Calls from the other side

Hi again.

So, we've been getting calls from prison. Perhaps you have as well.

It's really nifty, you see, getting calls from prison. It adds a little excitement to the day. Not only is it just plain edgy and cool, but our phone, which is stuck on audio-caller-ID-mode, will announce in its distinctive fem-bot monotone, "Call from... PRI-SOON." Yeah, it's great. We usually just let it ring, and the occasional time we do pick up, no one is there.

Until tonight.

Ann has gone off to her writing group, I have strong-armed the children into their beds, and am tooling around on facebook, because that seems to be all I do anymore. The phone rings, and I wonder if maybe it's a friend or relative. Maybe it's someone calling to say that they love me. Then I hear the infamous, "Call from... PRI-SOON." I decide the time has come to get to the bottom of this. I mean, what if my dad has been in jail for two weeks and is simply trying to let me know? That would be a terrible shame.

So, I pick up the phone with a cheery "mmmm...chello?" and expect to hear nothing. Instead, I hear a click and a man appears on the line.

"Yes sir. This is Sgt. Smith of the Chicago Police Department."

"Oh. Hi."

"Hello, sir," he continues. "Sir, I am calling you because there has unfortunately been an accident involving a young woman, and she gave us this number as her emergency contact. You need to call my superior, Det. Edward Singleton at the following number. He is on the scene and can tell you more." He gives me the number, which I jot down, and he hangs up. It's a strange area code and exchange I've not seen before.

Of course my first thoughts are Ann, and is she okay, and what exactly happened, and who exactly is involved, and... wait, huh? I'm not convinced. No, not at all. So, I don't call that number. I call Ann's cell phone. She answers. She is fine. She is at writing group. She is discussing matters poetical. How am I? How are the kids? All is well. Happy writing. Click.

So, I then call 311. I get a very nice operator who recognizes the scam instantly. "Do NOT call that number, whatever you do," she says. She patches me through to the actual Chicago Police, who are able to explain in more detail what is is going on.

Somehow, our number has appeared on a list that prisoners use for scams. How that happened, we may never know, but that explains the multiple attempts over the past few days. What a prisoner will try to do is get you to call a specific series of digits that actually result in your future incoming phone calls being forwarded elsewhere. What does this mean? Well, what it means is that the prisoner can then call your number collect, it will get bounced to the long-distance number of his or her choosing, THAT person will accept the charges, and YOU will get billed for the call. Oh, yeah, and since your phone won't ever ring, you will never know. Your outgoing calls will not be affected, so you won't know then either. Only if someone else, someone you know, tries to call you and gets a different house.... only then will you know. Once that friend gets a hold of you, that is. Which is harder since they can't call you. It's quite something, really.

The officer is very nice, and gives me a (real) number to call to have our home phone blocked from this list. I make the call, and am told that our number will be blocked starting the following morning. I feel satisfied. I did it. I beat those crafty criminals. Ha. I start to make some dinner.

The phone rings. "Call from... PRI-SOON."

I pick up the receiver. "Um. Hello?"

"Yes, this is Sgt. Smith again. I was calling to see if you were able to reach the Detective on the case."

Wow. It's this guy again. What is he thinking? And then I realize exactly what he's thinking. He was hoping I'd already made my call. He is trying to reach his cousin, or friend, or whoever was intended to receive my forwarded calls. So, not only is he pissed that it didn't work, but he now knows I didn't make the call.

"Yeah," I say, "I didn't call that detective."

"Why not, sir?"

"Oh, because this is a scam. You are trying to scam me, and it's transparent and ineffective."

"Excuse me, sir? Look, I am just trying to do my job here. That's all. There has been an accident." He's starting to get mad.

"It says you are calling from prison on my caller ID."

"That's where I WORK, sir."

The whole thing is so silly now. I know who he is and what he is trying to do. He knows that I know, and knows that I have yet to call - and that I will not call - that number. Yet the game goes on.

"Look, this is getting sad," I continue. "You are trying to scam this house, and it's not working. How could you possibly expect me to call that ridiculous number anyway? You are not a police officer."

"Sir, there is no need to be an asshole."

"Ah ha! Ah HA! See! If you were a real police officer you would NEVER call me an asshole! See!"

He pauses. Oh, he's so frustrated. It's great.

"Sir, I would call you an asshole if you were being one! Which you are! If you don't like it, then call my supervisor!"

"And who is that?" I click my pen just for the hell of it. I know I should just hang up. But how can I, really? It's too enjoyable.

"The detective whose number I gave you! Call him and complain. That's fine by me."

"I'm not calling that number. There's no way I'm calling that number. How about you give me a full name and I'll look it up myself and call."

"FINE! MAYOR DALEY! HE'S MY FUCKING BOSS, ASSHOLE! CALL HIM!"

"Boy, you sure are a rude police officer."

Click.

Dinner time.