The con queen of hollywo.., p.1
The Con Queen of Hollywood, page 1
Dedication
For my mother, Lee
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Part I: The Quarry
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part II: The Outlaw
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part III: The Entity
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
In the spring of 2018, I received a tip about a case of identity theft in Hollywood: an imposter was running amok around town, co-opting the identities of prominent female executives. A corporate security firm in New York, K2 Intelligence, was looking into it. At first, I didn’t think the tip would amount to much; Hollywood was rife with petty scams, and I didn’t expect this one to be much different.
Then I began speaking to people who had been swept up in the scam, and a very different picture started to take shape. People who had encountered the imposter described an operation that was far more elaborate and sinister than I could have imagined. In the story that resulted from that initial burst of reporting, “Hunting the Con Queen of Hollywood,” I recounted the hunt for an elusive criminal gang and the disturbing female impersonation at its center, operating from within a matrix of online obscurity, stealing identities from the rich and famous to bilk money from the dreamers of the world. The story included two short recordings of the Con Queen in action. I was inundated with messages, tips, and leads. One of those set me on the journey of discovery that led to this book.
Over the following three years, I interviewed dozens of people who had come into contact with the Con Queen, from family members and childhood acquaintances to victims, private investigators, federal law enforcement officials, and lawyers. Eventually I met the mysterious figure behind the mask. I traveled across the United States, to Europe and eventually to Southeast Asia, tracking the Con Queen’s movements and tracing the development of a fascinating and troubled criminal mind.
IN MOST CASES, THE DIALOGUE that appears in this book is taken directly from recordings, videos, emails, journals, and photographs from people who had direct access to the Con Queen, or from recordings of the Con Queen provided to me by victims or investigators. In a few rare instances I have re-created dialogue based on extensive interviews with victims who were recalling events they experienced. Wherever possible, I use the real names of people I interviewed. I have offered a few individuals the mask of anonymity, providing them with an alias and noting the cover as such in the text. I also obtained several hundred pages of court records and police investigations from California, Illinois, and Nevada as well as the United Kingdom and Indonesia. Finally, I relied heavily on the many hours I spent talking to the Con Queen, both in person and by telephone.
The research and writing of this book led me in unexpected and sometimes troubling directions as a journalist and a human being, becoming in the process an inquiry into the nature of deception.
Part I
The Quarry
Nibble, nibble, where’s the mouse?
Who’s that nibbling at my house?
—The Brothers Grimm, “Hansel and Gretel”
Chapter 1
The Drone Operator
On the afternoon it all began, on a fall day in 2017, Will Strathmann stood in a field in eastern Nebraska, south of Omaha. The sky was overcast; it was one of those dreary, midwestern fall days that threatened heavy rain but delivered only drizzle, when clouds trembled with gray-white fissures that wouldn’t break open until they hit the Great Divide, far off to the west. Will stood underneath the canopy of a large oak tree whose leaves were beginning to turn gold and orange, and like a hunter he watched his quarry, a stone-walled building in a muddy construction pit that was to be the seat of some foundation or other. He had set up a slider to which he’d affixed two tripods with cameras for a twenty-minute reveal time lapse. His boss on this commercial shoot, Deren Abram, who ran a production company from Denver, was tending to engineers elsewhere, and Will had some time to himself. The wind was gentle on his face, and while the apertures gawped and the autumn light flowed in, he reached into his pocket to check his email. Someone named Amy Pascal had written to him. The name sounded vaguely familiar, so he googled it. Ah, he chuckled, that Amy Pascal, the Hollywood producer of The Post, Spiderman: Homecoming, and scores of other movies. Pascal was perhaps most famous as the primary victim of the 2014 Sony hack, in which her private email correspondence was leaked.
Could she call him?
His phone chirped. After introducing herself, Amy Pascal got to the point. She told Will she had sought him out because she was looking for a “dark horse DP,” a director of photography. Will was eager, of course, to hear more, but he was on a shoot at the moment, and short on time. Could they speak that night? Sure, sure, Pascal told him.
“Do you know Amy Pascal?” he asked Deren later when they were seated in the SUV they’d rented, rolling north toward their hotel.
“Yeah,” Deren said. He had worked in Hollywood for years. He’d even met Pascal once, at a party.
“I just got off the phone with her,” Will said.
“No, you didn’t,” his boss said.
That night, Pascal told Will that she was developing an idea for a television show for Netflix. Pascal’s vision was dreamy and compelling, and it appealed to what Will found most exciting about photography: culture wasn’t locked inside storied monuments or cherished tourist sites. Truth was best extracted from unobserved corners. They bonded over the idea that it was in these overlooked places that gems of understanding might slip into view, like quiet but welcome intruders. As a framework for the show, she had in mind a children’s book, JonArno Lawson’s Sidewalk Flowers. Published in 2015, and illustrated with poignant drawings, it told the story of a young girl who finds and distributes flowers—to a dead bird, a homeless person—and in so doing reanimates a drab world with color and meaning. Pascal wanted to highlight a female perspective; the story’s young female protagonist would be a proxy for the viewer. She wanted a partner who was talented and hungry, someone who loved exploring the world and appreciated the challenge of working in a strange and perhaps even unsettling foreign land, a land like Indonesia, a rich and fascinating culture unfamiliar to most Americans where she wanted to set the travel show she had in mind. She had studied Will’s portfolio, and thought they would make a great team.
During college, Will had studied Buddhist philosophy in Dharamshala, India, for a year. One day he found himself in Varanasi, India’s holiest city, sitting near the statues of the cremation gods watching as pilgrimaging families carted their dead to the sacred ovens, their ashes destined for the currents of the holy Ganges River, which flowed nearby. When he returned to the United States, he abandoned a notion he’d nurtured for a while of becoming a clinical psychologist, and devoted himself instead to photography.
Will couldn’t help but feel that this opportunity had been tailor-made for him.
Amy Pascal had a blunt and disconcerting way about her, Will thought, and she hinted at things he didn’t fully grasp. The tone wasn’t sexual, exactly, but it veered awfully close. She asked how he felt about working with powerful women. He fumbled, and then felt bad about fumbling, not entirely sure why. She sensed his hesitation, almost before he sensed it himself. She called him “darling” and “honey.” By the end of the first phone call, they were on a first-name basis. “The business Amy is very different from the personal Amy,” she murmured.
“How’s it going with Amy?” Deren asked the next day.
“Good,” said Will. “Weird.”
He told Deren about the job, the odd questions and the tone—he wasn’t sure if it was suggestive, necessarily—in which Amy had posed them. Harvey Weinstein, the lecherous Hollywood producer accused of raping women, was all over the newspapers. Who was to say Amy wasn’t the same breed of cat?
“Just don’t go into a locked room with her,” Deren joked.
Then Will showed his boss the emails Amy had sent from what appeared to be her work account: amyp@pascalfilms.com. Deren shrugged. It was a little unusual, he said, but the documentation seemed legit.
“It would be hard to turn down this kind of opportunity,” he said.
Will agreed. It would be hard to turn down. Too hard. “Whatever you do,” Deren added, “don’t go out of pocket.”
Amy had what seemed to Will a rich and deeply nuanced appreciation of Indonesian culture and history, which Amy felt would be the ideal setting for an adventure travel show. She described the sacred Buddhist temples of Borobudur, in the ancient city of Yogyakarta, and spoke about the Dutch colonial expansion, kings and concubines, trade routes and the Dutch East India Company. She also shared stories of other deals she had worked on, or those still under way, a project about Cleopatra with the director David Fincher that had fallen apart. Everybody knew about that, she added, almost as an aside. “So many fascinating stories there for you to look at a little bit more,” she said. Will was entranced. Together they
The trip was already organized; she had taken care of that herself. A concierge car service run by her friend “Soli,” short for Solihin Kalla, the son of Indonesia’s vice president, Jusuf Kalla, would be put at his disposal. Will would have to pay for $2,740 in up-front expenses, she said, before warning him that Indonesia, like Mexico, another country with which she seemed to be familiar, was rife with fraud. He should only extract cash from ATMs in full view of CCTV cameras. “Please don’t think of me as racist,” she pleaded. She went over minutiae, describing the drivers (“not very talkative”), the payment methods (“no credit cards; cash only”), tipping (“don’t”), even meals (“I don’t know how much of a foodie you are . . .”). Having flooded Will with this torrent of logistics, she tidily summed it up. “So, uh, that’s the entire setup—the premise. I just need your phone to be on,” because she wanted to be in touch with him every day. “You’ve traveled a lot,” she told him. “This should be a breeze.”
Will had traveled some already, it was true, to other cities in India and Asia. Pascal seemed to have picked up on a subtler ambition: Will was looking for meaning, something to eclipse transitory epiphanies. Pascal was giving him that opportunity. She sent him more documentation to firm up the practical side of their partnership, itineraries, and an elaborate nondisclosure agreement. “Are you good?” she asked. “I just want to make sure you understand conceptually because I’ve devoted so much of my time to this.”
Pascal was a fan of Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown, and she likened Will’s upcoming journey to a cultural version of Bourdain’s popular travel show, updated for the millennial generation. In the days leading up to his departure, he compiled articles about Buddhist temples, Hindu religious sites, and cultural landmarks, but Pascal gently discouraged this. “Stop doing research,” she said. “Just show up, and discover.”
Will landed in Jakarta around midnight on October 15 and was met by a Mr. Rusdi. The gentleman, in his sixties, a chain smoker of cigarettes who spoke very little English, seemed generous, and the two managed to communicate well enough. The night air was thick and warm, and from around the base of lampposts that lined the highway luminous blooms erupted. “An explosion of bright purple flowers,” Will wrote in his journal. “Even in the dark of the night.”
On his first full day in Indonesia, Will stood atop the National Monument, a towering 433-foot-tall obelisk, and studied the unruly metropolis of Jakarta. From far below wafted the pungent, halfway pleasant odor of burning trash and the muffled din of traffic. Will’s thoughts drifted. While waiting to buy his ticket, he had spotted a young couple with two children, including a girl who looked to be about eight years old and was stealing cautious glances at him from behind the safety of her mother’s legs. Atop the tower, the girl ventured to the white metal protection bars at the edge and peered through a set of stationary binoculars. What if he were a young girl lost in a big city, he wondered. Where would he go to get his bearings? This perch seemed like a logical starting point. The day was crushingly hot and Will worked steadily, shooting more than seven hundred frames. That evening, jet lag and exhaustion washed over him, and as he lay in bed, thrill bled into fatigue and anxiety. If he failed, Amy had warned him, there were plenty of other talented DPs eager to take his place.
After a week of steady work, Will returned home, but a few days later, at Amy’s request, he was back in Indonesia. The second trip didn’t go as well as the first. Will was exhausted. His back hurt. He was concerned about his expenses. Between flights, cars, and hotels, he had spent close to $15,000, none of which Amy had reimbursed. He hoped an upcoming trip to Yogyakarta, the last remaining monarchical city in Indonesia, home to the sultanate, would improve his mood. But after two days spent touring the Kraton palace and the Green Temple, and an afternoon walking blindfolded through a grove of banyan trees as part of a tourist attraction, a sense of fatalism crept into his observations. “My soul is fucked,” he wrote.
This time when Will left Indonesia, he flew straight to Los Angeles to meet Amy and two Netflix showrunners. No sooner did he land than Amy called. The Harvey Weinstein scandal had become a conflagration. The Netflix showrunners were suddenly unavailable and Amy’s own staff recommended she not meet with anyone alone. Anyway, an additional complication had arisen. She needed Will to return to Indonesia, specifically Bali, to photograph a new location, or else one of the showrunners would pull the project. Just four days after arriving in LA, and a one-day layover in Taipei, Will returned to Indonesia for the third time. The promised reimbursements still hadn’t arrived. His own savings were gone and Will was now asking his parents for help. The Strathmann family was in for close to $30,000.
On November 12, he made his way to an ATM in Jakarta to gather the final funds for Bali. His flight was scheduled to leave in two hours. But when he put his card into the machine that morning, his account was frozen. He tried calling his bank’s customer service line but couldn’t get through. Mr. Rusdi and the bagman said they couldn’t drive him to the airport until they had been paid, but eventually relented and drove Will for free, with the condition that Will tell his boss he had taken a taxi—should word get back to her, they would both be in serious trouble. Amy found out anyway, when Mr. Rusdi failed to turn over the usual driving fees. She was livid. With his thoughtless dismissal of protocol, Will had jeopardized her long-standing relationships and imperiled their project. She ordered him to cancel his flight and withdraw enough cash to “make this right.” Later, she called again to say the Bali trip wasn’t going to happen after all. Now more conciliatory, she urged him to return home and assured him that he had proven himself worthy.
Will hadn’t slept properly for weeks, he wasn’t eating, and all the melatonin he’d been taking had left him constipated and bloated. He cried himself to sleep that night. The next morning, he left Indonesia. Shortly after landing in Seoul, South Korea, Will was changing planes when Amy called: Bali was on. Could he return to Indonesia?
Having invested so much time and effort in a project whose contours he no longer understood, he decided it made little sense to abort. He stumbled from counter to counter trying to rearrange his itinerary, and after much haggling, and more money, he was once again in the air. That night, for the fourth time in less than a month, he passed through Jakarta Customs.
Will was sleeping when his phone began buzzing around 2 a.m. He figured it was Amy. She had called him only a couple of hours earlier, just after midnight, to go over his trip to Bali the next day. Mr. Rusdi was scheduled to arrive in just under four hours. Bracing himself for another “crazy Amy call,” he picked up his phone and instead saw a slew of text and voice messages from his father that he had somehow missed. Fred’s voice was firm, but he sounded on edge. “This is an emergency,” he said. “Call me ASAP. Do not go anywhere or get in any cars with anybody.”
The Screenwriter
Gregory Mandarano had moved frequently as a kid. Born in Connecticut, he had spent some time in Howard Beach, Queens, and then a few years in the Florida Keys, where his father, a surgeon, oversaw an ER. The family had relocated to Long Island when he was in middle school and Mandarano had been there, on and off, ever since. He was thirty-seven.
He dreamed of being a screenwriter and had drafted a couple dozen feature film scripts, but unfortunately none sold. He often sent his projects to www.scriptshadow.net, a website and online community that offered screenwriting resources, feedback, and, sometimes, encouragement to aspiring writers. Winners of the site’s featured monthly competition occasionally received calls from Hollywood executives. A few people had gotten agents and even deals based off projects they had submitted. While Greg was a frequent visitor, he often rankled other members with unsolicited and unwelcome critiques. He had earned what he admitted was “a bad reputation.” To make matters worse, he remained unrepresented and his screenplays unproduced.
While the constant rejection had been frustrating, he and his writing partner, Jay Shapiro (a pseudonym), were hopeful that fortune would soon break in their direction. One day that summer while surfing the web, Greg came across what appeared to be a website affiliated with the China Film Group, www.thechinafilmgroup.com, which was soliciting ideas for screenplays. It was an encouraging development. CFG was a major player in China’s burgeoning film industry, considered the go-to destination for American studios in search of mainland partners on big-budget productions. Greg quickly sent off an email pitch for a movie titled “Shadows Below.” The quick summary, or logline, read, in part: “After terrorists attack China on the 4th of July, a submarine commanded by the President’s Daughter and a team of Navy SEALS are all that stand between a rogue Chinese doomsday sub and Nuclear Armageddon.” Before long, he received a message back from a CFG executive named Jing Huilang. Interesting pitch and synopsis! she wrote. Over the course of numerous emails, Greg outlined his vision of the movie, providing Huilang with detailed notes about the script’s tone, feel, and themes.
