A Pro In The Game Of Con -- `Pigeon Drop' Operator Tells Of A Life Of Sympathic Larceny

He favored expensive suits and a smooth Latin accent. He aimed for just the right image: kind, respectable, a bit confused. And above all, trustworthy. Because Malefai Moliga really did rely on the kindness of strangers.

He might knock on a front door in Bellevue, or strike up a conversation at a Tukwila mall. Soon enough, he and his new-found friends were united in charitable intent and large amounts of cash. But the friendship nearly always ended the same way: They would be left holding a handkerchief full of shredded newspaper, and Moliga would walk off with thousands of their dollars.

"I could talk people out of $40,000 in an hour or less," Moliga said recently.

After two decades of con artistry, Moliga now is relying on the kindness of King County Jail guards. He pleaded guilty this spring to nine counts of first-degree theft - for bilking people out of $2,000, $15,000, $45,000.

He's to be sentenced tomorrow. Even though Moliga is a strictly nonviolent criminal, county prosecutors are asking that he receive more than seven years in prison.

"When somebody is swindled like this, I think there's a fundamental blow to them you don't get with a more direct theft," says Deputy Prosecutor Cathy Shaefer. "They're horribly embarrassed and humiliated. It's heartless."

To Moliga, scamming people, or "popping con," was a job, a craft at which he excelled using insights gleaned from psychology books. "Everybody steals. It's human nature," Moliga said. "We'd steal a breath of air from the next man."

There's no shortage of con artists, police say. In Bellevue alone, there were more than 14 scams reported in the past couple of years, adding up to more than $100,000 in losses. Many victims never tell a soul.

"Too ashamed," said a 76-year-old Bellevue man scammed by Moliga out of $10,000 last year. Afterward, he feared his wife would leave him. He still hasn't told his children, and doesn't plan to.

Moliga, 40, says he wanted to be a lawyer until, in his second year of college in North Carolina, he saw a man make hundreds of dollars in just minutes playing dice. "To me," he says, "that was the bottom line."

With even, white teeth and a dimpled smile, Moliga has admittedly used charm and guile to make his way in the Seattle area for more than a decade. He has also worked in Dallas, Los Angeles and New York, with colleagues named "Fats," "Slim" and "Nice Dog."

"These teams have stolen more money than you and I will ever see," says Tom Henton, a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department's bunco squad. "They like to steal with their mouths. They realize the judicial system looks upon them with a little less vigor than violent criminals."

What Moliga sometimes pulled was what local police call the "pigeon drop" and the LAPD's bunko squad calls the "Jamaican switch." It works like this:

The mark is approached by a stranger with an accent, a sad story and what looks like a lot of loot. The stranger asks for help finding an address and confides that he has inherited a sizeable amount from a relative. The money must be given to charity because the man's oppressive home government will not let him keep it.

Enter the accomplice. "Suspect Two appears to walk by," explains Henton, "and Suspect One calls Suspect Two over: `Maybe this nice lady can help us.' It's us now, to draw them in even closer."

Fake letters from fake lawyers or real public figures often corroborate everything the con man has said.

Suspect One will suggest that the two Americans disburse the money to charity because he must catch a plane later that day. For helping, they may keep maybe $20,000.

But wait.

" `To ensure you're not going to spend this money on yourself, I have to see that you're a trustworthy person and that requires you get money from a bank and show it to me,' " Henton says.

Suspect Two goes to the bank first and comes out with a lot of cash. Suspect One often says a prayer over the money, mixes it with his own and hands it back to Suspect Two.

"The victims," Henton continues, "see this total stranger going through this scenario and receiving $75,000 in cash. So now it's their turn."

After the mark withdraws money from a bank to show good faith, there's sometimes a trust test, with each taking turns walking around the block holding the cash. This is what Moliga preferred. During his turn, he just didn't return. In other cases, the victim's money, tied in a handkerchief, is switched with an identical bundle filled with newspapers.

So it went with an 81-year-old Bellevue man talked out of $45,000 in March by Moliga and an accomplice, who played the lead role. The victim's words:

"He said, `I'm looking for a Catholic church.' He said, `I've got all this money. My grandmother said I should distribute it.' He showed me a lot of $100 bills. That didn't make an impression on me but he seemed so honest. He started to cry. Then this (other man) came up and was interested. So he was talking away and talking away and one thing led to another.

"He handed me the sack and said, `Here's the money.' I should have opened it right then and there. That's what I should have done. I look back, and I shudder."

Moliga feels he was merely taking from the rich. "How can it be fair for 80 percent of the people to live in poverty or below?" he asks. "Maybe it's that 20 percent that are keeping the other 80 percent oppressed."

Despite an annual tax-free income of more than $150,000, Moliga counted himself among the 80 percent: "When I get up in the morning I know one thing in my heart: Nobody's paying me."

Moliga described himself to Bellevue police Detective Raj Johal as "the Robin Hood of the Samoan community."

And it appears he was generous with his ill-gotten gains. Moliga sometimes invited street people to dinner, especially during the holidays, and often gave them $20 or more from his pocket. Concerned about teenagers becoming gang members, he sponsored a cricket team and once flew its 25 youthful members to San Francisco.

"If you need help, he'll help you," Marlene Gurule, Moliga's girlfriend, told police last spring after she and Moliga were arrested. "I've seen him take jewelry off his hand and give it to people when they compliment it."

Gurule is being sentenced next month - prosecutors have recommended 18 months in prison - for her part in numerous scams. She used the name "Helga," and told victims she was from the former East Germany.

Victims were chosen, Moliga says, after a quick psychological profile based on such vagaries as their clothing, their lawn care or the tilt of their heads.

He'd rarely approach a woman in her 30s or 40s. "If I ask her for a ride she can think of a thousand reasons why she shouldn't," he said. "And there's enough time to ask the fundamental question: `Do I know this person?' "

Despite claiming to prefer "a challenge," Moliga, like most con men, often targeted the elderly.

"They're available, with time on their hands," Henton explains. "Maybe this is the first person that's talked to them in six weeks. And you can be confused a little bit quicker. And older people whose earning power is restricted, a $5,000 windfall for helping someone - well why not?"

Some victims fall prey to greed themselves, Henton says, and plan to keep all the money. "Suspects say sympathy and larceny make this con work," he says.

"You think, how can anybody fall for this? But when it's presented in small increments it's believable. You didn't see the whole picture, you were caught off balance, you were overwhelmed by the amount of money you thought you saw.

As the world changes, so do the cons. Years ago, they used to be just for pocket cash. Likewise, the stories change as politics change; the Jamaican switch was named decades ago for putative Jamaican seamen who didn't trust banks. More recently, con men have been saying they're from Nicaragua or South Africa.

"We had one the other day that was centered around Rwanda," Henton says.

Moliga says he has wanted to go straight for some time. "If I could just put a little effort in to help people, not hurt people, I think I'd be very successful," he said. He'd like to be an anti-scam consultant, he adds, or possibly a preacher.

But he admits the con game never bored him.

"All I really need is a `hello.' That's all the time I need. They might have had a bad day. Maybe they want some company. If I can get a minute, I'm going to get two, then four. And in all that time, the walls are coming down. And they're going to take me in the car and bring me somewhere.

"You've got to get their minds thinking so they know they're not going to lose. Then it's easy. It fascinates me because everybody I see is different. And yet they're all the same."