Thursday, Sept. 28, 2017 — a date which will live in my memory. It started out like any other workday for me. But on that afternoon I received a fateful phone call from Jerry, a CPA who got my name from an attorney acquaintance of mine. As I speak with him, I hear panic in his voice.  Seems like Jerry just received a call from Lt. Greg Palmer of the Essex County Sheriff's Office, telling him that he has an outstanding warrant for his arrest, with bail set at $3,365 by a federal judge. When Jerry asks what the warrant is for, Palmer says something about failing to appear for federal jury duty.

I assure Jerry that he can make arrangements to meet with Palmer to post the bail himself and really doesn't need my services. But Jerry is petrified. He begs me to intervene on his behalf.  As a fellow professional, he allows, he will gladly pay me for my time. I tell him I need $750 to contact Palmer and to go with Jerry to meet with him. Jerry readily agrees and is most relieved.

So I call Lt. Palmer to get the details of what needs to be done. Palmer tells me that the warrant issued because Jerry signed for a certified mailing requiring his court appearance and then failed to appear. When I ask Palmer if he can send me the signature by email, he tells me we can look at it only after Jerry first gives Palmer his handwriting exemplars. Palmer assures me that if the signature is not Jerry's, he will recommend dismissal of the charges. When I later tell Jerry, he asks me if he should sign neatly, as on his driver's license, or with his usual scribble normally assigned to those pesky little green certified mailing receipts. I leave it to Jerry's discretion.

When I ask Lt. Palmer why the Sheriff's Office is handling the federal warrant and not the U.S. Marshal's Service, he mumbles something about the marshals being overworked and requesting assistance. Palmer then tells me that Jerry needs to purchase a particular type of prepaid money pak sold at CVS and Walgreens, and then contact him back. Palmer will then confirm their validity with the federal Validation Center, whatever that is. I tell Palmer I don't want Jerry picked up in the meantime as I will surrender him the next morning with the bail money contained in the specified money paks in order to secure his immediate release.

“No problem,” Palmer assures me, but call him once we purchase the money paks so he can alert the Validation Center. Upon my further inquiry, Palmer insists that Jerry cannot post bail by way of cash, check, money order, or through a bail bondsman, a most unusual circumstance I never encountered before. Palmer says I should accompany Jerry to Room 207 in the Sheriff's second-floor office at 50 West Market Street, the former Essex County Courts building since renamed the Veteran's Courthouse. Palmer says once there, he will transport Jerry to the Validation Center at 50 Walnut Street, which I know to be the Martin Luther King, Jr. Federal Building in Newark.

After relaying the instructions to Jerry, we are both a little intrigued by it all. So I call the Sheriff's Office at its listed main number, not Palmer's private cell, and ask for Lt. Greg Palmer. The Sheriff's receptionist tells me Lt. Palmer is gone for the day but will be back the next morning at 8 am until his shift ends at 4 pm. So far, so good.

The next day, Jerry and I report to the Essex County Sheriff's second-floor office. Not finding Room 207, we sign in and ask the receptionist for Lt. Greg Palmer. She tells us Lt. Palmer is in a meeting but that he will be out to greet us momentarily.

Soon after, a gentleman comes walking toward us. “Lt. Palmer?” I inquire. Almost in unison to his affirmative response, Jerry and I simultaneously respond, “You don't look anything like what we envisioned Lt. Palmer to look like, nor do you sound anything like you did on the phone just yesterday.” We ask this Lt. Palmer if there is another Lt. Palmer in the Sheriff's Office.  He assures us there is not.

Lt. Palmer then hands us his card, which reads, “Lt. Gregory Palma.” We assume Lt. Palma is of Portuguese heritage, rather than of the African descent which we surmise belongs to the voice we heard on the phone just the day before.

Turns out, of course, it was one big scam, which both my accountant-client and I should have realized before he ventured out on his money-pak-purchasing spree. But no harm, no foul, I keep saying to myself as Jerry writes out his check for my reduced $500 fee after I drive him back to my office.

The next afternoon, just before the sundown commencement of Yom Kippur, the holiest day on the Jewish calendar and the day on which Jews customarily atone for all their sins of the past year, I receive an email from Jerry:

Hope you are well, and thank you for going with me yesterday and helping me with those ridiculous debit cards. I'm uncomfortable saying the following, but I told a few people today what happened, and the first thing they said was that my lawyer should have known right away that it was a scam, that the courts would never have you bring cash, as I was instructed. I have had clients call me saying the IRS called them and told them they would be arrested unless they bought these debit cards, and I told them to hang up and ignore because it was a scam. Having said all this, I kind of feel that it's not right that I had to pay you for this. You even said you feel funny charging me, but as professionals we are entitled to get paid for our time. But I feel that you should have known this was a scam, and then I wouldn't have had to go through all this craziness and be so aggravated, lose a day's work yesterday, etc. I think it's only fair that you not cash my check. Let me know what you think.”

After fully digesting its contents, I say to myself, “Now that's chutzpah!” What I most lament is that CPA Jerry now totally dismisses the fact that I spent a full morning with him in acquiescence to his terrified insistence that I accompany him to Newark and back. Not to mention all that time I spent on the phone with him and the bogus Lt. Palmer the day before.

But then I hark back to the charitable sentiment of Yom Kippur, with its unconditional washing away of all my sins in return for forgiving those who sinned against me. “Repent!” my inner self cries out. I am thus compelled to email Jerry back to assure him I will not cash his $500 check.

His terse email response: “Thanks, you're a mensch.” Nonetheless, I still envision Jerry atoning in kind, maybe right after his Saturday evening break-the-fast Yom Kippur feast.

So as I stride into my office on sin-free Monday next, I alert my secretary to the prospect of an impending delivery of a fruit basket or bottle of wine some time later that day. But, alas, no such appreciative pleasantry arrives that day or any day since. Forsooth, I am left to rue the day when my menschfully comped professional services morphed from a mitzvah into a shonda.

But let me tell you about this Scottish banker who emailed me the other day wanting to wire me my dead relative's humongous inheritance just as soon as I provide him with my bank code. When he does, I'm calling up Jerry for some free tax advice.

Rachmiel is a solo practitioner in Springfield, handling a wide range of cases including personal injury and accidents, as well as criminal and municipal matters.