Chain of Title (37 page)

Lisa and Lynn came prepared with several ideas to improve the clerk of courts office. By this time, word had spread about Lynn's $18 million judgment, which Sharon seemingly saw as a key funding source for the primary. So Lynn was uniformly celebrated as the smartest person in the room. “If you recorded assignments under the homeowner's name, people could find their own records easier,” Lynn said.

“Great point, Lynn!” Sharon Bock shouted enthusiastically between lipstick applications. “Write that down,” she said to her deputy. “Keep a list so we can implement these fine suggestions.”

Lynn asked if Sharon had ever been to foreclosure hearings, which occurred three doors from her office. Sharon said no. Then Lisa asked about the county signing
a case management contract with a division of LPS. “They're still under investigation by the Florida attorney general's office. Don't you see this as a concern?”

“Well, LPS is a respected company,” Sharon replied. “We don't expect any problems.” Lisa would later learn that
LPS gave Sharon a maximum-level contribution for her reelection three days before the meeting. Sharon eventually returned the money.

Lisa brought up the $1.4 billion county investment fund, over half of which was tied up in funds exposed to mortgage-backed securities. Sharon Bock didn't fret about that, either. She leaned back in her chair and said, “Those were all AAA-rated!” Lynn almost spat out her salad.

It went back and forth for a while. Siegel and Bock offered Lisa and Lynn plenty of inducements, from better access to files online to a citizen task force. “The party needs you,” Siegel said, horse trading like he was negotiating a highway bill. Lisa committed to nothing, but tried to stay positive.

As they wrapped up, Tom Conboy thanked everyone for coming, adding, “We've accomplished a lot today.”

After a final splash of lipstick, Bock's smile turned stern. She leaned toward Lisa. “But if you go forward with this campaign, this will be the last time we accomplish anything. We'll be enemies.”

If it was intended as a threat, Lisa didn't pick up on it. “Oh, I don't think so, Sharon. I think we can still work together!”

Candidates in Palm Beach County needed to complete two steps to make the ballot. In March they filed an intent to run. In June candidates could file a petition signed by 5 percent of the county's voting population—about ten thousand names—or pay a filing fee of $9,300 out of campaign contributions. Lisa just started her campaign and saw no reasonable way to amass ten thousand signatures in ninety days. So the first few months mostly involved dialing for dollars.

Every call Lisa made, people responded the same way: “Why don't you ask Lynn Szymoniak?” She'd have to explain that individuals could only donate a maximum of $500. “She's already given that, so now I'm calling you!” Sharon Bock fueled that misimpression, telling supporters that Lisa had millions of dollars behind her. Lynn hadn't even received her money yet, but that didn't matter; Bock raised more off her than Lisa did.

The first non-Lynn contributor was David Weck, head of the Boca Raton Investment Club, a group of local real estate investors that Lynn and Lisa spoke before every year. Many others gave what they could, sometimes just a few dollars. Lisa's ex-husband, Alan, even donated. Grace Rucci, a
Foreclosure Hamlet
member, became campaign treasurer. Tom Conboy stayed involved. And
other activists, inspired by her run, started their own campaigns, like Ron Gillis's wife, Deb Lilley, in Charlotte County, and writer Matt Gardi in Monroe County. Grubbing for money never got comfortable for Lisa, but she managed to make enough for the filing fee.

Publicly, Democratic leaders dismissed Lisa's challenge as a trivial sideshow. Behind the scenes, Mark Alan Siegel tried relentlessly to dissuade Lisa from running. They held meetings over the phone, at Democratic club
meetings, at a local Cracker Barrel. Siegel once took out a map of Florida and suggested Lisa should pursue a state House seat instead. “We need your voice in Tallahassee,” Siegel said. He set up calls with the head of the state Democratic campaign committee.

Lisa asked Lynn how she could travel back and forth to Tallahassee, with Jenna about to start kindergarten.

“Why would you be going to Tallahassee?”

“Well, maybe I want that job instead of clerk of courts.”

“What job?”

The night before the filing deadline, Siegel and Sharon Bock met with Lisa until ten o'clock. Lisa brought a strategy document full of initiatives, from publishing a list of known robo-signers to working with other clerks to ensure accuracy of the land records. After insisting to the media that clerk of courts was merely a ministerial position without the capacity for activism, Sharon shifted course and vowed to turn her office into a crime-fighting unit. “You've brought this to our attention now,” she said to Lisa. “Lynn can write up an action plan. And you can be in charge of it, as long as you drop out.”

They were convincing Lisa of something she already wanted to do. All the stress of campaigning would go away. Maybe she and Sharon could even make progress. But one of Lisa's key backers was an activist named Maria Cole, who sold her dental practice to get involved in politics full-time. Maria's mother, whom Lisa only knew as Mama Cole, wouldn't abide by Lisa's wavering, telling her, “You cannot back out, you raised this money, you told people you were going to run.”

On deadline day, Lisa and Michael arrived at the county elections office, across from a shopping mall at the corner of Military Trail and Gun Club Road, a quintessentially Floridian destination. She entered the office with her paperwork and filing fee. Mark Alan Siegel accosted Lisa in the lobby, physically blocking her path to the filing window. It was 10:30 a.m.; the deadline was noon.

Siegel, normally a grandfatherly figure, berated Lisa for forty-five minutes, his tactics shifting from charm to intimidation, carrot to stick. “You don't want to do this,” he warned. “You don't know what political campaigns are like. We're going to make sure you regret this. We're going to tear you apart. In politics, anything goes, and you're not up for it.”

“Please, Mr. Siegel, I've made my decision—”

“All those supporters who want you to run for office? They're like spectators in the Colosseum and they're going to applaud when you get thrown to the lions!”

Finally an employee of the supervisor's office rescued Lisa, escorting her back to pay the filing fee. Lisa was amazed at how far Palm Beach County Democrats would go to snuff out challenges to their power. They didn't call it “Corruption County” for nothing. After leaving the office Lisa gave a brief interview to awaiting news cameras—“
our public land records have been defiled and unauthenticated with massive fraud by the banking industry”—and then, as a courtesy, called Sharon Bock to let her know she was running. Sharon was at the airport, about to leave for vacation. And she started screaming. The CBS affiliate captured the animated conversation on camera. In one ear, Lisa heard Sharon ranting; in the other, she could hear the news team whispering, “We believe she is talking to her opponent.” They tried to get Lisa's “campaign representative”—Michael—to give a statement. He kept quiet.

Siegel told the
Palm Beach Post
that the primary would “
damage Lisa Epstein as the voice of the dispossessed. Now she's just another candidate for office.”

One sultry May morning, Lynn Szymoniak checked her bank account balance and noticed several extra zeroes. She called out to Zach and Molly, “You know that money I told you about? It's here.”

Lynn had to pay her lawyers as well as taxes. The net result was $5.5 million. She was never in this to make money; banking on profiting from two years of researching fraudulent mortgage documents would have been the worst get-rich-quick scheme imaginable. But after not knowing whether she could pay the light bill, Lynn was happy to get some peace of mind. She took the family to Maui, a pause from the fight. When they got back, she told her kids that each of them could have a car, but only something sensible, “not something that ends in a vowel like Lamborghini.”
Lynn bought a Buick.

Lynn began talking to Lisa and Michael about a nonprofit organization, something that would enable them to influence housing issues. Lynn could oversee it and Lisa and Michael could run it. Michael had no cash flow
except for
4closureFraud
Google ads, so he was all for it. But it never progressed past initial discussions.

The first money Lynn donated was a quiet tribute to her father, who'd shuttled between mental hospitals most of his adult life after serving in the Marine Corps. Angel Fire was a local organization that worked with disabled veterans, taking them hunting and fishing. She gave them $220,000. Plenty of people had ideas for the remainder. Because the National Mortgage Settlement immunized document fraud from prosecution, it unclogged the drain of foreclosure cases in many state courts.
Foreclosure filings rose 85 percent in south Florida in March 2012 alone. And those desperate homeowners found Lynn. They used to ask for help; now they just asked for money. Lynn did quietly fund relocation expenses for a handful of homeowners. But people usually wanted more—a house, a car, a job. And because the entire world knew the contents of Lynn's bank account, any attempt to say no would be met with rage. They called her selfish, ignorant, merciless, and crude. Lynn had a bleeding heart, but not enough resources to help everyone with a story.

A woman emailed Lynn one day asking for $50,000 for a documentary that would blow the lid off bank malfeasance and save democracy. Lynn declined, and the woman demanded to know how she was spending her money. Then she threatened to have her crew call Lynn every day, tying up her phone lines and making her life miserable. The accelerated evolution from contrition to anger was a feature of Lynn's post-settlement correspondence.

Lynn's biggest expenses involved putting to rest her everlasting legal battles. The condo was relatively easy: it sat dormant since David J. Stern dropped the case, so she just paid it off. But the house on Man O' War Road was more of a challenge. In February, before the settlement news leaked, Lynn requested a payoff figure from Deutsche Bank, and attorney's fees were $12,000. But a month later, after the press release, suddenly Akerman Senterfitt demanded $267,000. Lynn disputed the charges; she wanted the law firm sanctioned for tampering with the allonge, not granted a windfall. The Akerman lawyers argued that the complexities of the case required hundreds of man-hours. The retired judge at the hearing seemed bored until he looked at Lynn for a minute, finally exclaiming, “Oh, this is that
60 Minutes
woman! No wonder they want a lot of money!”

After watching Lynn resist their extortion attempt, Akerman offered to drop the claim if Lynn included a non-disparagement provision. Mark Cullen told Lynn, “You can't do that; you're incapable of not opening your mouth!” Finally Akerman and Lynn agreed to an undisclosed settlement to pay off the mortgage.
It was the 274th and final docket entry in the case of the home on Man O' War Road. Four years after it began, it was all over.

The Democratic machine in Palm Beach County didn't have to worry so much about Lisa Epstein's clerk of courts challenge. They had incumbency, most of the money, most of the endorsements, and party stalwarts who did as they were told every election. Lisa had $25,000 in donations, a handful of volunteers, the energy to crisscross the county for multiple events every day, and Jenna, now five years old and a junior campaign manager. Lisa would take Jenna along to candidate meet-and-greet events, and Jenna would push her: “Go talk about foreclosure fraud Mama!” One night Lisa was trying to get her daughter into the bathtub. Jenna stood up, put her hands on her hips, and said, “If you make me take a bath, I'm going to vote for Sharon Bock!”

Through campaigning, Lisa enjoyed a behind-the-veil glance into the smallness of American politics. A man at the Palm Beach Chamber of Commerce in a $3,000 suit yelled at her for thirty minutes that the foreclosure crisis was “all Barney Frank's fault.” The local chapter of the National Organization for Women asked for Lisa's position on parental notification for sixteen-year-olds wanting an abortion, and when she meekly mentioned that the clerk of courts had no jurisdiction over reproductive policy, the ladies shouted at her, too.

All the candidate meetings, debates, endorsement lunches, media appearances, door-to-door pleading, and retail campaigning only reached a sliver of the population. Most people had little interest in an end-of-the-ballot primary, except for the community of online foreclosure activists.
Steve Dibert trashed Lisa as “a joke” who believes that “everyone is entitled to a free house and that the American banking system must be destroyed.” Even at
Foreclosure Hamlet
, where frustration at the lack of action against banks boiled over, members created a splinter site, accusing Lisa of taking too much credit and abandoning the cause. Lisa wondered where these people got the time to worry about her. It was the kind of down-and-dirty
stuff Mark Alan Siegel warned her about, but it didn't come from the Democratic Party; it came from her own community.

Late in the campaign, someone approached Lisa at a campaign event. “You should check out what's happening in the evidence room,” the person said, and then quickly walked away. As clerk of courts, Sharon Bock ran the evidence room at the county courthouse. Lisa heard rumors about missing evidence, but nobody could confirm anything, so she never acted on it. A week after Election Day
the
Palm Beach Post
, which had endorsed Sharon Bock, ran the story.
Three clerks were under criminal investigation for stealing more than a thousand oxycodone pills from the evidence room and selling them on the black market. Bock knew about the case, having suspended the employees two months earlier.
Michael accused the
Post
of sitting on the story.