Platform Holly © Paul Wellman

Simon Rubinstein grew up in Brooklyn during changing times. The Rubinsteins had a pawnshop that preyed on the ups and downs of the locality. Both Simon and his parents were generally despised by their neighbors and customers, gradually becoming more and more, African-American as the more traditional occupants of the borough moved up and out. An only child and somewhat isolated during high school, Simon didn't fit in and didn't even have a girlfriend.

Simon worked in the shop from 11, learning how to pinch every dollar out of a transaction. After high school, he found college a bit out of reach and the only way out for him with low grades was to join the Marines. Simon's father, Herman, was upset when he heard that his son wanted to leave at 17, but understood the young man's desire to get out of what was rapidly becoming, a bad neighborhood. Herman wanted out, too. But he was too rooted and didn't have enough money, he felt, to move elsewhere and start over.

Young Rubinstein found the discipline of the Marines to his liking and enjoyed where the service took him. After campaigns in Grenada, Lebanon, and the Gulf War, he had put in his 20 and retired, a Lance Corporal at 37. Returning home to Herman and Zelda, his mother, Simon found that they wanted him to take over the pawnshop so they could retire to Florida. When Simon told his parents that he had joined the mercenary group, Elam, contracted to a XL Oil of New Jersey, there was a big fight and Simon left the house, never to return, he thought. Simon recalled his teenage years in the shop and wanted nothing of it. His parents' plans to retire on the beneficence of their son had failed, too.

Simon's work with XL Oil took him to Nigeria. There, he helped enforce the oil company's claims that were sometimes dubious and contested by local tribes and political usurpers in a rather tumultuous country where only force and bribery could get things done at times.

Rosenstein's assignments took him as far north as across the border into Niger where the desert was creeping in and driving villagers from their farms and livelihoods with a series of droughts that continued to get worse over the years. Creating a vacuum for war.

It was here, working for XL Oil, that Simon learned of Boko Haram, the Islamic terrorist group that worked to undermine the oil company's assets in Niger and Nigeria. He participated in some clandestine firefights with the group that seemed to be continually gaining young recruits making old soldiers like him began to feel like there was no winning any war against Boko Haram. In his fifth year with Elam, Simon quit. With nowhere else to go, but flush from mercenary money in addition to his military pension wake up that he hadn't spent and feeling a bit guilty, Simon called Herman.

The pawnshop phone rang a few times until someone picked up. Simon didn't wait for anyone to answer on the other end. "Hello, Dad. It's me, Simon."

"What do you want?" The old man was clearly still angry by his tone.

"I've decided to help you retire so that you can close the shop."

"It's about time. Your mother and I wanted that five years ago, but you had to go gallivanting off and leave us here just hanging on. What kind of son is that!" Herman's words rang loud and bitter in Simon's ear. But he had no other place to go. At least for now. Time to make amends.

"My flight is due to land at Kennedy about 1 pm tomorrow. I can catch a Lyft and be over there about 2. Tell Mom that I'm coming."

"Okay. I'm sure she'll be happy. I want to let you know that I'm not." Herman hung up with a scowl. Thinking about it, a smile gradually crept on his face. The thought of retirement made him smile, not the news of his ungrateful prodigal son returning.

Simon returned home and was glad to find that Zelda had prepared some of his favorite kosher food. But it was harder for Herman to forgive and forget. Simon convinced him with money. He moved into his old room to save money and simultaneously began looking for a retirement community near Miami to move his parents to while putting the pawnshop up for sale.

It took nearly a year and they didn't get what they were asking, but a Lebanese immigrant got the place for about three quarters of their initial asking price and Simon kicked in the rest so that his parents could retire comfortably in Florida. They left Homestead in Herman and Zelda's name, so that it could be sold later. Simon told them that he would leave it when he was ready, sell it, and deposit the money in their Florida retirement account.

In the meantime, Simon had been playing the ponies and hanging out at Atlantic City casinos whittling away at the nest egg he had gathered during his time in the service and working for Elam. He found much of the old neighborhood depressing with a lot of kids on the street and gangs forming that he knew might turn into terrorists or criminal enterprises that went well beyond, "The Hood." A scheme was hatching in his mind to recover his losses and might help those kids, too.

On good graces with Herman again, Simon sent his parents off to Florida and their new house in a gated retirement community, while he stayed in the old place.

Built during the boom times right after World War II and showing it, dated in every way right down to the linoleum and fused electrical system that was always failing in one way or another. Simon didn't have the money to renovate the place and his military pension was not going to sustain him in retirement. He had to find something else to do with his time and what little money he had left.

*****

Simon called up George Walter, property manager for XL Oil. "George, do you have any offshore rigs for rent? I was thinking of doing a documentary and using an oil rig would be great for filming it."

"Glad you asked, Simon. We recently decommissioned NJ 3 about 5 miles off the coast. According to EPA guidelines, we were going to dismantle it, but I guess you could lease it from us for a while to do your documentary. What's it about?"

"Well, kind of a modern Ellis Island for refugees from Niger. Could be good publicity for the company if you let me have it for a discounted price. I'm on a real limited budget."

"Okay, it sounds like a good deal for the company. How long would you need the place?"

"About six months. A transition and training time for the refugees. Time to learn English and US ways, acclimate." Simon was crossing his fingers that he could afford it.

"I'll talk to the CFO about it. If we do it gratisfor you, it could give the company some well needed positive publicity and a tax write off as well. I can't promise anything, but I'll give it a shot… Okay."

"Okay. Thanks a lot. Let me know what the CFO says. I'll get started on the project. I'm bringing 32 refugee boys over from Africa, and that is getting costly."

Simon hung up the phone and danced a little horah with nobody watching. If he could get the platform for free, that would be the best thing that could happen. Might even get money from the company or a plane to fly to Africa and pick up the kids.

Simon had been taking walks around the neighborhood and had befriended a couple of boys at a local vacant lot where they played basketball on a set of makeshift hoops provided by a local church. There was also drug dealing going on in that location and there was some suspicion when he first came through and stopped to watch.

But Simon soon started placing bets with some of the kids on shots. He purposely lost a few times and cultivated Gerald, a 16-year-old fatherless waif that was skinny in spite of his fast food diet from his hard-working mother. After establishing a connection, Simon called out one day, "Gerald… Five says you can't make a three-pointer from the corner!"

"Easy shot Rosy!" A nickname local kids had started calling Rosenstein. Gerald lined up in the corner of the lot about 60 feet from the hoop, fired off a quick one and it dropped through with a whoosh. "That'll be five bucks, Rosy!"

Simon waved Gerald over to the bench he was sitting on and patted the seat next to him with the fiver in his hand. He held it back as Gerald dropped down on the seat, sweating from exertion and the heat of the day. Wiping the sweat off his face with his T-shirt. Trying to grab the five dollar bill that Simon kept pulling back and not giving to him.

"How would you like to make a lot more than this?"

"Whattaya mean? Gerald asked with a puzzled look on his face. Sweat still dripping off his nose. He wiped it again.

"School's out next week. I'd like you to recruit some guys, nobody older than you… Say 30 or so. You get them all here next Monday morning at 9 am and I'll spot you twenty for each recruit. Tell them that I'll pay them each $300 next week for a movie that I'm making. They'll all become actors, get to explore an oil rig offshore and have a great time. Bring a bunch, say 40 guys, here at 3 pm next Friday and I'll pick out who goes and who doesn't. An audition. Can you do it?"

"Hell yeah… Done deal. Now, give me my five, Rosy!" Gerald narrowed his stare at Simon in earnest.

Simon handed over the bill. The deal was cast. He had work to do.

Simon knew a guy who had come to the pawnshop often to buy moviemaking equipment. Kind of an amateur moviemaker. Charles Rhodes. He gave Charles a call. "I want to make a movie depicting refugees from Africa that I will have on an oil drilling platform off the Jersey coast next week. Can you do it for me?"

"That's awful short notice, Simon."

"Com’n, you know you aren't doing anything next week. Or the week after. You're just living off that trust fund making movies you post on YouTube."

"You read me like a book, Simon. Okay, but what are you payin’?"

"I figure, a G note. And, that will include you making me a website and your posting some movies on YouTube that you take. Short ones, maybe less than 10 minutes long. I would hold you to 10 of these on different subjects, but you can make more."

"What's the script? You got a screenplay? A theme? What?"

"We'll play it by ear. Just set up scenarios and then, shoot. Nothing fancy."

"Okay, nothing fancy. Just bring my iPad and solar charger? Maybe my laptop. You and I can do the editing on my computers to suit your needs and then upload them to YouTube.… From what I'm hearing I think I'm going to like this." Charles smiled to himself when he hung up the phone.

Then, it was off to a local camping rental store where Simon rented bedrolls, pots and pans and other things that he would need for the week in order to give the boys a modicum of existence, something he learned while being a mercenary in Africa.

Finally, he talked to a retired mercenary friend to be his cook and bottle washer to buy food for 35 hungry kids for a week and then prepare it. Henry Morgan was an old friend and agreed to do it gratis. Buying the food and other essentials on a credit card that Simon provided him with.

Everyone would meet at the dock at 10 am on Monday morning. And Simon also promised that everyone would return by 5 pm the following Friday. Plenty of time to get in some good short moviemaking. It would take all the cash that he had, but Simon was planning on a big reward.

Simon's next move was the clincher. As soon as Charles had launched a rather descriptive website, entitled, Save the Lost Boys, with pictures from African villages that Simon had absconded from various African news and relief sites of pathetic boys starving in African villages, Simon called the New York Times.

"Hello, Operator? Could you please direct me to someone who can write a human interest story? It concerns African child refugees." Without responding, the newspaper operator transferred the call to the World News Desk.

A crack young reporter, Randy Stephens, picked up. "World News Desk."

Simon repeated his original spiel. Stephens replied, "What have you got? I'll take it from here for now. Do you mind being recorded?" He got ready to type into his laptop, too.

"That's okay. I want you to get every bit of this…" Randy turned on the recorder. "This is Simon Rubinstein. I have recently returned from Africa after working for XL Oil Company in Nigeria and Niger. I am now retired and want to help a group of young boys that I have rescued from a village where the elders were killed. All the girls were taken by Boko Haram. These young boys were left to fend for themselves. I found them starving and I'm bringing them to an unused XL drilling platform off the coast of New Jersey that I am using to acclimate them to the United States like Ellis Island did."

Randy was intrigued, but concerned. "Is this about that old story of the girls that were taken two years ago?"

"No, no one knows about this except the mercenary group I was with. We rounded them up, fed them and got them headed this way.

They are in route and should arrive at the platform next Monday from an XL tanker. I'm still getting set up for their arrival. I will give The Times an exclusive on this… I'd like you to come out near the end of the week, say next Thursday, after I have settled the boys in and have got them started on their English lessons--they speak French--how to behave in public, information on the United States, and how to apply for refugee status. If you could write an article, it would help me raise money for their cause."

"It certainly sounds like a breaking story that we would like to print and put on our website. I'll check with the managing editor to see if I can fly out there next Thursday to take pictures and notes for an article. Is that okay with you?"

"Sure is, Mr. Stephens. In the meantime, you can take a look at our website." Simon gave Stephens GPS information for NJ 3, the website url, and his cell phone number. Randy gave Simon his cell phone number. When Simon got off the line, he fairly spun out-of-control doing another horah in his excitement.

On Friday afternoon at 3 pm, Simon showed up at the basketball court to find that Gerald had come through with his part of the bargain. Forty-two boys were milling around the court waiting for him to arrive. Simon did a quick inspection of each boy, ranging from 6 to 16 in age and in all sizes and shapes. Simon was looking for any obvious tattoos, piercings whose metal couldn't be replaced by bone or wood, obesity, designer clothing that couldn't be changed out, expensive hairdos and weaves that couldn't be removed. Fortunately, many of the boys were a bit strung out on drugs that had the look of starving refugees that he was looking for.

After calling out those that couldn't be corrected, 28 were cleared to go. Simon told Gerald to make sure that when they came to the boat that they would be wearing worn shorts, T-shirts or shirts, and old flip-flops. If they didn't have them, he told Gerald, "Get some for them."

Those that were turned down were very disappointed. But Rosy told them, "If I have any other gigs coming up, I will audition you," lying. Simon handed out a release sheet to each of the boys to give to a parent to sign and return. He didn't tell them he had modeled it after one found on the Internet. Didn't know if it was legal or not.

*****

Gerald and the other kids showed up on time at the dock. Three had dropped out, but Gerald got substitutes that fit Simon's criteria and only about half had their signed release sheets. Simon brushed it off. No time to rehash that; time was money.

Some of the kids hadn't been in a boat before, much less a party boat with snacks, ice cream, and free sodas. It was a party all the way to the oil platform… feeding seagulls potato chips and crackers.

But when they got to the platform, Simon had the boys line up on the exercise deck to give them the what for. "Good morning, gentlemen. For the entire week I want you to be as African as you can. And French as you can. I understand that a couple of you have parents who are African immigrants. That's good. You know how to talk. And, I understand that a couple of you know French. That's better. I will enlist you to be teachers of the other guys for the acting jobs I will put you to. By Thursday, I want you to be as African as possible because I'm having the New York Times here and you will be stars if an article is written about you. There will also be YouTube movies with you in them. Millions may watch your acting. Do you understand!" Simon's eyes searched the line of boys before him for dissenters.

Almost in unison, the boys all cried out, "Yes boss!" Just like they had seen in boot camp movies. Their training began in earnest that afternoon. By the next day. Simon and Charles began setting up scenarios. Using the classroom on the platform and the chalkboard, they videoed scenes of the boys learning English, Americana, and information on how to properly immigrate and even, for the younger ones, how to be adopted. On the chalk board were carefully chalked words like, Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, Star-Spangled Banner, famous presidents, and other informational titles like Green Card and The Immigration Process.

Using a number of used computers that Charles and Simon and scrounged up, they set up a computer lab and the boys pretended to be learning how to use them. It looked really authentic, especially since the old computers were badly needing upgrade. There were a few obsolete smart pads and cell phones, some damaged and unworkable, that were supposedly to teach the boys how to use them.

A video was made in the dining room, showing the young Africans how to use utensils and eat properly, a task that took some doing because of their primitive existence before. Also some rudimentary manners, like how to approach and speak to people, shake hands, etc.

A video was made of the whole group doing calisthenics in cheap shorts and T-shirts that constituted a kind of uniform, also with a coverall that was worn over the gym clothes for most other shots. The boys were shown playing soccer like every African already knows and being taught how to play basketball while some of the guys feigned ineptitude to other guys' snickers, requiring several repeated and deleted clips by Charles to get that scene right.

After a hearty meal every evening, the guys were left to explore the platform, get high or whatever they wanted to do while Simon and Charles sweated over editing the videos and sending them up to YouTube as well as providing links on the website. By Wednesday, everything was going swimmingly and everyone was happy. But it was time to crack down.

At the evening meal, Simon admonished the guys to be really careful, "When the newspaper guys come tomorrow. Don't talk to them. Let us do the talking. If they do ask you something, say, 'Je ne parle pas anglai.'" A roar laughter erupted from the guys at the way that Simon butchered the phrase. But he held up his hand to stop them. "I'm serious, you could blow the whole thing and a lot of money. So practice this phrase with the two guys that know French here so that you will say it like you mean it."

"I know that some of you won't be able to master that phrase, like me. Instead, I suggest you get together with our three here who speak an African tribal language and learn how to imitate it with some nonsense like, 'bucca du wooka…'" Once again the boys interrupted by laughing their heads off. And once again Simon raised his hand to stop them.

“I'm dead serious about this, guys, so bear with me and we will all be rewarded. And please, never call me, Rosy, around anyone who might think it too personal. Always say, Mr. Rosenstein." A tickle of laughter erupted and then died down.

From the back one of the boys yelled, "Okay, Mr. Rosy!"

The next day, promptly at 10 am, Randy Stephens arrived like a television reporter on the NYT helicopter with a photographer/cameraman, Peter Daniels. Simon was ready with "his boys" in the exercise yard in their gym clothes doing calisthenics. He then took Randy on a tour of the facilities that they were using and had Charles show him the YouTube videos that they had staged earlier showing the facilities being used.

A few sketches had been practiced like Saturday Night Live to perform for Randy, pictures and videos. All went as planned except for a couple of missteps by a couple of the boys resulting in some giggles, but nothing that really caught Stephen's practiced eye. He was convinced that what Simon was doing was a very good thing that needed more funding to pull off and bring other boys from Africa. Randy held an interview with Simon before he left, taking copious notes on his laptop as well as recording.

Stephens: "You have an impressive operation going on here. How long do you think before these young immigrants will be able to be ready to enter American society?”

Rosenstein: "I expect we can do it in six months. But I need teachers, coaches and others, including volunteers, to make it happen. People who can get them foster parents and their immigration process started. I know of many more refugees in that drought ravaged politically compromised area that would benefit from this program. We have enough space here to work with 300 young people at a time… Eventually girls, too… with the right resources. We have set up a GoFundMe webpage that will hopefully get us started with funding for what we want to do."

*****

Randy Stephens met his helicopter at 3 pm and had written his story in time for the human interest section of the paper for the Sunday edition. Purposely chosen when people had more time to read it. He emphasized the GoFundMe page in the article with a quick link on the webpage version.

When the GoFundMe webpage had been set up a week and a half before, money had come trickling in, a few dollars at a time so at the time Simon got all of the guys off the party boat and paid, there was about $3600 posted by the few that happened upon the YouTube videos or the Lost Boys website. Not nearly enough to begin to pay his expenses for the week on the platform. Simon called George and told him that he, "Didn't need the platform anymore, go ahead and demolish it. Thank the CFO for his generosity." He didn't need the platform and probably wouldn't pay for his expenses.

By Sunday night after the article was in the paper, the amount of money in the GoFundMe page was surpassing $100,000 rapidly and Simon's phone began ringing. After that began a number of visits to talk shows with the two, well-paid African guys, who were coached what to say in African or French. Mostly, they kept quiet and smiled.

By the end of that week, the page was showing $585,000 and growing. There seemed no end to the money coming in with the now, worldwide publicity Simon was getting. Quickly, he consulted with his family's Jewish lawyer, and set up a nonprofit to accept the money.

Under GoFundMe rules, Simon waited carefully for when he could take the money. Besides, it continued to grow and he wanted that to happen first. Finally, when he was allowed, he moved the money into the nonprofit. Through the help of Charles, who he paid handsomely, Simon learned how to move money from the nonprofit to an offshore in the Azores. He had Charles remove all the videos, the website, and canceled the GoFundMe page. 

And then, Simon simply left behind the family home in Brooklyn and disappeared. Or so he thought. Canceled all his utilities, cell phone service and didn't forward his mail. It piled up on the floor through the front door mail slot. Callers got a, “disconnected or out of service," message. Doubts begin to appear among those who tried to reach him.

A month after the initial article, Randy thought it would be a good idea to do a follow-up. After all, the GoFundMe page had exceeded $3 million by the first two weeks wake up, and he was eager to see what improvements had been made on the Ellis Island of the 21st Century. Randy decided to just "drop in." It was a technique that he used to get some of his best stories. When Peter and he reached the platform, Randy was shocked to see that it was being dismantled by XL Oil, from the markers on the crane boats and barges. He let out a, "God dammit!" And ordered the pilot to return to NYC.

Randy's article the next day appeared on the front page. "Thousands bilked by a human interest story that first broke here on the New York Times." is not new number on With an open apology, the Times declared that it would help law enforcement get to the bottom of the perpetrators and punish them to the full extent of the law. Refunds of all the lost donations would be guaranteed by GoFundMe.com under their insurance agreements, but the Times would also help with reimbursement that the losses caused.

The FBI immediately got involved and descended upon the Rosenstein home. Already ransacked and occupied by a couple of homeless. They found nothing there, but did find that some kids on the street knew "Rosy" and led them to Gerald. Like the rest of the kids, Gerald could tell the feds little and although he was pictured on some of the videos, they figured him to be more of a victim than a perpetrator and didn't charge him with any crime.

But Gerald led investigators to the seedy apartment of Charles Rhodes. Also hastily abandoned. But Charles was sloppier than Simon. By checking airlines, they found that he had taken a flight a week before to Tampa, Florida. By checking Uber and Lyft records they found a trail to a luxury apartment complex overlooking Tampa Bay.

Charles was there with new computer equipment setting up to get back in the business of running his online websites and businesses, making YouTube movies, flush with cash that Simon shared with him to keep him quiet. He blabbed, but could tell nothing of Simon's whereabouts. Suddenly, he was on all the newsfeeds, and by association, was banned from his business on the Internet as well as being charged criminally for participating in the scheme that he knew was a ripoff. Eventually, Charles got two years with time off for good behavior. And he had to turn back all of the $500,000 that Simon had given him from the donors.

Herman and Zelda were enjoying their retirement and hadn't picked up on the news when the FBI made a surprise visit in the middle of the night. Shocked and confused, with Zelda nearly having a heart attack and having to be taken to a clinic, Herman confessed that he hadn't heard from his son since moving there, and basically had washed his hands of whatever their son had done before after being so good to them. After much interrogation, the FBI realized, the elderly couple didn't know anything about the scheme or where their son was.

As beneficiary of the GoFundMe proceeds, Simon had simply wired the $500,000 to a bank account that Rhodes set up in a bank in Tampa. The remaining $3.8 million Simon wired at the same time to an offshore account in the Azores. Interpol was brought in because the account was out of US jurisdiction, but that became a dead-end when the island involved had no agreement with international police. It appeared that Simon Rosenstein had done his homework. But everything led to an oil patch connection.

Thanks to Gerald and a couple of the boys who had contact with him after the week on the platform, the FBI found Henry Morgan on Long Island. Knowing what trouble he was in, Henry told them, "I guess I made a big mistake. I knew what Simon was into, but didn't stop it. Through my connections in the oil business, I helped him get that offshore account. I also suggested some places where he might go to 'disappear.'"

The agent in charge asked, "And where might that be?"

“I mentioned a number of places. Places like Cambodia or Sri Lanka. But the oil company had some expatriates living on a small island off the coast of New Guinea. He didn't tell me exactly, but I think he might've gone there."

Through their international connections, the FBI, within a day, found out where Simon was hiding and made arrangements to have him arrested. For his part in helping the FBI solve the case, Henry Morgan was given probation. At his age and physical condition, he wouldn't have lasted long in prison anyway.

When the New Guinea police surrounded Simon's cabana where he was hanging out with two girls he had procured through the international sex trade, both 14 years old, he was thrown in a dismal jail to rot, hoping that the FBI would extradite him so that he could receive better treatment in a federal prison. After finding out that New Guinea had sentenced him to 20 years, all of the donors who lost money sent a petition requesting that Simon Rosenstein not be extradited.

After some time, most of the money in the offshore account found its way back to the donors. The rest was covered by insurance. In the meantime, thousands of orphaned boys and girls on the African continent were left starving and dying of thirst or from polluted water.

Copyright 2019 © Ronald W. Hull

3/19/19