my Post Office drop off, and ran excitedly for home, all twelve blocks. Up the marble steps, down the hardwood hallway, straight to the phone hanging on the wall. I called my friend Michelle. She would do a small favor for me.

"Michelle, call wherever you bank and tell them what happened to me -- don’t mention my bank’s name -- and ask them how this could have happened. Then call me back!" She obliged. I plopped into my swiveling office chair, not sure what to do with myself besides stare at the little orange and white bank statement in my hand. After what seemed like forever, but was actually only minutes, the phone rang.

"Michelle?"

"Hi. It's standard policy to credit your account for any amount you deposit, but it's only a credit when they do it," she said in her soft but exacting voice. "You can't touch a cent of the money unless the check clears," she continued.

"Oh."

"Sorry. The woman said you could have deposited a check written on the side of a cow, and they’d credit your account."

"Of course," I said. I looked at my watch. For twenty-two minutes and forty-five seconds I had let myself believe that maybe something incredible and lottery-like had happened to me. Now that hope turned to disappointment and plummeted to my stomach. "Well, hey -- it was fun for the day. I’ll have to print out a lot of those ATM slips and hand them out to friends for fun."

That night, my friend Gary took one look at the tiny bank receipt and said, "Holy **** dude! What’d you do, rob a bank?"

We were with other friends, tucked away in a night club. My ninety-five thousand dollar deposit monopolized our conversation. People fantasized about what they’d do with the windfall of money: a ’56 Thunderbird, a home, a charity, funding for a film, a sudden departure to Mexico. I knew what I’d do with it -- pay off all my credit cards, make my speaking materials better, and maybe take a girl on a great vacation.

Before crawling into bed, I phoned the twenty-four hour banking line. A pre-recorded woman’s voice spoke to me as if happy to say it, "Your account balance is...one hundred thousand, three hundred and fifty dollars, and thirty-three cents."

The next day, I interrupted my work to call again and again to see if the money was still there. Four times. Five. The next day, I called ten times. On Thursday, I called too many times to count. Eventually, I programmed the bank’s number into my speed dial. Each time I was certain that I’d hear, "Your account balance is…low." But to my astonishment, my balance remained over a hundred grand.

It’ll definitely be gone now, I told myself on Friday morning, as I stumbled out of bed and headed, still naked, straight for the phone. "Your account balance is…," said my automated early morning date, "ninety-six thousand, one hundred and twenty-two dollars, and eighty cents." I pulled on some pants, threw on a t-shirt, and returned to my bank -- only this time I went in.

I approached a teller, a young woman with her blonde hair pulled back tight. "I’m thinking of buying a home this afternoon. If a little later today, I need a cashier’s check for $70,000, could I get the money?" My words poured out slowly and carefully.

She typed my account number into her computer and then looked up. "Yes, the funds are available Mr. Combs." It was too good to be true.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I just knew I had to get out of the bank, fast. Once on the sidewalk, I felt set apart from everyone else: more fortunate, more at risk, perhaps even crazy.

I left the money right where it was, figuring that withdrawing it would somehow result in my getting thrown on the pavement and handcuffed. But for the next five days -- every day, every evening, every night -- all I could do was think about it. It was a severe case of money addiction..

Wednesday came and I boarded a plane to attend a four-day college conference in Orlando. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t call and check my bank balance even once the entire trip. The break would be good for my nerves.

I returned home Sunday night. I was cool again, certain the $95,000 credit would be erased by now. I called first thing in the morning. My automated sweetheart said, "Your account balance is…ninety-six thousand, ninety-eight dollars and forty-four cents."

Another week passed. The money remained in my account. It was now exactly three weeks since I had deposited the sample check. I returned to my bank, once again dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-frame glasses was ready to help me. His name badge told me he was the branch manager. Calmly, I presented my situation to him. "I recently deposited $95,000. I don't want to spend any of the money if there is the possibility of the check being returned. How long should I wait?"

He asked to see my bank card and casually began keying in my account number. He put his fingers up to the monitor and scrunched his face. "Here it is, $95,093.35, deposited on May 21st." With that, he dropped his finger, looked up at me and said, "You're safe to spend it, Mr. Combs. By law, checks can’t be returned after ten business days -- that’s to protect depositors."

"Really? Oh, okay then," I said, backing up and on the verge of collapse. I hurried out of the bank, but not before I grabbed every brochure and pamphlet in sight. It was time to know my rights.

As soon as I got home, I waded through every line of the boring pamphlets, including all the tedious small print, but I couldn’t find the law he had referred to. But on the back of one of the brochures, I found a sentence that said, "For more information, contact The Office of Thrift Supervision." A phone number appeared on the brochure.

I called right away and a man answered the phone.

"Hello, Office of Thrift Supervision. Dan speaking, how may I help you?"

I told him what had happened -- skipped my last name -- and asked, "What law might my bank manager have been referring to?"

"That would be the Midnight Deadline," Dan said, with his voice trailing off. "But…"

"What?"

"But the more important question in a matter such as yours might have to do with negotiability. I wonder if the check you deposited…you say it was sent to you as junk mail and wasn’t supposed to be real?"

"Yes, it was a fake check."

"Hmm. I wonder if it was a true negotiable instrument?"

"What does that mean?"

"The law specifies nine, I think it’s nine -- it has been a long time -- eight or nine specific criteria that a check has to match in order to be a legally negotiable instrument."

"Uh-huh," I replied. I didn’t know where he was going with this.

"I can’t be exactly sure what they are, but perhaps the check you deposited was actually a negotiable instrument. That would explain why your bank accepted it."

I couldn’t believe my ears. I’d never even contemplated the idea that the $95,000 might have stayed in my account because the junk check was real. I’d only guessed it had been mistaken as real.

"Oh. I wonder what those nine criteria are?" I said it softly, trying not to appear too eager, but also hoping the words might hook him to say more.

"There’s a law book called Brady’s, I think, Brady’s Banking Law. It will list the criteria. Hastings Law Library probably has the book."

"Okay, thank you for your time."

I got off the phone, grabbed my car keys, and headed out the door. I was excited because this might change everything. If the junk mail company had accidentally designed a real $95,000 check, I wouldn’t feel guilty at all writing them a letter thanking them for making me rich: Dear Mr. Mitch Klass, Your get-rich-quick scheme truly worked for me! 95,000 thanks!

San Francisco supposedly has more cars than parking spaces. I circled many times around the park that is surrounded by stately City Hall, the Opera House, and the majestic public library, before I found a spot. Hastings was a modern-looking, three story, red-brick building with smoked glass. I’d never been to a law library before.

It looked like a wharehouse full of encyclopedia's on the inside. I pushed through the single waist-high security bar and asked at the desk where I might find the book Brady’s Bank Law. A clerk pointed me in the right direction.

I scanned the rows and rows of books and quickly found the book the clerk had mentioned. The full title was Brady on Bank Checks: The Law of Bank Checks, by Henry Bailey and Richard Hagedorn. It was a big, thick, black book devoid of any cover design.

I flipped through it, trying to find the law I needed, but I couldn’t even find the table of contents in the monstrous tome. The thousands of pages of small print at the bottom of every waiver and contract daunted me. The more I looked through it, the more I thought I was going to lose consciousness. As I continued reading, my ability to focus diminished with every legalese-crammed page.

I glanced back at the bookshelf and a small pocket-sized book caught my eye. It was titled, Negotiable Instruments and Check Collection. The title was so perfect, it might as well have said, Law Book for Dummies. I sat myself down on the floor and flipped open the friendlier book. As if by magic, I found myself staring at a page that read, "The Nine Criteria for a Negotiable Instrument."

The first eight criteria went my way. The check must have a signature, a date, and the words ‘pay to’ -- all the things you expect to see on a check. The check I deposited had them all, as far as I could remember. But it also carried the words ‘non-negotiable’ in the top right-hand corner. Hopefully the ninth criterion would address this. I read on, looking for confirmation that the $95,000 fortune was indeed mine. It read: "The ninth issue is whether people can create an instrument that matches the first eight criteria, and then avoid negotiability by declaring on the instrument that it is not negotiable."

I took a deep breath. The roulette wheel was spinning to a stop, giving me a fifty-fifty chance at one hundred grand. I began reading the next sentence slower than any sentence I’ve read in my entire life, my index finger uncovering one word at a time. "Give me the word no," I said to myself, as I held my breath and slid my finger along the page, uncovering the first four words of the next sentence: "The answer is yes..."

Wham. Ugh. Game over. I was devastated.

Any fantasies I had about the $95,000 dollars fizzled. But then, I moved my finger a micro-inch further along the page, and I saw a comma and the rest of the sentence: "The answer is yes, except on a check."

It was unreal. I held back a yell and read more. "A declaration on a check that it is not negotiable is ineffective.” The meaning of this sunk in quickly - I was the luckiest S.O.B. alive. The get-rich-quick company had accidentally designed a real check - and I had deposited it!

I needed to borrow money from strangers in the library so that that I could photocopy what I had just read, but I didn’t mind since I knew it would be the last financial favor I’d ever need.

A young woman was studying beside the copy machine. I got her attention and said quietly, "Keep up the studying -- it can really pay off!"

I flew out of the library. On my '77 Ford Grenada, I found a parking ticket waiting to destroy my day, but it didn’t stand a chance. Twenty-eight dollars was now mere pocket change.

On the ride home, I decided to phone my brother and ask his advice. Mike, a year and half older, lives in Boston. Our respective cities were almost perfect metaphors for our differences. Boston, older and conservative. San Francisco, younger and adventurous. I’d turned to my brother for advice many times, but in this case I was hesitant. He always came through with smart answers, but this time I didn’t want the wise older brother response. I easily imagined him saying, "Patrick, give the money back right away - and grow up."

Mike’s actual reaction surprised me. He guessed that the get-rich-quick company was out the $95,000 and would come for their money, law or no law, "At night, dressed in black," he added. But then he said, "Patrick, get the entire amount in cash and put it into a safe deposit box at your bank."

My jaw dropped. "What?"

"Then they’ll have to ask you to return the money instead of being able to take it back without a word. Picture walking into the vault, going behind the curtain, and opening a box full with $95,000 cash. It'll be fun to look at. How many times in your life are you going to have $95,000 cash in a safe deposit box?!" That was a bonding moment with my brother.

The more I thought about his suggestion, the more I concluded that it couldn’t hurt, since the money would never leave my bank. I began calling First Interstate branches and asking about safe deposit box availability. I learned that the only safe deposit boxes available were possibly too small to hold $95,000 of cash, so I held off on renting one.

A few days later, I entered a First Interstate Branch to explore my brother’s plan further. I sat down at the desk of a bank official, a small Asian woman who greeted me in broken English. "Hi, can help you?"

"Could I withdraw a hundred thousand dollars in cash -- assuming, that is, I had enough in my account to cover it?"

She chuckled, "Nobody ever done that in fifteen years I working."

"But if I wanted to, can you get me that much cash?" I asked again.

She chuckled again, but this time nervously. "We have to tell IRS and order four days in advance. But nobody ever done that."

"Really?" I asked, stunned and put off by the IRS involvement. I did not want that.

"Yes, we no keep that much cash on here," she continued. "The largest bill in circulation now is $100 bill. No more $500 bills in circulation. We have to report to IRS any cash withdrawals excess of $10,000 -- some people bad guys, trying to hide money."

"Oh - not me. Thank you for your time. I was just asking," I said, excusing myself from her desk. I was reeling from her response. Her nervousness, the required procedures, the information that no one had ever done it -- it made my ninety-five thousand dollars seem like even more.

The next day, June 13th, I woke up and decided that if I couldn't look at the $95,000 in cash, it would be almost as fun to see it as a cashier's check. The decision to attempt the five-figure transaction felt dramatic. I decided I would go to my bank’s most impressive San Francisco location, the California Street Office, located in the heart of the skyscraper district. Cathedral ceilings, marble floors, towering columns, and gold trim made it fit for a king.

Inside the regal building, I became fully aware that I was the only one of the twenty or so customers that was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb. "They won’t hand over a $95,000 cashier’s check to me," I thought. "They'll say some big mistake has been made. "

I went to a teller's window. I was so nervous, I couldn’t get myself to speak. Too petrified to ask the middle-aged woman on the other side of the marble counter for a $95,000 cashier’s check, I had to ask for a piece of paper. As I wrote $95,093.35 on it, I felt like a bank robber writing my demands, so instead I said with a small stutter, "I'd like to get this amount in a cashier's check." Without saying a word, she began moving quickly to grab papers and forms, then rushed out the words, "You need to write me a check." She seemed bothered and I wasn’t thinking well. My heart was doing a drum roll.

"I've never gotten a cashier's check before. What are you asking me to do?" I said. My cheeks felt flush.

"Write me a check for the same amount," she said.

Finally understanding what she was asking, I began to write out the check. I had never written $95,093.35 out in words before.

The teller prepared the cashier's check. Time seemed to sit still, but then the teller slid the gray check across the counter to me. I reached to take it, but she would not let go.

"What are you going to do with this money?" she said. Her eyes locked onto mine, without flinching.

"I don't know," I said, knowing it was all over. She did not release her hold on the check.

"Are you going to invest it? Would you like to speak with one of our investment counselors right now?" she continued. "They can suggest excellent uses for the money."

"No thank you," I said, releasing a small laugh. "But you should get a raise."

I couldn’t believe I had a cashier’s check in my hand for $95,000. I approached the customer service window and filled out the form for a fifty-dollar-a-year, small, safe deposit box. No problems. Then I was escorted into the vault. The bank teller slid out the box that would be mine and pointed to the curtain I could go behind for privacy. "No need," I said, as I slipped the folded check into the metal container.

As I exited the building, a huge smile spread across my face. I walked the street, just below the Transamerica Tower, endowed with the strange feeling that I was taller, swifter, and stronger. I felt like I had superpowers and could easily have lifted a large automobile. As I headed to my car, I slipped the safe deposit box key onto my key ring - a skeleton-like key now worth $95,093.35.

End of Part II

"The Bank Freaks Out"

When I arrived home, I called my friend Michelle to tell her that I’d managed to get a cashier’s check. She loved to hear about the $95,000.

"You took the money? Why did you do that?" She said upset. "That’s going to get you in big trouble."

Her reaction made me think. Maybe taking the money was really stupid.

I decided to call Scott Edelstein, a trusted friend of mine in Minneapolis, for a second opinion. Scott was a long-distance friend I’d known for two years. He’d negotiated my book deal for me. I found him to be wonderfully wise, the only person I knew who could pepper a conversation with Zen stories. After he heard the whole chain of events, including Michelle’s alarm, he said, "There’s these two monks washing in the river when they notice a scorpion drowning. One monk scooped it onto the bank and got stung. He went back to washing and again the scorpion fell in. The monk again saved the scorpion, and again got stung. The other monk asked him, "Friend, why do you continue to save the scorpion when you know its nature is to sting?" "Because," the monk replied, "to save it is my nature."

I didn't catch the drift of the story.

"Patrick, certainly many people will think what you’ve done is frightening and scary, but that’s why they’re not you. You’re you precisely because you do things like this. Look at you! You launched your own speaking career without any training. You wrote a book because one day you got the inspiration to. A lot of people don't do things like that because of fear. I think it’s fantastic that you deposited one of those junk checks! It’s something everybody has fantasized about doing, but leave it to you to actually try it!" Scott’s words, cheery and matter of fact, made me smile. "Just keep trusting your own instincts and you’ll be fine."

We talked a bit longer. He added, "I think you’ve got a story good enough for the national news."

I laughed. "Sure, headline news. Well, thanks Scott. Gotta go."

Having the money in a safe deposit box alleviated my need to call and check my bank balance every minute. During the next week, I was able to focus on my speaking work. When the money did come to mind, I wavered between wanting to keep it and fantasizing about donating it all to the Red Cross. The Robin Hood option appealed to me. I loved the thought of doing good with bad people’s money. And that's who the designers the 95,000 check were - bad people, willing to prey on other people’s lack of sophistication.

I imagined what it would be like to be a fly on the wall when the Association of Certified Liquidators (the company that sent the check) discovered I’d cashed it. I pictured a man at small table, in a crappy office with cheap wood paneling, springing up from a mess of papers and rushing to his boss’s equally dumpy room. The boss would spit out some sandwich and then loosen his already poorly-tied tie to relieve a sudden hot flash. Perhaps scream, "What the #$@!?"

One afternoon, deep into this fantasy, I decided to call the man who’d claimed he could make me rich, Mr. Mitch Klass. I figured he was going to call me soon, so it seemed better to act first. More fun to catch him, than to have him catch me. I dialed, using the number on his junk mail letter.

"I’m calling for Mr. Klass."

"Have you purchased our $150 sales system?" a woman asked.

"I haven’t."

"Mr. Klass can’t take your call right now. He has to reserve his time for our sales associates, but if you want to leave a message, he’ll try and get back to you."

"Hmm, okay. Would you tell Mr. Klass that I did get rich from his system -- that I cashed the $95,000 check that came in the letter -- the sample check."

"You cashed the check?"

"I did."

"And you got the money?"

"I did."

There was brief pause. "Hold please and I’ll get Mr. Klass."

On hold I was treated to Muzac.

"Mr. Klass won’t take your call, but he said to return the money to the bank and call the police."

I laughed a bit. "Okay, I’ll be sure and turn myself in."

Seven days after I put the cashier’s check into the safe deposit box, and thirty-three days after I deposited the junk mail check in the first place, I came home to two voice mail messages from my bank. The first message was from the Haight Street branch of my bank and the second voice-mail was from the bank’s security department. Expecting these calls didn’t make them any easier to hear. And I was confused. I thought the calls would have come from the get-rich-quick company, not from my bank. It was after 5 p.m., so I would have to wait a day to find out why my bank was involved.

That evening, with my friend Gary standing by my side, I put my bank card into an ATM to get some cash for dinner. The ATM ate my card and on the screen, green words glowed, Card Confiscated. Contact Your Branch Office Immediately.

"Ooo **** dude, you’re busted!" Gary exclaimed.

I tried to laugh it off, but it felt like the walls were closing in.

I had a restless sleep that night, and woke up before my alarm. I caught an early morning flight to New York to begin a two-week vacation with friends and family. My flight had a short stopover in Seattle at about 10:00 a.m., so I used the time to make a phone call. I returned the call from the Haight Street branch of my bank.

"Sharon Kempner, please."

"Sorry, she’s not in. May I ask who’s calling?"

With the mention of my name she said, "Oh! Hold a second, please."

Then another woman came on the line and said, "You got a cashier’s check from us for $93,095.35 that we need back. Can you bring me the cashier’s check today?"

"I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name or job title?"

"Sharon Kempner. Customer service manager. Can you bring me that check?"

"I can't. I’m almost to New York," I replied, looking out a window at a large Alaska Airlines jet rolling across the tarmac.

She interrupted me telling her the check was in a safe deposit box. "Does anyone else have a key?" I told her no.

"When do you come back?"

"I return July 6th. I can give you the money then," I said. "Can you tell me how this matter came to your attention?"

"The check came back insufficient funds."

"Really?" I was worried it might, but a First Interstate manager told me that, by law, it could no longer be returned."

Sharon snapped, "Well that is wrong! It can come back for a full year. I'd like to know who told you that. Do you remember who it was?"

I did remember, but I told her I didn’t know to keep that person out of trouble.

"What kind of check did you deposit?" Sharon asked.

"Have you seen the check?" I asked her back.

"I’m holding it in my hands," Sharon replied.

"It's a junk mail check!" I was beaming, happy to state the obvious.

"I thought that's what it was. Why did you deposit it? It clearly has the words ‘non-negotiable’ on it. Were you experimenting?" Sharon asked, obviously baffled.

"I don't know," I replied, responding more to my wonderment about why they’d accepted it and now wanted it back. "How do you think this happened, Sharon? That it was accepted for so long and then rejected?"

"I don't know, but you need to return the cashier's check. You shouldn't have done this." Frustration cracked her voice.

"I'll give it back when I return," I said calmly.

Apparently this was what Sharon had hoped to hear. "Well, yes. That will be the thing to do. Thank you."

I had read for myself that the junk mail check was real and a bank manager had told me I was safe to spend it. Yet now I was being told I had to return the money. I felt like I was being ripped off.

A final boarding call over the loud speakers alerted me to get back on the plane. Next up was a stop over in Chicago. Inside the cathedral-like airport that is O’Hare, I parked myself at another payphone and returned the call from Robert Gage, First Interstate’s security officer. A woman answered. Upon hearing my name, she put me right through.

"Mr. Combs, I’m on the case now, understand? You don’t need to speak with anyone else at this bank but me. I want you to return that cashier’s check immediately." He sounded as if he ate gravel for breakfast every morning. And he was pissed.

I wanted him to admit the check was real. "Mr. Gage, I understand. Can you tell me how the bank could have cashed this junk mail check?"

"I don’t care a bit why First Interstate bank cashed a junk mail check. It shouldn’t have happened. This is a matter of fraud on your part," he barked back.

It alarmed me -- the word fraud. Criminals on the post office walls committed fraud. FBI agents investigated fraud. Fraud got you sent to jail. Fraud would kill my speaking career!

"I was told you’re out of town. You need to fly back right now and return that check!"

"No sir," I answered, feeling my throat tremble.

"Is there anyone here that can open the box for you?"

"No sir, I'm the only one on the signature card."

"Then give me permission to drill the box." I paused to let a lump move down my throat. "No sir."

"So you won't cooperate?" his coarse voice spewed.

I didn’t want to make an impulsive stupid mistake. I could feel a bead of sweat running down my ribcage. Before I could come up with a response, he yelled again, "Why won't you give me permission to drill the box?"

"Because it would be irresponsible of me. This has all gotten really serious, really fast. Just give me a second here," I yelled. I struggled for even a shallow breath and then let my words ride out on the exhale. "I’ll tell you what. I need this all in writing. Send me an official bank letter stating who you are and that the check was returned for insufficient funds."

He exploded into a machine gun of words. "You're not getting any letter! This phone call is all you're getting. It’s all I have to give you! You committed bank check fraud when you got a cashier’s check for money you knew wasn't yours. This isn't about a hundred dollars, or ten thousand dollars! You committed fraud to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars! If you don't return that money, what I’m going to give you is policemen on your door young man! Now give me permission to drill open that box!"

I had to think fast. But I couldn’t with all the flight announcements blaring, footsteps swarming, and hundreds of voices rising.

"No sir," I said quietly.

Robert Gage said nothing.

I was in an airport, with a lawman yelling and threatening me over money stashed away. It all added up in my head suddenly that I wasn't too far off from the way fugitives trying to get a flight out of the country must feel. Gage held the silence for a moment. Then I spoke. "I haven’t spent a cent of the money. And I have no intention of keeping money that doesn't belong to me."

I caught a quick sigh from Gage. "Alright then. I won’t take further action, as long as you agree to call the minute you get home on July 6th"

I said sure. Then he agreed to have my bank account unfrozen so that my checks wouldn’t bounce. Seemingly all was okay between us when the call ended. As I eased into my airplane seat, I realized Gage assumed the money didn’t belong to me. That could be debated later. I felt a relief to have the call over, but the words fraud and policemen pounded in my head.

End of Part III

"Learning My Rights"

I arrived in New York shook up and certain I needed to know if I had really committed fraud. From yet another pay phone, a few quick phone calls to law schools back in the Bay Area gave me a short list of lawyers who specialized in banking and checks. I called Manuel Fields first because he had twenty years of experience, specifically focused on check fraud.

Calling escalated my nervousness. For all I knew, telling him all that had transpired might be a legal form of confession, further evidence that could put me behind bars. But I felt desperate. Was what began as a joke now a federal offense? Would I need a lawyer fast?

I told Manuel my first name only, and then all that had happened. "Do I need a lawyer?" He let out a quick laugh, then asked, "Exactly how much was this check for?"

"Ninety five thousand."

For what had to be at least fifteen seconds, all I could hear was hard laughter, seasoned with a few Spanish exclamations like ‘Aye Mio!’

"I'm sorry," he said when his laugh finally tapered off. "I've just never heard anything like this."

According to commercial paper law, the money was now legally mine, he said. "The way a bank invalidates a check is by serving the depositor with a timely notice of dishonor. They’ve only got 48 hours to tell you. That’s from when they found out -- not from when you deposited it. You say they told you 33 days after your deposit. That suggests they blew it. But we’d need some proof. Then again, maybe they did tell you within the 48 hours. We don’t have a way of knowing either way."

"Fraudulent checks are a different manner," he continued. "But since you deposited the check thinking there was no chance it would cash, and without even endorsing it - you didn't commit fraud."

A tremendous relief washed over me.

Manuel had more good news for me. "Nor was getting the cashier's check an act of fraud. The bank assured you the check could no longer be returned. They told you it was your money."

Manuel had no way of knowing the big smile he was putting on my face. And he didn't know how much his words made me want to tell the bank to stick it. They had no right to accuse me of fraud. The more I thought about the whole situation, the more it seemed like I was being played. Gage needed an out to cover for the bank’s mistake. He needed a sucker, and he counted on me to play that role. It seemed like the bank was taking the side of the junk mail company. Maybe Mitch Klass, good ol’ Mr. ‘Return the money and call the police’ had called up the bank screaming, "You let some jerk fraud us out of $95,000! Get our money back or I’ll sue you so fast you won’t see it coming!" Maybe that was enough to make the bank jump. In either case, it felt unfair and made a letter from the bank seem even more important. I wanted to see what reason they'd state for my needing to return the money. It'd probably be a lie.

I spent the evening visiting a good friend in New York. He knew about the junk check before I arrived, and loved it, but the latest chapter of fraud accusations soured him. "You’re on very thin ice, Patrick. Maybe it’s time to give the money back. What’s more important -- making a point with this junk mail company, or your career and reputation?"

I changed the subject. He didn’t seem to be into the principle of the matter.

The next day, I traveled to Boston and visited my brother Mike, his wife Anne, and my mother. The bank’s threatening call disturbed them. Mike, who I really hoped would understand the principle behind my actions, just shook his head and said, "What are you holding out for, Pat? You’re going to give the money back, so why not just give it back now?"

"I’m holding out for a simple letter admitting they made a mistake! God, an official letter for my files is so little to ask. And for the junk mail company to politely ask me for the money back like you and I discussed. They screwed up. They could at least say thanks for not spending it all."

"But you’re gonna give it back?"

"Yeah, sure, unless the junk mail company decides to treat me rudely. Legally, the money is mine now. I don’t have to give it back."

My brother’s eyebrows scrunched the same way they always did when he disapproved. "Hey, Anne and I are wiring the house with Ethernet connections in every room. Wanna see the hub? It’s in the basement, along with my Batman collection. Anne got tired of action figures taking over everywhere." Mike was a mild-mannered technology manager by day, and a Batman fanatic by night.

Later, I found myself alone in the kitchen with my mom. From her seat at the table, rubbing her hands together for comfort, she said, "Patrick, you better not spend a cent of that money. I worry your bank’s going to get meaner and meaner."

"I won’t spend a cent."

"They’ll throw you in jail, son. People get mean over money. You don’t believe me, but I know. So you be very careful, son."

"I’ll be careful. Don’t worry Mom."

"That’s what I do. I worry about you boys." She looked really concerned.

"Well, don’t worry. But it’s too bad you don’t want me to spend any of that money. I was going to buy you a Lexus with a trunk full of presents."

Mom’s eyes perked up and a smile lifted across her face. "Really, Patrick? What color?" We both laughed.

The next day, I phoned my bank’s general customer service number and requested a photocopy of the original junk check. For the person who took my order, it was business as usual. I would receive it in a few days by mail.

The letter arrived on schedule and I had a friend open it and read it to me over the phone. It was a photocopy of someone else's check for $6.71. I was pissed. It could have been a simple mistake, but it seemed like the bank was trying to keep me from having a copy of the check. Without it, I couldn’t confirm that the check matched the nine criteria making it legal.

Sitting at my brother’s desk, I was about to resort to an option that I dreaded: calling Robert Gage, the security officer, and asking him to fax me a photocopy of the check. I imagined him exploding again, but I saw it as a necessary move. I was about to pick up the phone when my mom pulled up a chair. Although my mother was exactly as she often described herself, ‘tubby and stuffed with fluff - like Winnie the Pooh,’ she was never to be underestimated.

"Patrick, why call a security officer? Haven't I taught you to deal with VIPs? Call the President of the Bank."

"It’s not just a bank. It’s a giant corporation with some CEO."

"Well then, call that person. You’re not a criminal, so you don’t need to talk to the security officer. You call the CEO. Haven’t I taught you to go to the top?"

"Yeah, you have," I said, humbled by my mom’s wisdom and appreciative of her support. She sat there with me as I made the calls.

It took several calls before I learned that the CEO’s name was Bill Siart. When I tried to reach him, I was told that he didn’t take any calls personally and that I’d have to go through the Consumer Affairs Department. I reached the manager of the department and said, "I have a problem with my branch office, and I'm having a lot of trouble speaking with anyone who wants to help me handle this problem fairly."

"I’ll gladly help you any way I can," she replied in a courteous voice. I requested a photocopy of the front and the back of the check and the official letter from the bank requesting the money back from me. When I told her that Robert Gage had denied me the letter, she said, "Oh, Mr. Gage is our senior security officer, twenty-two years with the company highly regarded. I can't go over his head but I will call him and see what he can do."

It worked. The next day Robert Gage faxed me. Out of the machine came the check copy. It was more real-looking than any of my family had ever imagined. It certainly matched all nine criteria for a negotiable instrument.

Next, the fax machine scrolled out a memo from First Chicago Bank without my name on it anywhere. It did have the amount of the check, $95,093.35, on one line, the word 'non-negotiable' circled on another, and the name and phone number of an Account Adjuster printed at the bottom. I didn't know what it was, but I knew it wasn't the letter from my bank I'd requested. My brother encouraged me to call the number on it. "At this stage in the process, you’re negotiating with the bank now for a copy of the letter. In negotiations, the person with the most information usually wins."

My family left for lunch, and I phoned. All I said was, "I’m holding a memo from you dated June 5th and wondering if you can explain it." He asked for a few reference numbers off the paper, typed on his keyboard and then said, "It’s the notice of dishonor our bank sent to First Interstate about the $95,093.35 check. On the same day, we also reclaimed the money from First Interstate."

"What's a notice of dishonor?" I asked.

"It's when we notify your bank that the check they gave us was bad, and we reclaim our money."

"So my bank is out the money?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

Before I could consider how I felt about my bank losing the dough, it hit me. The burning question raised earlier by Manuel was now answered. June 5th was the day my bank learned that the check had been dishonored. But June 21st was the day they’d notified me. They’d missed their legal deadline by 16 days - and then accidentally faxed me a memo that proved it. God loved me, or Robert Gage was an idiot.

At the end of our conversation, the account adjuster not only obliged my request for the name of the other bank my check routed through, he told me who I should ask for and what item number I should reference. I got off the phone and ran in to tell my family the news. "That call put the fun into ‘funny money!’" I yelled.

I raced back to make my next call. The woman responded to me with a candor she probably reserved for fellow bankers. I scrawled notes onto a yellow pad of paper as she related the entire history of the check’s movement through the banking system. The bank received my deposit on Friday, May 19th. On Monday, May 21st it was overlooked by First Interstate and sent on to the bank in Chicago that was acting as a clearinghouse. It was again overlooked there. The next day, May 22nd, it was sent onto the Federal Reserve Bank in Cleveland, Ohio and this bank rejected the check immediately, calling it a ‘non-cash’ item. The check was then routed to her bank in Cleveland, because that’s where the Association of Certified Liquidators had their account. She said her bank sent a notice of dishonor immediately to the bank in Chicago, on June 4th.

I scrawled a loosely-based map of the check’s path across the yellow lines on the pad and was left wondering why my bank had delayed notifying me. Apparently, somebody fell asleep at their desk and didn’t wake up for over two weeks.

I hung up the phone and made the first entry about the $95,000 check into my journal:

No wonder my bank won’t send a letter; there’s nothing they can say in it! They can’t say the check wasn’t real without lying on paper. They’re way past being able to officially notify me of it bouncing. So they haven’t a legal leg to stand on. And I guess it never crossed their minds to just call me, admit their mistake, and ask for the money back nicely. Why would they? They never let customers out of mistakes. It's a twenty-five dollar service charge whenever someone accidentally bounces a check, no matter what. But now, with the tables turned, instead of them paying for their mistake, they try and get the money back with bullying and lies. Screw them. I’m keeping the money if they want to act like ***holes.

I didn’t sleep well for a week. I'd lay awake trying to decide if it really was worth it, continually trying to figure out my next move. I also worried about fraud charges, a lawsuit, court battles, jail time, and the disruption of my career as a speaker.

July 6th rolled around sooner than I cared for. This was the day I had promised Robert Gage that I’d return to San Francisco with the check. However, I had decided to skip my flight, figuring it would be better to be 3000 miles away when I told him again, "A letter or no cashier's check." Gage would go ballistic when I gave him my ultimatum, and then hand matters over to the police. Nervousness woke me up and stayed with me all day as I put off phoning. .

My battle with the bank over the principle of the entire matter wasn’t worth the anxiety eating away at my life. It might get me jail time. Even the idea of fighting so that the money could go to charity was losing its luster. I'd thought about it a lot and the more I thought about the more Robin Hood seemed like an *******. The money wasn’t meant to be mine. Family and friends had already indicated they’d just give back the money and forget the letter. They were all people I trusted. Yet, a part of me thought I was right, and the bank was wrong. And it was me who would have to roll over if I backed down..

Finally, at 9:30 p.m., I sat down at the kitchen table in front of the phone, planning out exactly what I would say. I would play hard ball. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

To my surprise, my brother wandered by. He gave me some help with my script. "Over-demand," he recommended. "That’s what good negotiators do. At some point it will make him say, ‘I can’t do all that for you - what do you really want?’"

Then my mother sat down across from me. She’d wrench her hands together, then rub her arms without saying a word. I hoped she couldn’t see that I too was afraid. I focused on my notes in front of me and tried to calm my breathing. Before I knew it, the clock on the stove read 10:55 p.m. Gage wouldn't be at work anymore, but I had his pager number. If I was going to do this, I had to do it now.

I rang Gage's pager and punched in my brother's phone number. Then I sat back and waited for his call.

My hands dampened with sweat. The muscles of my neck tightened. I fought off a tiny, and completely unusual, twitch on my right cheek. I gave a fake reassuring wink to my mom. I’d never before been this scared.

Rrrrrrriiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggggg! The phone sounded off like an alarm. I gave a quick glance to my mother. Despite the tight feeling in my chest, I was able to speak my first words with strength. "Hello, Robert. It is July 6th and I'm contacting you as I promised, but I've extended my stay in Boston. This call is to inform you that upon my return, I don't intend to give the money back unless we reach a different agreement. Let me explain why."

He tried to speak but I cut him off. "I've received no official notices from First Interstate making a legal claim to the money. And no one has explained to me why I should give it back. Everyone, except you, has advised me that the money is legally mine. I was told by a First Interstate teller that the money was safe to spend because a law protected me from it coming back after 10 days. I've been advised that, according to commercial paper law, the money became mine when First Interstate didn't serve me with a timely notice of dishonor. And that a check is not made non-negotiable by printing the words non-negotiable on the front. Now, unless we reach some other agreement, I’m going to keep the money."

I was waiting for him to scream, "I'm putting a warrant out for your arrest."

He spoke, "Where do we go from here?"

I told him how I felt, how I was being treated like a criminal, rather than a twelve-year, good customer. Pissed because my bank account was frozen. Mad because the confiscation of my automatic teller machine card forced me to have to borrow money. And most of all, outraged for being stiff-armed over the simple request for the letter. .

Gage apologized respectfully and promised to get me an official letter from First Interstate. He said he would look into trying to get my ATM card replaced and politely tried to counter my legal claims to the money. "I can appreciate the laws you’re citing," he said, "but none of them apply because what you deposited was an advertisement. Trust me, I have twenty years in banking and a law book called Brady’s on Bank Checks sits right here on my desk as a reference."

I said nothing, wondering if he was right. "And it’s understandable that First Interstate took thirty three days to dishonor it because it was an out-of-state check that had to go all the way to Chicago." I couldn’t hold back a small laugh as I pictured my check traveling between San Francisco and Chicago by horse and buggy.

My mom made tea as Robert and I spoke for half an hour. I calmly and firmly reasserted my rights and Robert politely tried to explain them away. He never made a single request of me -- he didn’t even ask when I would return to San Francisco. He never used the words ‘fraud’ or ‘criminal.’ We even found a common ground for agreement about the belief that companies who advertise using real-looking checks should be held accountable for them.

The call was over. With my arms stretched out wide, I took in a deep breath and let a smile take over my face. "Tomorrow, or the next day, they’re going to fax me the letter and this whole thing will have a happy ending." Relief washed over my mom’s face and I stood to turn off the kitchen light.

Three days later, Gage still hadn’t faxed me the letter he had promised. It was time to head back home, and my mother and I waited in Boston’s Logan airport for my flight back to San Francisco. My mother let go of her grip on my hand to wipe her eyes. "Well, I won't tell you to stop doing things like this because when you stop taking risks, life gets boring. Just keep saying your prayers and I will, too."

End of Part IV

"Wall Street Journal"

Back in San Francisco, days passed without a word from my bank. No fax. No letter. No call. No nothing. A team of their lawyers, I imagined, were working furiously, building a case against me, creating mounds and mounds of paperwork to send me to jail. On the other hand, there was a slim chance that they’d decided to write the money off as a loss, and for that reason I didn’t call them. If that was their decision, I didn’t want to mess it up. But more so, I worried more and more that the little I knew about bank check law would come back to hurt me, a lot.

My concern drove me back to the Hastings Law Library. Either my determination or a cup of coffee made the difference. This time, I was better able to decipher a lot of laws within Brady on Bank Checks that seemed to give me a legal right to the money.

I photocopied laws. I photocopied court cases, including one that held it illegal for a bank to cancel a cashier’s check. Then, just before my brain went to mush and my change ran out, a fascinating footnote caught my eye. It was about the law that makes the words ‘non-negotiable’ meaningless on a check:

1. The only problem with this approach is the use of blank sample check forms that bear language such as "void," or "non-negotiable" or "sample form" that is clearly intended to show that the particular sample or form is not intended as a valid check. Would potential liability exist if such a sample form is filled in without authority and passed to one who could take as a holder in due course? The 1990 provision might well be drafted to avoid such a possible problem.

It took me a couple of reads to realize that the author of Brady on Bank Checks saw my junk check snafu coming. I noted from the back of the book that both the authors of Brady were once professors at Willamette University. I called Willamette’s Law School as soon as I got home.

"Williamette Law School. How may I help you?" said a woman’s voice.

"I’m calling for Henry Bailey."

"I’m sorry, Mr. Bailey has retired."

"Oh, then could I please speak to Richard Hagedorn?"

"Mr. Hagedorn is on vacation for the week. Can I take a message?"

I didn’t have a week to spare. As far as I knew, the bank was going to attack me any day now. I was about to give up in frustration when an idea popped into my head.

"Is Henry enjoying his retirement?"

"Yes, he is," came the reply in a warm voice.

"As a matter of fact, he still keeps in touch with us on occasion."

"I bet he retired to the beautiful state of Oregon. I'm from Oregon myself."

"No, actually he retired in Providence, Rhode Island."

Within seconds, directory assistance was giving me a phone number for Henry Bailey in Providence, Rhode Island.

My orange cat sat on my keyboard, demanding my attention as I dialed the number and let the phone ring. Hobbit purred and drooled as the ringing continued in my ear. As my mind drifted onto the cat’s tenacious, never-ending attempts to be on the keyboard whenever I worked, I forgot I was even on the phone listening to ring after ring after ring. An elderly woman’s voice snapped me out of my trance. I asked for Henry Bailey. She said, "Just a minute," and then the phone connection was lost. I tried calling back right away, but there was no answer no matter how many times I let it ring.

I phoned again the next day and after twenty or so rings, an elderly man answered gruffly, sounding like an angry Sean Connery. "Who is this?!…What are you calling about?! …Who are you?!!" He bombarded me with questions but left only enough time for one-word answers. "Are you a lawyer?!…Are you a banker?!…Are you with the press?!…Then why are you calling me?!"

I tried to explain that I was calling because of a problem he had foreseen and footnoted, but he didn’t seem to care - until I mentioned the UCC code about the words ‘non-negotiable.’ There was a sudden focus and a calm in Mr. Bailey’s voice.

"Yes, I wrote about that problem in Brady and I published an article about it in Banking Law Journal. It was never like that in the 1962 code."

"I deposited an advertising check and…"

Henry cut me off before I could utter another word, and he was angry again. "Well, it sounds like you weren't being very honorable."

"I deposited it because I thought my bank would never accept it, but they did."

"Well, that doesn't necessarily make you a holder in due course. Did the check have a name on it?" he said, becoming almost civil again.

"Yes, sir, it had my name on it," I replied.

"Your name!" My answer surprised him. "Hmm. Well, did it have a signature on it?"

"Yes, sir, an authorized signature and an account number," I said with confidence, as I let my cat back down onto the floor.

"It did!" he said in bliss. "Well, these dummies deserve it! Was this check an advertisement?"

"Yes! That's exactly what it was!"

"Oh, this sounds good!" I could hear the delight in his voice. Henry Bailey was out of retirement. "How much was it for?"

"Ninety five thousand."

"Oh, this sounds really good."

He went on asking for details. When was I notified? Who notified me? When did I deposit the check? "Well, if your bank delayed that long, you need to get a lawyer, because you have a legal claim to that money. Your bank has to meet a midnight deadline." Then he cited a lot of court cases, and added, "Get a lawyer son because that money is legally yours. And don’t get one of those lawyers on TV - the ones who chase ambulances! You need a lawyer who knows bank check law."

I liked Henry Bailey, liked his fire. I offered him a compliment. "I appreciate your having co-written a law book so well that even I could understand it, Mr. Bailey."

"I didn't write it to be used by laymen. I wrote it to be used by bankers and lawyers," he shot back.

Henry had the last word. He said he was glad I had called to tell him.

Having received my advice straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, I felt certain about my legal claim to the $95,000. But still I worried about a legal fight with an angry bank. I figured that even if I did use the $95,000 to defend myself, it would be like firing a water gun against the bank’s fire hose.

After about a week of worry, I remembered my friend Scott Edelstein’s suggestion that I had a news story on my hands. Originally, I took his comment as flattery. Now, it seemed like a good defense. I figured the bank would not pick a fight with me if the news was watching. At the same time though, I worried a news story might make me look bad. I even imagined the headline - "Motivational Speaker Bilks Bank for $95,000." I knew already that some people found the idea of depositing the check in the first place as immoral. I couldn’t decide whether or not to tell my story to a newspaper.

I took my friend Gary for a pizza to see what he thought. We sat at a booth near the window that looked out onto Irving Street, where orange and white Muni trains rolled by regularly. He rushed pizza into his mouth, his eyes widening as I spoke of possibly telling my story to the media.

"They might paint you as a criminal, but they might not. Either way, this story could spread like wildfire," he said while swallowing a mouthful of crust. "I could see the whole city talking about this dude."

"Yeah, maybe, everyone loves this story. But what about my reputation?"

"The thing is, you’re not a criminal. You didn’t do anything wrong."

"Right. Right. But nobody’s gonna think that if the newspaper makes me seem like a criminal."

"That’s the risk you’d be taking," Gary said, before taking a gulp of his cola. "But most people don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, right?"

"But do newspapers think like most people?"

"I don’t know, but don’t bring fraud up and they probably won’t either."

I picked up my glass and took a gulp of cold water. "Inevitably, they’re going to ask me what I’m going to do with the money. That’s what everyone asks, so I’ve got an idea."

"Run it by me."

"How about I say that when the bank gives me the letter, I’m going to give the money back to the bank with the condition they donate every cent to charity."

"That’s a good idea, but I’ve got a better one. Ready for this?" Scott perked his eyebrows. Just then, our server, a young woman with a pierced nose and her hair tinted green interrupted us.

"Sorry to disturb you. You look like you’re plotting to take over the world or something - but do you guys want anything else?"

Quickly we declined and got back to our conversation, but now Gary spoke more softly. "You’ve got to leave the reporter guessing. Just conclude with the fact that you’ve got the money in a safe deposit box and the law in your favor -- reveal nothing else. That forces a story with an ending, leaving everyone wondering and fantasizing about what they’d do if it was them."

His idea was genius. But I shuddered over how easily it could backfire.

"A lot of people will assume I’m going to keep it, and hate me for it."

"Maybe, but with a story like that, a heck of a lot of people will be on your side."

I left the pizza parlor, walking west toward my apartment. I was in my own world, unaware of the people I was passing, swirling with fantasies about a big news story and fears about it backfiring. The fact that a paper might not even want the story didn’t cross my mind. By the end of the eight-block walk, I envied Gary’s position: able to live vicariously through me and getting to think up the wild ideas without having to execute them. As I unlocked my door, I doubted my willingness to phone a reporter.

Throughout the week, friends cautioned me not to call the news. Michelle said, "I told Amy that you might call the paper and she said, ‘This isn’t the kind of story he should be proud of. He doesn’t get it - the whole thing makes him look really bad.’" The insult made me feel awful. If that’s how an acquaintance felt, total strangers would probably judge me even harsher. This insecurity, along with the fear I had about my bank attacking me, made for a lousy week.

By Friday, I needed some kind of getaway. I crossed the city to Ocean Beach. It would end up being my best day of the entire year. I walked along two miles of coast listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Lucky Town CD on my DiscMan. I saw the sparkles that appear in the sand moments before the ocean returns to the sea. Dogs ran past me, chasing waves. Hang gliders passed over my head. A state of peacefulness I had not felt since May 19th washed over me.

As I walked barefoot on the beach, I tried to decide what the check incident meant to my life. Was it the universe’s way of giving me the money I needed? A chance to change the law about junk checks? None of the possibilities grabbed me, but the more I breathed in the peaceful salty air, the more I realized I could trust my feeling that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I should call the newspapers. If people judged me differently after the article, it would be because they're different people with different values and different fears. It wouldn’t mean I was wrong.

It was July 13th. I decided to give my story to the Wall Street Journal. I wanted a paper with prestige, rather than something like the Enquirer. I figured that a highly-credible paper would be my best chance at looking legitimate.

I discovered the Wall Street Journal had a San Francisco bureau. A woman answered the phone, and I asked if I could speak to a reporter who writes features, explaining I might have a great story.

"What is it?" she asked. I figured that I would need to sell her on my story before she'd put me through to one of the reporters, so I launched into a brisk and upbeat telling. When I finished she said, "That's a great story! I'd love to write it. Hmmm, there's one consideration though. If we run this story, there's going to be a lot of people who will try to copy what you did. Let me think about that, and I'll ask my editor if I can take this assignment. Call me tomorrow. I'm Sharon Massey."

Hobbit was again sitting on the keyboard. "Hobbit, you handsome orange hairball, if the Wall Street Journal wants to give me a maybe, let’s give the story to the New York Times!" I was swept up in confidence and anxious to get a paper to cover my story. I called the Times but I couldn’t get past the receptionist, who told me she’d give my message to a reporter. Suddenly, I was motivated by a worry that my chance with the Wall Street Journal might slip away. I gathered my photocopies of the check and the laws, and I jumped into my car.

The San Francisco office of the Journal is located on the 11th floor of a skyscraper one block from where my cashier's check was locked safely away. I took the elevator and exited into a tiny modest lobby with a hanging silver Wall Street Journal logo. I asked the receptionist behind the desk if I could speak to Sharon Massey. She placed a quick call. "Have a seat and she'll be out in a minute." I sat down on the black couch and began looking over the current edition of the Journal sitting on the coffee table in front of me. I had never actually read the paper before. Seeing nothing but business stories perplexed me. I was trying to figure out what kind of paper it was when Sharon came around the corner. With a friendly smile, she extended her hand. I stood and gave her a small stack of photocopies. "I brought you all these -- the junk mail letter, laws, and my ATM slips -- so that you can see it all for yourself."

She stood there grazing through the papers, and I stood there worrying she wouldn’t go for it.

"This is a really fun story. I'm going to do it," she announced.

My reply came out before I could stop it. "Then I won't call The New York Times back."

"Don't talk to them. This is my story! I'm just waiting for our lawyers in New York to give me the okay on it. Don't give the Times my story. Promise?" she asked. It was the easiest promise I’d ever made. Only an hour before, I was worried they would reject my story, and now they were afraid to lose it. I went to the window, spread my arms out wide, and soared home. When I landed, I called a few friends and told them they’d be reading my story in the Wall Street Journal any day now.

End of Part V

"The Internet"

The next day, Thursday, I anxiously wanted to hear how Sharon’s write-up of the story had turned out, but she didn't call. Friday, several of my friends bought the Journal expecting to see my story, but it wasn’t there. At 3 p.m., I phoned Sharon. "She has gone home for the weekend." I was told.

"What the heck’s wrong with this lady, Hobbit? Does she want this story or not? Maybe we will give it to the Times!" Hobbit jumped off the desk, flicking his tail, annoyed.

Monday morning, I called Sharon again. She hadn't heard back from New York but she told me not to worry. "I'll call them this afternoon and get a reply. They should have answered by now." Hobbit slept through the call. She never phoned back.

Tuesday at noon, I called again. "Patrick, I was just going to call you. New York approved the story! They like it a lot," she said. "I’ll call and interview you on Friday." I thought our first call was the interview, but I let that fact slide.

"Hobbit, my furry-footed friend, just as sure as you’ll keep getting up

[Q-less]

Thanks Heavy for getting me interested in the first few 'chapters' then spending hours getting to the end. I had to finish what I started to read. Way to long....and I thought it was current news and was further diasappointed when I realized it happened back in the OJ days. Entertaining though

[gabossie]

Yeah, I read the whole thing too. New news or old news, it was entertaining and a good read.

[Zydeco]

I know, it sucked me in to. I though it was goin to be like 1 or 2 pages. Intsted it like 12.

[Q-less]

Didn't mean to sound harsh on you heavy, rather the dumbarse that did that and couldn't sum it up with 2 pages. Yeah the paypal sticky was tacky

[574-240sx]

I read all ten sections. Very good story. I would have kept the money and countered with a suit asking for that same letter he recieved at the end.

[Rockenreno]

man, that's hilarious... too bad it took me about an hour to read, haha.

[180crafter]

Thank you poor man, but wheere the rest??

[Rockenreno]

Thank you poor man, but wheere the rest??

RTFA!

[HashiriyaS14]

I had to go to the site to finish reading the entire thing, but it's awesome.

He was a very smart guy every step of the way, avoiding any trouble like that.

[180crafter]

RTFA!

Humma?? No comprende???

[Rockenreno]

Read The F'ing Article

[180crafter]

Read The F'ing Article

Thats not nice..... I cant. I use NICO at work and the firewalls wont let me... So take your ballbaggery somewhere else...

[Rockenreno]

I have nowhere else to take my ballbaggery

Just read it from home...

[180crafter]

If I could I would.

[PoorManQ45]

Sorry about that, here's the rest of the article:

"Final Chapter"

At 9 a.m., I woke, instantly realizing the ridiculousness of my late night plan. As I prepared to return the money, there were already a few messages on my voice mail. "Hey Patrick, Marshall and Maxwell in Baltimore. We read you're returning the money. What a disappointment." It sucked to hear. They had once called me their hero. But their change in attitude didn't really surprise me. I knew returning the money would be unpopular.

The other messages were from news agencies that hoped to meet me at the bank for interviews and footage. I returned their calls and invited them.

I wrote out two checks that I needed to give the bank: one for the $175 necessary to close my negative balance account, and another for $65 because I felt it was important to also return the interest that I'd accrued on the $95,000. Then, before watching the jury's verdict on O.J. Simpson, I couldn't resist writing in the top, right-hand corner of each check, "non-negotiable."

Then I glued myself to the TV. "We the jury, find Mr. Orenthal James Simpson not guilty." The verdict stunned me. The drama of it all made me heavy and tired. I dragged myself off the couch and out the door to First Interstate's downtown branch. Before signing the agreement, I needed to see for myself if First Interstate had left my check in my safe deposit box.

I walked into my bank. It was more awe-inspiring and beautiful than I had remembered. I had recalled the ivory columns, gold trim and marble floors, but I had forgotten the panoramic oil paintings of old clipper ships. Classy. And expensive. No lack of money here.

A smiling woman behind the counter asked how she could help me.

"I'd like to access my safe deposit box."

"Sure," she said, her green eyes twinkling.

"What is your name?"

"Patrick Combs."

Her expression fell dramatically. Like when a mime turns a smile into a frown by wiping his hand down across his face.

"I'm sorry. What's your name?"

"Patrick Combs."

"C-o-m-b-s?" she clarified.

I nodded.

"Just a minute," I heard her say.

She spun away from me and headed in a sprinted walk toward a woman on the other side of the bank.

The second woman took one look at me and picked up the phone. I waited. And took pleasure in the most important moments my bank had ever made me feel. Then, exactly three minutes later, according to the clock on the wall, two blue suits with dark-shaded ties came purposefully through the bank's glass door toward me. It was hard to tell them apart except the bulkier one wore gold-rimmed sunglasses. Grabbing on the edge on the counter, I panicked momentarily with the idea that these two might each grab an arm and escort me briskly out the front door and kick my *** in the alley.

"Mr. Combs, we didn't expect you for another hour, but nonetheless, it is nice to meet you. I'm Paul, the branch manager here," said the shadeless man with a friendly smile.

"I'm Jack, from First Interstate's Risk Management department," said the other.

While the two of them were distinctly calm, the woman who had made the call stood by looking visibly nervous.

"So what now, guys?" I asked, trying to discern their intentions.

"We understand you want to access your security box, so let's get you in there," the branch manager replied, still smiling.

The woman and two suits formed a circle around me and we headed to the vault without a sound. Except shoes clacking on the polished, marble floors. Maybe they were going to shoot me in the vault, I joked to myself. Tension crawled up the back of my neck.

All four of us just fit inside the vault of brushed, stainless steel boxes. Even the floors and ceilings were steel. I gazed around at all the boxes. I fantasized peeking in each one. Who knew what they contained? Money, gold, jewels, heirlooms, and stock notes for sure, but also family photographs, love notes, and quite possibly contraband like drugs, guns, and stolen company secrets. I wondered if my box held the most money.

"Mr. Combs? Patrick?"

I looked around for my box. Only one had two red dots covering the gold keyholes. The woman pried out the small inserts and inserted her skeleton key, then mine. She slid out the long, slim box and stepped back against the wall to give me room to open it. The sunglasses man, standing between me and door, made it clear that I was to open the box in the vault. I touched the lid, sure the bank manager was about to say, "You'll notice the check is no longer there. We confiscated it. You can take the matter to court if you wish, but it was within our rights." Or maybe he had put in one of those springy snakes that pops out when you open the top. Instead, my cashier's check was sitting exactly like I'd left it, folded in half. The guy in the e-mail was wrong. I still had the ninety-five thousand dollars. I picked it up to eye level and gave it a long look. So real. So pretty with its fine red- and green-lined background. I scanned it for an expiration date. None. I'm so rich, I thought, and slipped the check back into the box.

"Are you going to return the check now and relinquish the box?" the man behind the sunglasses demanded.

"No."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean not right now."

"I'm going to sign the settlement agreement first."

"Bernard Meyers says you must return the check and relinquish the box first."

My bank had yet to be nice to me about this check. It was too easy to picture them getting the check and then refusing to sign the settlement agreement.

"Then I need to speak with Mr. Meyers personally. Please point me to a phone."

I exited the vault and used a phone in the bank. "Mr. Meyers, I’m being asked to close out my safe deposit box and give back the check when we haven’t signed our agreement yet. Why’s that?"

"You have to do that before we sign the agreement."

"I'll close the box Mr. Meyers, but I'll only return the check to you, and after we've signed our agreement."

Bernard paused.

"Well, we don't want you leaving the bank with the check."

"Well, I'm only going to do this one way Bernard, so you'll have to trust me."

Bernard paused again.

"Okay, close out your box and bring me the check."

I returned to my safe deposit box, accompanied by Mr. Mirrored Glasses, took the check, and turned over the keys. Then I approached the branch manager.

"I've turned over my keys and relinquished my box."

"Good. Thank you," he said. "And now you'll be returning the check?"

The man from Risk Management was standing silently by my side. As far as he was concerned we were now attached at the waist.

"Yes, I'm headed over there now."

"Great," he said, noticing my eyebrows raised in a way that suggested I had a need.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Hopefully. First Interstate has a policy that I have always loved: a $5 service guarantee that if the bank makes a mistake, all the customer has to do to get $5 is ask. It has kept me happy on many occasions when the automatic bank machine was broken."

He looked at me, his eyebrows raised in question.

"Well, the bank told me the $95,000 was mine to spend, but I'm going to return all the money today, so could I get $5 for that mistake?" I found it hard to get the words out. I knew it bordered on being a smartass. However, the branch manager didn't blink an eye. "I'm sorry," he said with apparent sincerity, "we cancelled that service a year ago. You'll notice we took down the Service Guarantee sign."

"Oh, dang. Well, thank you," I replied, turning to leave. As I passed through the heavy, brass-framed glass doors, I couldn't help but think it was probably a smart, financial move for a bank as stupid as First Interstate.

I headed back to Bernard's office with ninety-five thousand in my pocket. The sidewalk under my feet, slate gray with sparkles, could have been a red carpet. Within minutes, I'd be giving up the hundred grand in my pocket. Maybe I would regret it. The bank wasn't going to be grateful. I wanted a little credit for holding onto the money, for negotiating its return, for coming forward nice and polite, but it wasn't likely to happen.

I turned the corner and stepped onto the brick plaza in front of the reddish-brown skyscraper. A man from the Associated Press, with camera equipment slung all over him, was waiting. We hung out in the lobby downstairs for fifteen minutes in case any of the other six reporters were going to show. None did. The O.J. verdict captured all the news.

At 1:29 p.m., the photographer and I headed for the 25th floor. We didn't make it to the elevator. A lobby guard, skinny and uniformed in a maroon blazer, stopped us. "You cannot go up with a photographer, unless you have permission."

"I'll call Mr. Meyers," I said to the photographer. "But I don't think he's going to go for it."

I used a pay phone. "Bernard, I'm downstairs with the check. I've got an excellent publicity opportunity. How about a picture of us making friends? There's a photographer from the Associated Press here with me. He wants to take a photo of me giving you the check. Is it okay with you, Bernard?"

Bernard gave a polite no. "Thank you for thinking of us, Patrick, but we'll decline."

"The photographer said to tell you it'll look bad for the bank if the photo is just of me with a caption that says, First Interstate Denies Any Photos."

"Well, he's welcome to take all the pictures he wants outside of the building, but he has to stay outside."

The photographer suggested we take some photographs on the plaza. He posed me in front of a large First Interstate logo adorning a polished marble wall. He crouched to snap, as I stood smiling. From my right, the thin and wiry lobby guard came yelling with his walking-talkie raised like weapon. "Hey! Get out! You do not have permission to take pictures here!" He leaped into the camera's line of fire, and the photographer went into rapid fire shooting mode. I held my pose and kept smiling. This would be a very funny photo. The lobby guard lunged toward the photographer who leapt backwards just in time to avoid a swipe from the walkie-talkie. "You can't hit me, man! You can't touch me! I'm on public property!"

The guard called for backup. The photographer kept shooting until I waved him to stop, and then told him I'd have to go upstairs without him. He said he had the photos he needed and left.

I strained my neck up. The skyscraper loomed large and unkind, as I imagined executives occupying the top floors who wouldn't show an ounce of gratitude for what I was about to do. Nevertheless, I would have my moment. Returning the money would be huge for me. I'd be able to tell my grandchildren, "Always do the right thing. I once returned a million dollars."

I entered the building and nervously rode the elevator to Meyers' office.

The familiarity of Bernard Meyers' face felt reassuring. Our last meeting had seemed friendly. We sat down again at a conference room table to settle our FICAL matter. Without much ado, he produced the agreement and we both signed it. Then, I gave him the $95,093.35 cashier's check. He said a quiet thank you.

"Thank you," I returned.

It was all but over. After four and a half months.

"Did you bring the check to close out your account?"

"Yes, and a check to return the interest earned while it was in my account for a month."

Mr. Meyers' eyes darted to examine the sincerity of mine.

"Thank you," he said again.

He took the checks from my extended hand. As he examined them, I held my breath. Bernard tilted his head toward the words "non-negotiable," then began shaking it side to side. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick... This is a problem... This is a problem...What are we going to do here?"

My lungs released their air as my cheeks fought off a large smile. "Don't worry, Mr. Meyers. The words 'non-negotiable' on the face of a check doesn't invalidate it. It's still a perfectly legal instrument. That's my point."

"You are a piece of work," he muttered, looking at me as if he had a headache coming on. I handed him a copy of the law that backed my assertion.

"I hope you brought your checkbook because law or no law, if the bank were to reject these checks, it would really be a problem. A big problem," he said.

"I'll gladly cross out the words and initial the change. Just a friendly reminder that junk mail solicitors are your real problem."

"I'm looking into it. Now please cross 'non-negotiable' out with three lines," he said, as his face readjusted with relief.

Our settlement was done. But I held out one last hope.

"Bernard, I have one last hope."

"What's that?"

"I really hoped that First Interstate would give me $5 since it made the mistake of telling me the money was mine to spend. It's such a tiny amount to ask for in light of how much I just gave back. Do you think there's any way you could help me get my $5?"

The right side of Bernard's face cracked into a warm grin. He produced a five dollar bill from his wallet.

"Here. I'd say you earned it based on tenacity alone."

Bernard's compliment and gesture thrilled me and reminded me about my last planned step. I reached into my bag and produced two copies of my book, Major in Success. "They're for your daughters in college. My way of saying thank you for helping me resolve this matter. I signed them."

Bernard's pleasant smile slipped back to looking disingenuous. "You are very thoughtful Patrick. It's a most gracious offer, but I must decline. Thank you, though. I have seen your book and although I haven't read it all, it does look very good."

We got up from the table and walked to the elevator lobby. The elevator arrived quickly.

"Patrick, I hope you won't encourage other people to deposit junk checks. It could get a lot of people in trouble. You didn't spend the money. Other people might not be so smart. Plus, it's problematic for banks."

"I won't. I assure you," I said sincerely. "Thank you again."

The elevator doors then separated me from the last contact I would have with a First Interstate employee. A week later, First Interstate would be bought out by Wells Fargo, and in large part, disappear. In the banking trade journal, Institutional Investor, the headline would read, "Tip to Wells Fargo: Offer a phony $10 billion check."

I rotated through the revolving doors and stepped out onto the brick plaza. Nobody stood waiting to interview me, to ask me how I felt. I would have told them I felt good, light on my feet and victorious for having in-hand a letter people said I couldn't get. But I also felt like something was missing, maybe because I'd just won a contest but gave away the prize. I had no ribbon, no cash award, no merit badge, nothing tangible to show for my victory. Nor did I receive any praise for having done the right thing. I felt inside the pocket of my jean jacket where only minutes before a check for $95,000 had rested. There was nothing there now but a five dollar bill and a clean conscience. A good feeling, yes, but I'd need a little time to fully appreciate it. A good conscience was a subtle feeling.

I proceeded to walk along the busy sidewalk wondering if this was how people felt after descending from a mountain they'd successfully climbed. Triumphant, but a little lost, needing some time to adjust to the flat-lands. The letter in my hand would go straight into a box in the garage, but getting it had been really living.

"My dog wants a sex change. Please help," read a cardboard sign in the hands of a man sitting against the wall, with a mutt at his side.

I stopped and laughed. "Good one! Hey, may the pup's dream come true," I said, pulling out the five dollars, and handing it down.

"Thanks a lot buddy," the man said smiling.

"My pleasure," I yelled as I continued on my way.

My car was parked near a cafe. At a nearby table on the sidewalk, a person sat reading the San Francisco Examiner. My eyes couldn't help but notice two headlines. One that said, "O.J. NOT GUILTY." Another that said, "95,000 of Fun, Coming To An End."

[Q-less]

Hey, you skipped like 4 chapters. If you gonna do it....do it right!!JK

no really, do it right

[AZhitman]

Classic - I got a stomachache from giggling through this story.

Good stuff. Worth the long read.

[cybin]

*

[PalmerWMD]

Awesome read!

Fred..

[180crafter]

Thanks poorman. It was pretty good. I cant beleive he gave the money back though.

[ArticDragon192]

Good read. That;s freaking awesome though, even though he gave the money back.

[Zydeco]

The guy need to retitle his story. if the kept the money it would work, but he didnt.

[240marcuSX]

it sucks to start reading that at work, almost got myself into trouble, great story though, but i wouldve fought for the money, f my reputation

[T_love]

Wow, i can't beleive i actually read the whole thing. Well worth the read