Hal Said It Best: Old Men Beware of Scam

The envelope was postmarked July 22, the letter inside dated July 10.

Writing a letter is one thing, sending it another.

Receiving and reading mail aren’t one and the same thing either. I read the first few lines of Hal Hovland’s letter and put it aside.

Dear sir:

So I don’t forget at the end of this--Don’t use my name if you print this article--

I like your writing but I’ll have to admit that the main reason I noticed your column was because it was next to the lottery numbers. And that is why I hope you print this story so that a lof of old men will see it because many play the lottery and will see your headline--Old Men Beware of Scam--or whatever you use. . . .

There is, thank goodness, no hard and fast rule forbidding anonymous sources, but it’s a reason to be wary. “Don’t use my name” counted as strike 1.

The reference to the lottery box wasn’t strike 2. My dad always clips the numbers, so I know Mr. Hovland is right about that. No, strike 2 was the fact that he wanted me to write about con artists who preyed on senior citizens. What, again? Only days before I had written about Supora Thaxton, a 91-year-old Northridge resident, being victimized by three young women who conned their way into her home by fooling her into thinking she had known them years before as neighborhood children. They distracted her and stole cash and jewelry, including the diamond wedding ring she first wore in 1927.

There was no strike 3. Hal Hovland changed his mind about using his name, and that’s a story in itself. But first, here’s “Old Men Beware of Scam.”

*

It happened on a hot summer day in the Valley. Hovland, a 79-year-old Sherman Oaks resident, had pulled into a 7-Eleven to buy a lottery ticket. Hovland doesn’t walk so much as hobble; he’s had two hip replacements and several herniated disks and uses a cane.

Before he entered the store, a young, neatly dressed and fairly attractive woman approached and smiled.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time,” she said. “How have you been?”

Hovland couldn’t place her, but he’d met a lot of people at Hovland Pets, the Ventura Boulevard business he opened in 1949.

“I guess you know me from my pet shop,” he said, “but my daughter runs it now.”

“Oh, yes,” the woman replied, “I used to come into your pet shop all the time and even asked you for a job once, but you weren’t hiring. I was so jealous of the girls working there.”

Seemed possible, but Hovland was wary. He turned down her dinner invitation, and when she asked for his phone number, he gave her a false one. He thought that would be the end of it. But after he purchased his lottery ticket, she was waiting for him near his car, with another young woman. This woman too, Hovland was told, had frequented his pet shop.

They asked the old man about his cane, listened to his answer, then made an unusual proposition. The first woman said that, with God’s help, she could heal him. Why don’t we get out of this heat and drive to a nice, shady street?

Hovland offered a noncommittal response. Then he drove the mile to the post office to mail some letters. He was surprised when the women parked their car next to his, apparently still eager to help. One woman offered to mail his letters while the other suggested he get in the back seat of her car. Hovland was suspicious, but what could happen with her in front and him in back?

“After poking me all over my chest and chanting, she asked me where my operations were. When I said on my back she said she would have to get in the back seat to bless that. When she got in she said she has to bless everything on my body.

“She takes off my glasses and blesses them and puts them on the seat. After blessing my car keys and lottery ticket and comb and handkerchief she says it’s very important to bless my Social Security card and driver’s license.

“The credit cards were just inside the wallet so she blessed them first. When I put them back in their pocket I noticed that the $20 bills were missing. I had just deposited my Social Security check and had withdrawn $200 in twenties so in a very loud voice I shouted that I wanted my twenties back.”

The “healer’s” accomplice handed him three $20 bills and said he had dropped them on the floor. In a louder voice Hovland demanded the rest of the money. A religious man, Hovland chastised them for using God in their scam. “I really read them the riot act.”

They left and Hovland was left to ponder what would have happened had he actually parked on a nice, shady street, not a public place where his shouts would attract attention. They’d have taken the money, pushed him out of the car and left.

*

There are a couple of postscripts to this story.

Hovland wrote his 12 days after he composed the letter, just before he placed it in the mail.

“P.S.--I just read your story about Supora Thaxton and it sounds like the two girls that almost got me added a third tall gal to their scam operation and in Thaxton’s case they really hit payday. . . .

“I was too embarrassed about almost getting took that I did not tell my wife or two daughters for four days. When I couldn’t hold it in any longer my youngest daughter called the police but since I got my money back they couldn’t do anything.

“So, if Supora Thaxton let you use her name, you can use my name also if you want. Thank you for printing her story because it gave me the courage to send you mine.”

It is Mrs. Thaxton, obviously, who really deserves the gratitude. Con artists who prey on the elderly, police say, often get away because the victims are often too embarrassed to speak out.

The last time I spoke with Mrs. Thaxton, she said that police had requested a description and photo of her stolen wedding ring. With luck, maybe it will turn up in a pawnshop.

When I told Mrs. Thaxton about how Hal Hovland came to share his story--and read her his P.S.--she seemed pleased. That was a nice thing, she said, because everybody, especially the elderly, should be wary of the crooks out there. Yes, a very nice thing.

Of course it would have been nicer, Mrs. Thaxton added, if there had been no reason for these stories in the first place.

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. Readers may write to Harris at the Times Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth 91311, or via e-mail at scott.harris@latimes.com Please include a phone number.

The first woman said that, with God’s help, she could heal him. Why don’t we get out of this heat and drive to a nice, shady street?