Priceless (19 page)

I nodded, and as Goldman spoke I scooped a spoonful of kung pao chicken onto my plate. We sat in the back of Szechuan China Royal, a popular Philadelphia law-enforcement haunt—reliable, reasonably priced specials with well-spaced tables in a discreet basement dining room, a joint generally ignored by the white-collar mob that swarms Walnut Street at lunchtime.

“This is the case where we’ll make a difference,” he said. “This is great.”

Goldman, historian, collector, federal prosecutor, was a huge
Antiques Roadshow
fan. He watched it nearly every week. But like others, he’d long suspected some segments might be staged. It was too smooth. People offered things they inherited or discovered—a chair, a sword, a watch, an armoire, whatever—and voilà, an expert offered an off-the-cuff appraisal. How could the so-called experts make such quick appraisals? Didn’t they ever have to look anything up? Didn’t they ever make a mistake? Or simply get stumped?

“Bob,” I’d always tell him, “relax. It’s just TV, just entertainment.”

“Yeah,” the prosecutor would say, “but they’re passing themselves off as experts. Television has this way of deifying people. Viewers believe what these guys say.”

Faking a segment on a TV show isn’t, by itself, a federal crime. But faking a segment on TV to further a scheme to defraud collectors
is
a crime. And now that I was beginning to confirm that
Pritchard and Juno had used some PBS segments to help trick viewers into selling other pieces at absurdly low prices, I shared Goldman’s outrage.

We also knew that Pritchard and Juno were busy helping the mayor of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, acquire a collection for a new Civil War museum, not far from Gettysburg. The mayor expected to spend $14 million on acquisitions—enough money, as my prosecutor friend liked to say, “to blind the conscience and steal the soul.” We’d already confirmed at least one case in which Pritchard and Juno used
Antiques Roadshow
and the Harrisburg museum deal to scam a collector. If there was one, there were probably many more.

Goldman was right: This just might be the case we’d been waiting for.

He and I often lamented over the unregulated, buyer-beware antiques and collectibles market, which operated largely on an honor system, where everyone was a salesman, provenance was sketchy, and dealers lived by their reputations. Hustlers sold fakes and reproductions, and unscrupulous dealers ripped off the naive. Honest brokers complained from time to time, but law enforcement agencies rarely showed interest. The cons were usually too small to attract the FBI’s attention, and too complicated for local police departments with little or no art crime experience and limited resources. Most such sales were poorly documented; often, evidence consisted of little more than a handshake and a promise. Besides, proving fraud in the antiques trade isn’t easy: Who’s to say what’s a fair deal? Where do you draw the line between a sucker deal and a scam?

To be sure, there’s always been a reasonable amount of salesmanship in the collectibles and antiques industry. The law even allows a bit of puffery. Say, for example, an antiques dealer offers an opinion—“This is the best Chinese vase in the shop”—that’s puffery, and perfectly legal. But if the dealer offers a lie—“This is the
best authentic Ming vase in the shop,” and he knows the vase is not authentic Ming—that’s fraud. Dealers understand this difference and exploit it. Lately, the number of unscrupulous dealers seemed to be growing. And no one in the federal government seemed interested in doing anything about it.

Goldman and I longed to send a message to the antiques and collectibles community, something that would make a big splash, enough to frighten shady brokers and alert unsuspecting collectors. But we needed a high-profile case, one with overwhelming evidence of widespread fraud, featuring white-collar collectors or appraisers, the antiques world equivalent of a Ken Lay or Bernie Madoff.

Pritchard and Juno presented such an opportunity. Here were a pair of local but nationally known appraisers, public television stars no less. If we could prove that they were dirty—that they fixed
Antiques Roadshow
segments and ripped off viewers in other sales—we wouldn’t just be sending them to prison, we’d be putting the collecting community on notice.

“I know it sounds like a cliché,” Goldman said as the waiter brought our fortune cookies and the check. “But we’ve got to let people know there’s a new sheriff in town, that somebody out there is watching.”

I agreed with Goldman, thrilled with his assessment and support. Still, I couldn’t help tweaking my friend. “OK, excellent, excellent. I’m in. But one thing: If there’s a new sheriff in town, I’m Wyatt Earp and you’re Deputy Dawg.”

M
OST
FBI
AGENTS
love to dive into piles of documents, combing through bills, credit card receipts, phone bills, letters, e-mail messages, bank statements, E-ZPass logs, court depositions, and other paper records, emerging from these fishing expeditions with smoking-gun evidence of a crime.

Not me.

I certainly subpoenaed records and used them as leads. But my skill was getting out and talking to people.

Thankfully, in the Pritchard and Juno case, my FBI partner, Jay Heine, and I had a head start on the dreaded paper trail. The assist came courtesy of the great-great grandson of the Confederate general George E. Pickett. His lawyer had already collected a mountain of paper evidence against the appraisers.

Months before we formally opened our investigation, the lawyer for George E. Pickett V sued Pritchard and Juno for fraud in federal court in Philadelphia. He alleged that Pritchard tricked him into selling significant Civil War artifacts his ancestor had carried during his calamitous charge at Gettysburg on July 3, 1863, the skirmish that is considered the high-water mark of the Confederacy because that is as far north as the rebels reached. The sale included the blue kepi hat and sword Pickett wore as he rode into the war’s bloodiest battle, as well as a map he sketched of Gettysburg hours before the famous charge. The Pickett family also sold the remnants of the general’s war souvenirs—his officer’s commissioning papers, a bloodstained sleeve ripped from his jacket after a bullet struck his arm, and a stack of letters. Pritchard appraised the artifacts for $87,000 and told Pickett’s descendants that they would have a better home in the new Harrisburg museum. This would be a great way to honor their ancestor’s legacy, Pritchard argued. The Picketts agreed to the sale at the appraised price, $87,000.

Later, George E. Pickett V was stunned to learn that Pritchard had sold the collection to the Harrisburg museum for nearly ten times as much, $850,000. In his lawsuit, Pickett cried foul. More incriminating evidence emerged during the civil trial, and Pickett prevailed with an $800,000 judgment.

Heine and I cherry-picked the best of the Pickett lawsuit records, but it was just the beginning. We pursued our own leads, subpoenaed our own documents, and interviewed our witnesses—not only in the Pickett case, but also in dozens of others that looked suspect. For each transaction, we tried to answer a simple set of
questions: What pieces did Pritchard and Juno obtain? Was the price they paid fair? What promises did they make to the victims? Where did the pieces end up?

What we found made me nauseous.

L
IKE A LOT
of other
Antiques Roadshow
viewers, George K. Wilson of New York City became intrigued watching Juno and Pritchard appraise weapons.

His family owned a Civil War dress sword presented to his great-great-grandfather, Union Army Major Samuel J. Wilson. George Wilson wondered if the sword held historical value. Was it worth selling?

He went to the
Antiques Roadshow
website and found contact information for Pritchard and Juno. What happened next—according to the account Wilson gave me when I interviewed him—offers a window into Pritchard’s confidence game.

After some quick preliminaries on the phone, Pritchard asked if the sword had ever been appraised.

No, Wilson said.

Well, I’ll have to see it in person to give you an appraisal, Pritchard said. I’ll do it free of charge, just like I would on
Antiques Roadshow
, if you FedEx it to me. I’ll even send you the packaging. We do this all the time.

How can you afford to do this all the time at no charge?

The museums and collectors pay us for the appraisals if we sell them. Are you interested in selling the sword?

No, Wilson said. But I’ll be in touch.

Wilson called his mother, explained the offer of a free appraisal, and they agreed to send it to Pritchard. What did they have to lose? When Pritchard received the sword via FedEx, he called Wilson.

The sword is in pretty good shape, Pritchard said, but it needs some professional conservation. There may be some oxidation damage to the steel blade.

OK, Wilson said, how much is it worth?

Well, this sword is not uncommon, Pritchard said. It’s probably worth $7,000 to $8,000.

Hmm, how much will it cost to get it professionally conserved?

About $1,500. Maybe more. But there’s another option. I’m working with the City of Harrisburg, which is about to open a new Civil War Museum. This piece might make a nice addition. If you sell the sword to the museum, their conservators will restore it. They could feature the sword in the museum with a photograph of Major Wilson and a map showing the battles he fought in.

Wilson called back the next day and the two men struck a deal. The museum would buy the sword and include it in its collection. A month later, Pritchard sent Wilson a check for $7,950 drawn from the Pritchard/Juno business account, not from the museum or City of Harrisburg. Confused, Wilson called Pritchard.

Don’t worry, the broker said. We’re just the agent. You’ll be contacted by the museum soon enough.

Wilson cashed the check. It bounced.

Sorry about that, Pritchard said. Must have been an accounting error. I’ll send you a new check. By the way, the museum examined the sword and it’s in worse shape than I thought. You’re lucky the blade didn’t break off. They’ll have to do some heavy repairs before it can be displayed in the museum. But you know what? Good news! I’ll be touring with
Antiques Roadshow
at the Meadowlands in a few weeks. You should come!

The second check cleared and Wilson showed up at the TV taping to ask Pritchard about the progress of the sword conservation. Soon, Pritchard promised, soon. Over the next two years, every month or so, Wilson continued to call with the same question. Each time, he got the same answer.

When Wilson learned of Pickett’s lawsuit, he angrily confronted Juno and Pritchard. He demanded to know why the sword wasn’t displayed in the museum, as promised. Now Pritchard had a new answer: The museum ran out of money, so we sold it to a collector who’s thinking about starting a museum in the Poconos.

Wilson was apoplectic. He demanded to see records proving this, and he offered a ruse of his own to get them, saying that he needed the document for tax purposes.

OK, Pritchard said, but please understand. We have a lot going on and this was a small piece. I’m a good guy, really. Ask around. This Pickett lawsuit hassle is all a misunderstanding. After all, the
Antiques Roadshow
producers are sticking with us. That should tell you something. You know, it’s too bad we haven’t had time to become better friends.

Just send the documents, Wilson said.

As I later discovered, Pritchard never offered the sword to the Harrisburg museum. He let Juno use it as collateral for a $20,000 loan.

Pritchard and Juno pulled similar scams. Pritchard approached the descendants of Union general George Meade and offered to appraise a presentation firearm Meade received after the Battle of Gettysburg. This was an astonishing weapon—a mahogany-cased, .44-caliber Remington pistol with engraved ivory grips, silver-plated frame, and gold-washed cylinder and hammer. Pritchard told the family it was worth $180,000 and promised to place it in the Harrisburg museum. Three months after the Meades sold him the firearm, Pritchard sold it to a private collector for twice the price.

Once, while working with his father, Pritchard received from a Tennessee family an old Confederate uniform, one worn by their ancestor, Lieutenant Colonel William Hunt. The Pritchards falsely informed the family that the uniform was counterfeit and said that because it was worthless they’d donated it to a local charity. In reality, the Pritchards had sold it to a collector for $45,000.

The market for Civil War uniforms was so dirty that even Pritchard himself was once burned. He bought what he thought was a rare Union Zouave jacket, worn by a soldier in a New York regiment. With its ornate chevrons and puffed shoulder pads and a design based on the classic French Legion dress uniform, the
Zouave would have been worth $25,000, if it had been authentic. It was not. It was a Belgian infantry jacket, worth only a few hundred dollars. Furious, Pritchard pulled a scam of his own to fix the problem. Using contacts at the Harrisburg museum, he slipped inside, removed the museum’s authentic Zouave jacket, and put the cheap Belgian jacket in its place.

The man was merciless. Pritchard once appeared unannounced at a nursing home to target a ninety-year-old woman said to possess great Confederate treasures. When he realized the lady was too infirm to talk, he slipped a nurse $100 to get a look at her file, and a phone number for her next of kin.

I
T’S HARD TO
quantify Pritchard’s individual acts of cruelty. But it would be difficult to top the emotional damage he inflicted on the Patterson family of Salisbury, Maryland.

Donald Patterson, a local businessman and active re-enactor, spent a lifetime collecting Civil War memorabilia with his middle-class family—his wife, Elaine; stepson, Robert; and two daughters, Robynn and Lorena. The family helped maintain Don Patterson’s wide-ranging collection of swords, rifles, pistols, uniforms, and knickknacks in a bedroom everyone affectionately called “the Museum.” The holdings included a rare Confederate overcoat, worth at least $50,000 to $100,000.