As I'd said in the death post, working longer defaulted accounts we deal with lots of people out on the fringe. This includes people who commit crimes and end up in prison, for things as small as shoplifting to as big as murder.
Incarceration is not something that pops up on LexisNexis like death. (A giant red D next to the name - usually a big clue. Incarceration might show up if you're willing to do a full search, but still takes digging.) Incarceration usually only pops up casually if you are doing a Google search, and the crime they committed was pretty big and they have an uncommon name. A colleague of mine recently found a borrower who was found guilty of a quarter-million dollar Medicare fraud that way - it has to be that big.
So how do we find out about incarcerated borrowers? Why, from references and relatives. Which means we usually get the story of what happened as well, as told from either a sympathetic point of view:
"Him? Oh - tragic, really. Such a nice kid, but bad friends. He's in prison right now for assault, but it wasn't his fault. So sad..."
Or non-sympathetic:
"HER? Fuuuuuuuck, she's in jail right now for sticking up a 7-11 to get money for meth. Fucking loser."
From there, we try to guide the conversation toward what prison the borrower might be in, and if that is a federal, state, or county jail. If we know that information, we can find the appropriate facility through internet prisoner searches, and verify that the borrower is actually incarcerated.
(Yes, incarceration information is available online. All links are available through blackbookonline.info Incidentally, if you have any delusions about online privacy, check out that site. You will be shocked and amazed at what is available online.)
One interesting part about incarceration is that the online sites usually also have mugshots, which is the only time we are able to put a face to the name of the person we are trying to find. I always find it a sort of shocking reminder - so much of our business is auditory only that it can be hard to get a visual of THIS is the person you were trying to reach. Especially if the crime happened to be a violent one, such as a sexual offense or a capital crime. Hard to look at a child molester or murderer in the eye who also has a large balance outstanding loan you were hoping to collect.
Of course, if someone is recently released from prison, you may try to catch them to see if they want to start their "new re-entry into society" with dealing with their loan. Apparently, parole officers are great contacts toward getting some sort of either payment or hardship program from an outstanding loan.
Assuming the parole officer knows where they are. I found that out by conversation with one a few months ago. "I haven't seen that son a bitch in three weeks. You find him, you let me know, okay? We have a warrant out for him." Drug dealer/wholesaler. I just marked that one as "on the lam" and I'll just leave it alone.
There are also the occasional cases of people trying to get things together before heading off to prison. I spoke with one borrower who we kind of raced against time to get all of the paperwork in to get his loan out of default through hardship program before he went back to prison. (I didn't ask what for - thought it might stop the conversation and I'd lose the program.) We finally finished things up with his girlfriend mailing back the paperwork.
"I just want my life back together - this is part of what I have to face and make right," he said to me. And I'm glad he was able to get this part, at least, sorted out before returning to prison. Since in the end, that's really all that we're all looking for, on both ends of the phone.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Collecting from the dead
Dead people default on their student loans at a pretty alarming rate. Student loans fall into the area of "having one's affairs in order" and the paperwork that is left for the living to clean up in this brave new information age.
What happens to a student loan upon the borrower's death is that the loan vanishes. Student loans are not collectible on an estate with proof of death. Simply send in a copy of the death certificate to the appropriate loan agency, and the loan will be removed from the system. In New York, we can even accept a faxed copy provided the propers seals and markings are on it.
(The reason for need of proof is that people lie. I called a borrower's home phone who had been ducking calls for weeks and got the message she'd gone to the store, back in a couple of hours. Called back in a couple of hours and the woman who answered said, "Ummm...no....she's dead. Yeah."
"What, she get hit by a bus on the way back from the store?"
"Erp..." Click.
I'm 99% sure that I actually spoke to the borrower. But there is still that 1% possibility I will be referred to in hushed tones as "that fucking asshole collector" at family gatherings for decades to come.)
Apparently with loans that have only been in collections a short time, dealing with a death is not a huge problem - someone is trying to tie up loose ends, this is one more, fine, I'll fax you the death certificate. Over, done, move on.
These are not the borrowers I work with. All the loans in our department have been in default a minimum of six months, most for years. These are people who were actively trying to avoid us, or were living in such a way that they couldn't be found easily.
An example was a number I called on our predictive dialler, and asked the person about the borrower. "Oh, gosh, yes...she lived at a halfway house I run for addicts. She died of a heroin overdose two years ago, I think. So sad. She was on the run from her parents, and I don't know anyone who knows her still. Sorry."
So what do I do? I check LexisNexis, and they have no death record for her. I then check the state death records listing, since I have her age and date of birth. And there is her death listing. And I can get her death certificate for...10 bucks.
No, the company won't pay for it. I've already asked.
So I note the death notice, note where I found it, and mark her account as deceased. Her account will then pass out of my desk, and end up in a feeder chain for uncollectable accounts (dead, active bankruptcy, disabled, screaming lawyer really loud, etc.) And in a reasonable world, the account would be forgiven and deleted by our company and the lender.
But that is not the case here. Without the death certificate as definite proof, there is no dissolution of the loan. It is recycled to a different collection agency with all the other active loans we weren't able to convert. Which means the loans of the dead continue on, and we must call and confirm over and over and over.
"Man, I get calls like this about once a year," says one reference. "The poor woman is dead - she's been dead for over five years. I keep telling you people that and you keep calling. Death certificate is on file at the town call. Costs you ten bucks." Click.
The loans must be charged off at some point, I'm sure. Five years is an awfully long time, though. And I'm sure if I stay long enough on the same contract, I will see the dead return. And I will look up their information, possibly remember them if there was a previously memorable reference call, mark them deceased, and send them on their way again.
What happens to a student loan upon the borrower's death is that the loan vanishes. Student loans are not collectible on an estate with proof of death. Simply send in a copy of the death certificate to the appropriate loan agency, and the loan will be removed from the system. In New York, we can even accept a faxed copy provided the propers seals and markings are on it.
(The reason for need of proof is that people lie. I called a borrower's home phone who had been ducking calls for weeks and got the message she'd gone to the store, back in a couple of hours. Called back in a couple of hours and the woman who answered said, "Ummm...no....she's dead. Yeah."
"What, she get hit by a bus on the way back from the store?"
"Erp..." Click.
I'm 99% sure that I actually spoke to the borrower. But there is still that 1% possibility I will be referred to in hushed tones as "that fucking asshole collector" at family gatherings for decades to come.)
Apparently with loans that have only been in collections a short time, dealing with a death is not a huge problem - someone is trying to tie up loose ends, this is one more, fine, I'll fax you the death certificate. Over, done, move on.
These are not the borrowers I work with. All the loans in our department have been in default a minimum of six months, most for years. These are people who were actively trying to avoid us, or were living in such a way that they couldn't be found easily.
An example was a number I called on our predictive dialler, and asked the person about the borrower. "Oh, gosh, yes...she lived at a halfway house I run for addicts. She died of a heroin overdose two years ago, I think. So sad. She was on the run from her parents, and I don't know anyone who knows her still. Sorry."
So what do I do? I check LexisNexis, and they have no death record for her. I then check the state death records listing, since I have her age and date of birth. And there is her death listing. And I can get her death certificate for...10 bucks.
No, the company won't pay for it. I've already asked.
So I note the death notice, note where I found it, and mark her account as deceased. Her account will then pass out of my desk, and end up in a feeder chain for uncollectable accounts (dead, active bankruptcy, disabled, screaming lawyer really loud, etc.) And in a reasonable world, the account would be forgiven and deleted by our company and the lender.
But that is not the case here. Without the death certificate as definite proof, there is no dissolution of the loan. It is recycled to a different collection agency with all the other active loans we weren't able to convert. Which means the loans of the dead continue on, and we must call and confirm over and over and over.
"Man, I get calls like this about once a year," says one reference. "The poor woman is dead - she's been dead for over five years. I keep telling you people that and you keep calling. Death certificate is on file at the town call. Costs you ten bucks." Click.
The loans must be charged off at some point, I'm sure. Five years is an awfully long time, though. And I'm sure if I stay long enough on the same contract, I will see the dead return. And I will look up their information, possibly remember them if there was a previously memorable reference call, mark them deceased, and send them on their way again.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Is your refrigerator running?
I picked up the phone on Friday - a call-in from Alaska - and gave the "incoming call" script for name, company, monitoring notification, and "how can I help you?"
"BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRPPPP!!!!!!!" Hoots of laughter, and a hangup.
Our senior collector turned around. "I heard that from here - that wasn't from Alaska, was it?"
"It was - why?"
He shook his head. "Oh great - another one of THOSE again."
"Those" being one of the rare prank callers we get. Collection agencies aren't usually magnets for crank calls, since most anyone who has our number is trying to avoid us like the plague. And with most people having caller ID these days, no one wants to risk a crank call to someone who will now know who you are and use that information against you.
We did get one entertaining one a few months ago. Phone rang, and it was an area code I didn't recognize. Picked up the phone, heard maniacal laughter and street noise, then a hangup.
Generally when someone calls in, the caller ID will bring up their account information immediately. If not, we have to search for the number in the system. In this case, it listed no account attached to that number. Then you have to document that it was a call-in with no attached account, and get the dialler to allow you to move on. It is about as time-consuming as it sounds.
As I was searching for the number, our manager stood up. "Wait - how many of you are documenting a Yonkers number right now?"
"Yonkers?"
"914."
Turns out four of us, with an incoming call to the fifth. Six of us were on that evening, and that last person was talking to a borrower. So this person in Yonkers had effectively shut down our department with maniacal laughter and hangups.
Benny, the first person to get the call finished documenting the hangup, and his window flashed yellow for incoming call. "Oh crap - it's him again. Same number."
Manager picked up the phone and tried to get the person to talk, but no answer other than the laughter and hanging up. Then on to the second one - around the horn again.
"Okay - nobody answer that call. I'm calling the dialler department to see what we can do. This is insane." And with that she was off.
We all left our windows open to after-call. One person finished documenting the borrower call, and his window lit right up and we heard the laughter through the headset. So our department was shut down for about ten minutes while we waited. Finally, our manager came down.
"They ran the number and it isn't in any system at all. We did a 411 search and it's not listed, so they're re-routing it to a special line upstairs and calling the phone company to find out where it's coming from. But it's safe to dial again."
A few minutes later someone from the dialler department came down. "It's a pay phone out in Yonkers somewhere. We put in a harassment complaint, and the phone company said they were dispatching a police officer to the phone location to have a chat with the person there."
Ten minutes later I get a phone call, and pick it up. Loud maniacal laughter, and a hangup. "It's him again," I called out to the manager. "Laughing guy."
"But the dialler department blocked the number! How is he calling in again?"
Our senior collector laughed. "How much you want to bet it's the payphone a couple blocks down the street?"
"God DAMMIT! No one answer anything from Yonkers." And with that, our manager was off to the dialler department at full speed.
Turns out the phone company requested a police officer at the offending phone, and another one at the next public payphone down the block, which seemed to cut things off for the rest of the evening.
In the case of the Alaska call, it did bring up an account that claimed this was a wrong number a couple of days before. I documented the belch, and sent an internal e-mail to the collector responsible for the account to take a close look at it. We'll see how that worked out for them in a couple of days.
"BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRPPPP!!!!!!!" Hoots of laughter, and a hangup.
Our senior collector turned around. "I heard that from here - that wasn't from Alaska, was it?"
"It was - why?"
He shook his head. "Oh great - another one of THOSE again."
"Those" being one of the rare prank callers we get. Collection agencies aren't usually magnets for crank calls, since most anyone who has our number is trying to avoid us like the plague. And with most people having caller ID these days, no one wants to risk a crank call to someone who will now know who you are and use that information against you.
We did get one entertaining one a few months ago. Phone rang, and it was an area code I didn't recognize. Picked up the phone, heard maniacal laughter and street noise, then a hangup.
Generally when someone calls in, the caller ID will bring up their account information immediately. If not, we have to search for the number in the system. In this case, it listed no account attached to that number. Then you have to document that it was a call-in with no attached account, and get the dialler to allow you to move on. It is about as time-consuming as it sounds.
As I was searching for the number, our manager stood up. "Wait - how many of you are documenting a Yonkers number right now?"
"Yonkers?"
"914."
Turns out four of us, with an incoming call to the fifth. Six of us were on that evening, and that last person was talking to a borrower. So this person in Yonkers had effectively shut down our department with maniacal laughter and hangups.
Benny, the first person to get the call finished documenting the hangup, and his window flashed yellow for incoming call. "Oh crap - it's him again. Same number."
Manager picked up the phone and tried to get the person to talk, but no answer other than the laughter and hanging up. Then on to the second one - around the horn again.
"Okay - nobody answer that call. I'm calling the dialler department to see what we can do. This is insane." And with that she was off.
We all left our windows open to after-call. One person finished documenting the borrower call, and his window lit right up and we heard the laughter through the headset. So our department was shut down for about ten minutes while we waited. Finally, our manager came down.
"They ran the number and it isn't in any system at all. We did a 411 search and it's not listed, so they're re-routing it to a special line upstairs and calling the phone company to find out where it's coming from. But it's safe to dial again."
A few minutes later someone from the dialler department came down. "It's a pay phone out in Yonkers somewhere. We put in a harassment complaint, and the phone company said they were dispatching a police officer to the phone location to have a chat with the person there."
Ten minutes later I get a phone call, and pick it up. Loud maniacal laughter, and a hangup. "It's him again," I called out to the manager. "Laughing guy."
"But the dialler department blocked the number! How is he calling in again?"
Our senior collector laughed. "How much you want to bet it's the payphone a couple blocks down the street?"
"God DAMMIT! No one answer anything from Yonkers." And with that, our manager was off to the dialler department at full speed.
Turns out the phone company requested a police officer at the offending phone, and another one at the next public payphone down the block, which seemed to cut things off for the rest of the evening.
In the case of the Alaska call, it did bring up an account that claimed this was a wrong number a couple of days before. I documented the belch, and sent an internal e-mail to the collector responsible for the account to take a close look at it. We'll see how that worked out for them in a couple of days.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Mice
My apartment in Poultney, Vermont was essentially a cabin in the woods over a garage. I remember one morning of opening my front door and being face-to-face with a huge buck who looked prepared to knock and ask for a cup of coffee. There were also squirrels, raccoons, birds, and most anything else you could expect to find in the Vermont near-woods.
And mice. Let's not forget the mice.
The mice clearly had ownership of the downstairs kitchen, as I found out when I came down one evening to saw them chewing on some bread I'd left on the counter. I growled at them and waved my arms, appearing as what I was - a gigantic carnivore.
The mice stared at me for a moment, cocking their heads to one side - then kept eating. Even when I walked right up to them, they didn't move until I slammed my fist down on the counter. Barely moved out of the way, I might add.
The next day I called my landlord to see if he had any traps around. He stopped by with a couple of "safety" spring-loaded plastic traps. They worked on the same theory as the regular traps (snap down to break neck), but a plastic hood came down instead off a metal bar. You could reset the trap by means of a clamp on one side, so no need to risk breaking a finger or touching dead mice. It seemed perfect.
Kartik came over the next night, when we heard a loud thunking sound from the kitchen. We crept down the stairs to see one of the traps trying to crawl under the refrigerator. The trap was too big, and it thumped and squeaked every time it hit the edge.
I released the trap, and saw something grey attached to the side. It was a mouse foot. And that was the end of the traps. I agreed to just let the mice live, and all would be fine.
However, my girlfriend Stephanie moved in a month or so later, and the instant the mice got into her cooking supplies she said they had to go. Neither of us liked traps, and she was adamantly against D-Con. So we decided the best decision would be to get cats.
So we got a pair of cats from her brother and his girlfriend, who had seven cats and a Rottweiler living in a one-bedroom mobile home. We got the two that the girlfriend said "had no personality" - Spot and Gimpy, a pair of mostly white cats with some black spots.
I had no idea what Spot looked like for the first three months we owned him. He never came out when people were around. Ever. Hid under the bed. Ate only at night. He was a shadow.
Gimpy was...well, the name fit. Gimpy was farsighted (would run up to dropped food, stop one foot short, then spend five minutes sniffing it out), he had a bent tail, his hips were built funny to give him a perpetual swagger, and he would thunk you with his head for affection and fall over from hitting too hard. His eyes looked disturbingly human. And he was allergic to cat dander.
Yes - Gimpy was allergic to himself. Sneezing and weepy eyes all the time. Though he got much better after not being locked up with six other cats and a dog.
And the mice? Gimpy thought they were fascinating. He would sit on the stairs and watch them for hours as they ran back and forth across the counter. Apparently farsightedness really cuts into hunting ability - who knew? Or maybe he was allergic to them.
I mentioned the situation to Mark, my landlord, and he came up with a suggestion - his dad was going out of town, and needed someone to watch his cat for him. Tough cat. Big old alley cat that had been living near feral in a junkyard for the first year of his life, then in a car with a homeless person for another year. Popsicle was his name, as that was his food of choice during the homeless year.
Popsicle was a huge, long-haired tiger cat who also ruled the downstairs. He tried to come upstairs a few times, but Gimpy would bat at his head and hiss, and Popsicle (who could have eaten Gimpy) would stay in the kitchen.
Two days after Popsicle's arrival I went to the back of the kitchen to get coffee, and saw a mouse's head on the floor near where the mice routinely went in and out. Just the head...and the spine. I had visions of the pirates hanged at the entrances to Caribbean ports as a warning, or of heads on pikes after a victorious medieval battle. And Popsicle was purring in the corner, asleep.
And after that, there were no more mice.
And mice. Let's not forget the mice.
The mice clearly had ownership of the downstairs kitchen, as I found out when I came down one evening to saw them chewing on some bread I'd left on the counter. I growled at them and waved my arms, appearing as what I was - a gigantic carnivore.
The mice stared at me for a moment, cocking their heads to one side - then kept eating. Even when I walked right up to them, they didn't move until I slammed my fist down on the counter. Barely moved out of the way, I might add.
The next day I called my landlord to see if he had any traps around. He stopped by with a couple of "safety" spring-loaded plastic traps. They worked on the same theory as the regular traps (snap down to break neck), but a plastic hood came down instead off a metal bar. You could reset the trap by means of a clamp on one side, so no need to risk breaking a finger or touching dead mice. It seemed perfect.
Kartik came over the next night, when we heard a loud thunking sound from the kitchen. We crept down the stairs to see one of the traps trying to crawl under the refrigerator. The trap was too big, and it thumped and squeaked every time it hit the edge.
I released the trap, and saw something grey attached to the side. It was a mouse foot. And that was the end of the traps. I agreed to just let the mice live, and all would be fine.
However, my girlfriend Stephanie moved in a month or so later, and the instant the mice got into her cooking supplies she said they had to go. Neither of us liked traps, and she was adamantly against D-Con. So we decided the best decision would be to get cats.
So we got a pair of cats from her brother and his girlfriend, who had seven cats and a Rottweiler living in a one-bedroom mobile home. We got the two that the girlfriend said "had no personality" - Spot and Gimpy, a pair of mostly white cats with some black spots.
I had no idea what Spot looked like for the first three months we owned him. He never came out when people were around. Ever. Hid under the bed. Ate only at night. He was a shadow.
Gimpy was...well, the name fit. Gimpy was farsighted (would run up to dropped food, stop one foot short, then spend five minutes sniffing it out), he had a bent tail, his hips were built funny to give him a perpetual swagger, and he would thunk you with his head for affection and fall over from hitting too hard. His eyes looked disturbingly human. And he was allergic to cat dander.
Yes - Gimpy was allergic to himself. Sneezing and weepy eyes all the time. Though he got much better after not being locked up with six other cats and a dog.
And the mice? Gimpy thought they were fascinating. He would sit on the stairs and watch them for hours as they ran back and forth across the counter. Apparently farsightedness really cuts into hunting ability - who knew? Or maybe he was allergic to them.
I mentioned the situation to Mark, my landlord, and he came up with a suggestion - his dad was going out of town, and needed someone to watch his cat for him. Tough cat. Big old alley cat that had been living near feral in a junkyard for the first year of his life, then in a car with a homeless person for another year. Popsicle was his name, as that was his food of choice during the homeless year.
Popsicle was a huge, long-haired tiger cat who also ruled the downstairs. He tried to come upstairs a few times, but Gimpy would bat at his head and hiss, and Popsicle (who could have eaten Gimpy) would stay in the kitchen.
Two days after Popsicle's arrival I went to the back of the kitchen to get coffee, and saw a mouse's head on the floor near where the mice routinely went in and out. Just the head...and the spine. I had visions of the pirates hanged at the entrances to Caribbean ports as a warning, or of heads on pikes after a victorious medieval battle. And Popsicle was purring in the corner, asleep.
And after that, there were no more mice.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Maybe tomorrow...I'll find my way....
I've recently been listening to a lot of Stereophonics - a Welsh band that sells out stadiums in every other country that isn't the US. I'm not entirely sure why that is, but I have some theories. They combine catchy pop/rock hooks with great storytelling - two things we keep in separate rooms (if not separate buildings) in American music.
Also, their lead singer/guitarist has two American strikes against him: His first name is Kelly, and he's short. Like 5'6" in motorcycle boots short.
"Decade in the Sun" is their greatest hits, and it's a good starting point.
I've been listening especially to two songs - the first is "Dakota"
I will be writing a post about that on the 12th of Never. Just sayin.
The other is called "Maybe Tomorrow":
The hook draws you in, but it's the lyrics:
I've been down and
I'm wondering why
These little black clouds
Keep walking around
With me
With me
It wastes time
And I'd rather be high
Think I'll walk me outside
And buy a rainbow smile
But be free
They're all free
I'm wondering why
These little black clouds
Keep walking around
With me
With me
It wastes time
And I'd rather be high
Think I'll walk me outside
And buy a rainbow smile
But be free
They're all free
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
I like the message, especially after the events of the past year or so. The trip to Maine did wonders for my sanity, and putting some things in perspective. And giving some direction, which is something I desperately needed. Possibly more on that later.
So I'm gonna walk me outside and buy a rainbow smile. I know there's one out there. And maybe tomorrow I'll find my way home.
I look around at a beautiful life
Been the upperside of down
Been the inside of out
But we breathe
We breathe
I wanna breeze and an open mind
I wanna swim in the ocean
Wanna take my time for me
All me
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
Been the upperside of down
Been the inside of out
But we breathe
We breathe
I wanna breeze and an open mind
I wanna swim in the ocean
Wanna take my time for me
All me
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
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