"Sir, I have never seen this invoice," Moore replied.
"Do you recognize that check that indicates there was $5,000 paid to Jerry Moore?" asked Schooler.
Nick Vlcek
Melony Michaels and John Foster are in the process of suing Moore in hopes of restitution
Nick Vlcek
1564 Hillside Avenue: the trouble started here
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"No," Moore said, staring at the check with his name on it.
"Did you ever, and Mr. Reitman ever, engage in any business transactions together?"
"Not that I am aware of," maintained Moore.
When asked why Moore would deny doing business with him on the house, Reitman could not speculate. "I don't know why he would say that," says Reitman.
On a humid night in July, Foster and Michaels sit at their kitchen table. The smell of freshly baked cookies fills their suburban home. They are surrounded by the clutter of an upcoming garage sale that they hope will put some much-needed dollars in their bank account.
Michaels politely apologizes for the mess. "But at least it's organized," she says through a chuckle.
Foster doesn't mind talking about the mortgage fraud case. He's told the story dozens of times to lawyers, investigators, and reporters. When recounting the most unbelievable parts, Foster gives a tired smile, like he still can't quite believe it himself.
"As a victim of this, I couldn't do a damn thing about it," he says. "I had to work all the time."
It has been almost four years since Foster first opened the letter accusing him of missing a payment on a house he never owned. But his life is far from being back to the way it was before that letter came. Foster's name is in an FBI database that requires him to carry around a note and password to give to police in the event he gets pulled over; otherwise, they'll assume he's an imposter and arrest him on the spot. His once-proud credit score has fallen so far that Fleet Farm recently denied him a credit card. The kids can't get student loans for college.
"People say, 'Well you don't have to pay for the houses,' but they just don't get it," laments Michaels.
Looking back at all the financial turmoil the case brought them, the couple estimates they lost about $600,000 all told. They doubt they will ever get anywhere close to that much back.
Michaels and Foster are now in the process of suing everyone they say played a part in the fraud, even those who slipped away from the criminal investigation. On the list is Moore, who was served with the papers at the Wells Fargo where he works as a personal banker. The family prays they will get some restitution.
"We hope to, but from people like Moore, I don't think we'll ever see a dime," says Foster.
"He has to be accountable," Michaels insists. "It's not all about money, it's about accountability. It's about telling the whole story."
THE DIM, COOL lobby of the Wells Fargo in Minnetonka is a welcome relief from the humid weather outside. Moore is downstairs working on a project with some kids, a receptionist says, but I can wait for him if I'd like.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" asks a perky blonde teller.
"I don't think so," I say.
"Do you have an appointment with Jerry?" she asks.
"Nope."
We both laugh.
Suddenly, Moore walks into the lobby. He's wearing a blue blazer and a friendly smile.
"Jerry?" I ask.
"Yes?" he replies, offering a grin.
"I'm Andy Mannix with City Pages," I say.
His smile fades and he starts tiptoeing backward. "Sorry, I'm with a class right now," he says, moving away faster.
"I've left you quite a few messages," I say, "I need to talk to you." I pull a business card out of my pocket and try to hand it to him. "Can we talk later?"
Moore looks at the card as if I'm offering him a live grenade. "Sorry," he says, putting his hands up in the air defensively. He continues to back away, and turns around and heads for cover.
Just before he disappears, he looks back momentarily.
"Can you call me later?" I ask across the bank lobby.
"Sorry," Moore says one more time. Then he's gone.
