But not for long.
Chapter 2
I Got Nothing
I promised myself to cut off all contact for the week I’m in Mexico, and it’s a promise I keep. Holding to it isn’t that hard. Most of my friendships were work related, emphasis on the were, and the others are not people I need to keep in touch with on a regular basis.
So I cut off all ties and I sit in the sun and read books on my Kindle and plan for what’s to come. I eat my meals alone and drink alone and sleep alone. I run six miles on the beach every morning. The first day I puke at the end of it. The last day, I’m laughing even though my body aches all over. It’s beautiful and restorative, a hiatus.
I take the shuttle to the airport.
I avoid the airport bar.
I keep my phone off even as I reenter civilization.
My resolve remains in place up to the moment I’m back in my closet-like room in my Greenwich Village apartment. I sit in the middle of my one luxury—a queen-size bed that touches the walls on either side—plug in my phone, and hold it in my hands like I’m praying.
“Here goes nothing,” I say to precisely no one. The large canvas on the wall that’s the only decoration in the room—a bold watercolor in sea hues that changes with the light—doesn’t answer me. It never does.
I press the power button. My phone takes a moment to react, rebooting, installing some interminable software update.
The home screen loads.
For a blessed moment, my in-box remains empty, and no notifications appear. This feels impossible. At the very least, there should be hundreds of emails from J.Crew and for period-proof underwear. But there’s nothing. I can’t believe it. Keeping my phone was part of my deal when I left my job. Did they cut me off?
After a moment of panic, I realize what the problem is. I put my phone in airplane mode before I switched it off. I toggle the setting and shake my phone for good measure. Emails and texts start to flood in. I scan through them. They’re mostly what I expected: 40 percent off clothing and threats to my life. But then the notifications from my bank start, one by one by one.
I’ve withdrawn money.
I’ve withdrawn money.
I’ve withdrawn all my money.
Your spending is much higher than typical.
That was five days ago.
After I calm down, I spend a bit of time poking around online trying to figure out what happened, and then I go to my bank. I wait in line for twenty minutes, only to be told by the teller that she can’t help me with “my problem” and that I’ll need to wait to speak to a manager. She can’t tell me how long that’s going to be, but if I’ll wait over there, they’ll call me when one’s available. Would I like coffee or tea?
I sit in the waiting room, trying not to seethe at the casual way I’m being treated. Having your bank account drained isn’t something most people would take in stride. It’s even worse when the account in question contains your hard-won six-figure severance package.
Until about a month ago, I was the senior investigative reporter at FeedNews, the second-largest online news source with the number one spot in its sights. I got that position after my series on life inside a cult and the lawsuit that resulted after its leader died helped propel us to that status.
This past winter, I was assigned a piece on life as an intern in the state legislature. When I was doing the background research, I found this great first-person account someone had written years ago that no one had read (based on the number of likes and page views), and—there’s no way to say this that makes me look like anything other than a horrible person—I lifted it and passed it off as my own. There’s no defense to this. I had a lot on my mind at the time, and for good measure, or bad, I added in a few details about an up-and-coming congressman from a famous family that I knew were true but that I didn’t have any double-sourced proof for. It got a lot of attention and, shortly thereafter, led to the end of that congressman’s career.
Then, a couple of weeks later, I got caught. This guy, James, who used to work at FeedNews and who never liked me, published a takedown article exposing what I’d done.
The story about my story blew up.
I got pilloried. I got fired. But I also got a six-figure severance package because the head of the assignment desk is a piece of shit who’d been sending me lewd emails for years. I told his boss about it and blamed my moment of weakness on the stress that he’d caused me. I had #MeToo-type evidence to back it up, years of emails I’d kept in a folder called “asshole” in case I needed them. They “leaked” to the media, and that blew the story up even more. Interestingly, the calls for my death and dismemberment increased when that detail got out. Nothing makes an internet misogynist angrier than a woman making money off the misdeeds of another man.
Twitter was ablaze; the talking heads talked, talked, talked; and I stayed away from the pits of Reddit and 4Chan. In the end, I got them to throw in the vacation to Mexico because of the death threats. At that point, they would’ve bought me a Tesla to get the story to die down, but I don’t have a parking space.
And now, I don’t have the money either.
Somewhere, someone is laughing.
“How did this happen?” I ask the bank manager an hour later when I’m finally brought into her office. She has frizzy brown hair and is wearing glasses that are two sizes too big for her face. She introduces herself as Dolores.
“Most of the money has been removed from your account.”
“I know that part.” Someone had made two $1,000 withdrawals from ATMs, then wired $240,000 out of the account. I can’t tell where to from my online statements. “What I want to know is how they did it.”
Dolores taps at a keyboard that looks like it escaped the 1980s. “Your bank card and PIN were used at the ATMs.”
“They must’ve had a cloned bank card ready to go and then figured out my PIN.”
“They?”
“The person who stole my money.”
She looks at me over the top of her glasses. Her eyes are watery and dark. “You know who stole your money?”
“I have my suspicions.”
“Did you give that person your bank card and tell them your PIN?”
“Of course not. But it’s not that hard to clone a card, from what I understand.”
“Perhaps.” She looks at her screen again, then back at me. “Your PIN could be stronger.”
“Noted. What about the online transfer?”
“You must’ve shared your account numbers and passwords.”
“Again, no.”
“You seem upset, ma’am.”
“Someone drained my bank account and you seem to be blaming me.”
“We have to verify for fraud.”
“So, verify,” I say. “All of the money was withdrawn last week, right?”
“Yes.”
“I was in Mexico then, which I can prove. Did the withdrawals originate at ATMs in Mexico?”
“No.”
“So, it wasn’t me. What about the online transfer? Where did that come from?”
She blinks, slowly.
“Perhaps the answers are in your computer,” I prompt.
“Oh yes.” Dolores pecks away again. “Ah.”