Unveiling the Intrigue of Scammer Narratives
Nearly seven years have passed since the unforgettable season of 2018, famously known as the Summer of Scam. Driven by the captivating tales of fraudsters like Elizabeth Holmes of Theranos and the counterfeit heiress Anna Delvey, one might consider the current resurgence as a Winter of Scam. However, the reality is that the trend labeled as Grifter Season by the New Yorker has persisted, both in popular culture and everyday life. In 2023, the most recent year for which FTC statistics are available, Americans reported losses totaling $10 billion to scams, marking a record high. With advancements in AI, deepfakes, cryptocurrency, and other technological innovations providing new avenues for deceit, and a President beginning his second term after settling a $25 million lawsuit with students who alleged fraud at Trump University, scamming has evolved from a passing trend to the norm.
Yet, the central figures in the scammer narratives of the 2020s are often not influential politicians or corporate giants. Instead, the individuals who capture our fascination are typically ordinary women—or those who were ordinary until they crafted an alternate persona portraying them as extraordinary. Each of them serves as a distorted reflection of the true-crime audience, which is predominantly estimated to be 80% female, highlighting our uncertainties about trusting other women and our own inclinations to bend rules to achieve our desires. The most compelling scammer stories provoke introspection on our conflicted feelings towards these characters, while the weaker narratives, like the disjointed Apple Cider Vinegar, fail to offer meaningful insights.
The controversy surrounding Guru Jagat, a Kundalini yoga teacher, exemplifies the entanglements that can arise.
The Summer of Scam sparked a wave of analyses attempting to understand the appeal of scam stories. Theories ranged from self-protection—particularly for women, who are believed to consume true crime as a means of learning to avoid falling victim—to feelings of schadenfreude directed at the con artist or their unsuspecting targets. Conversely, a therapist suggested a relatability factor, stating that we see aspects of both the scammer and the scammed within ourselves. A producer from the true-crime convention CrimeCon, drawing parallels to conspiracy theories, proposed a thought-provoking question: “What if nothing is as it seems?”
While these theories hold merit, as someone who has grown weary of the true-crime genre but remains captivated by scam sagas, I believe there is a deeper allure at play. If true crime often delves into dark and distressing themes, extracting entertainment from the tragedies inflicted on real individuals, scam stories can feel like a less troubling indulgence—a lighter alternative to the grim fascination with serial killers. Female scammers, in particular, may be less triggering for audiences who have experienced trauma compared to the violent criminals typically featured in true crime narratives. The Scam Goddess podcast, which inspired the Freeform series,
Characters like Ferrell and Delvey, who were featured in a popular New York magazine article and inspired the Netflix series Inventing Anna, are portrayed as individuals who infiltrate exclusive social circles and take advantage of their superficial members. It’s challenging to sympathize with Ferrell, a Korean American, who targeted white trustafarians by exploiting their fetishization of Asian women for financial gain. While Netflix reportedly paid Delvey $320,000 for her involvement in a documentary, her victims were primarily wealthy jet setters and upscale businesses, resulting in relatively low stakes that make their stories seem more like gossip than serious crimes.
Another intriguing yet troubling category of individuals are so-called spiritual leaders, as showcased in docuseries such as HBO’s Breath of Fire and Love Has Won: The Cult of Mother God, and Freeform’s The Deep End. These shows delve into the lives of women who have amassed wealth by manipulating followers seeking guidance and meaning. While these narratives often end tragically, the blurred lines between deception, desperation, and delusion, particularly for women in these roles, add complexity to their stories.
Similarly, shady entrepreneurs who present themselves as positive influences within the material world are explored in shows like Amazon’s LuLaRich. These individuals, like DeAnne and Mark of LuLaRoe, promise financial opportunities to stay-at-home moms through multilevel marketing schemes but often leave participants worse off. Notable figures like Theranos founder Elizabeth Holmes, who scammed investors and endangered patients with her faulty technology, highlight the darker side of financial deception and its grave consequences.
While some stories of deception may be twisted into entertainment, the harm caused by medical scammers like Holmes, who misled patients with inaccurate diagnoses, cannot be trivialized. The Anatomy of Lies docuseries on Peacock further uncovers the deceitful actions of individuals like Amanda Riley and Elisabeth Finch, shedding light on the damaging impact of their fraudulent behavior. Belle Gibson’s elaborate deception, which exploited her false cancer diagnosis, serves as a stark reminder of the real harm caused by individuals who prey on vulnerable individuals for personal gain.
Apple Cider Vinegar not only exploited cancer fraud for her backstory but also sold false hope and a dangerous, fake alternative to cancer treatments like chemotherapy and surgery to real cancer patients who were desperate to avoid such harsh therapies. It’s no surprise that Apple Cider Vinegar struggles to find a balance between seriousness and amusement. Elisabeth Finch and Jennifer Beyer-Peacock, authors of Anatomy of Lies, delve into the deceptive nature of individuals like Ferrell who weave elaborate stories to manipulate others. Ferrell, known for her cunning acts of deceit, describes words as her tool for getting into and out of situations. She was a captivating storyteller who captivated audiences with her fictitious tales. Successful con artists possess a charm and complexity that make their scams all the more alluring. Adapting stories of scammers requires uncovering a deeper narrative to justify the retelling rather than simply recounting their lies. In a recent study published in the Journal of Gender Studies, Sarah Banet-Weiser and Kathryn Claire Higgins analyze the gendered aspect of society’s fascination with female scammers, as portrayed in The Dropout and Inventing Anna. These narratives explore how gender played a role in the protagonists’ deceptions and how they were perceived by audiences. While many scammer stories focus on the audacity of their subjects, more nuanced portrayals like You’ll Never Believe Me and The Dropout delve into the complexities of gender and deception. True-crime stories involving female scammers raise questions about justice. What is the appropriate punishment for women who resort to deceit to achieve wealth or fame at the expense of others? Gibson, who faked having cancer, faced consequences but retained her freedom, while Holmes awaits release from prison in 2032. Delvey and Ferrell served shorter sentences and are now leveraging their notoriety for personal gain. As the stories of these scammers continue to captivate audiences, the discussion of justice for their actions remains ongoing.
Women of color. How we receive each of these outcomes—whether we savor the scammers’ punishment or cheer their rehabilitation, whether our reactions vary based on the severity of the harm they did—says as much about us as it does about the women we love, hate, or love to hate.
“Men screw people over all the f-cking time, and not only are they able to go on and live their lives, they’re given thousands of dollars to be the keynote speaker at fancy business conferences,” Ferrell observes, in what is perhaps a reference to Wolf of Wall Street turned motivational speaker Jordan Belfort. “I wonder why they get the opportunity to do all of that when I, and many other women, do not.”
It’s a question worth not just raising but, as Ferrell does, trying to answer.
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