`Don't want him anywhere near money'
Before moving to Florida, Hurt, 66, spent her career at Michigan companies building websites and developing training for engineers and said she has “seen guys like this all my life.”
And while she doesn't really have an issue with Singer residing at Isle of Palms — he's got to live somewhere, right? — she drew the line when he piped up at an HOA meeting one Wednesday evening earlier this year. Sitting at long folding tables in Harmony Hall, the board was discussing finding a better interest rate on its certificate of deposit set aside for things like replacing poker tables and repairing the bingo calling board.
Singer jumped in with investment advice.
“I know how to handle that and I can take care of that and we can get this taken care of quickly,” Hurt recounted Singer telling the group.
To the residents who had just returned from wintering in Canada and didn't know about Singer's past, their new neighbor sounded convincing. But Hurt abruptly tabled the discussion.
“I've got alarm bells going off in my head that I don't want him anywhere near the money because this is money that has been saved by people in the park for over a decade,” Hurt said. “I thought, `Oh, good God. Got a Ponzi scheme we might be interested in?'”
After informing the board of Singer's criminal history and the prospect that he may soon be in prison, she drafted him a letter.
“Thank you for your interest in wanting to help us,” she said she wrote, “but we're going to manage this ourselves.” the accolades from some of the neighbors, that he seemed like a nice guy trying to do good, he responded, “that's all I've done my whole life.”
When it was pointed out that helping students cheat on college entrance exams and arranging bribes to con their way into elite schools isn't necessarily doing the right thing, he responded, “I have nothing to say.”
Surely he could talk about his fall from grace, trading in the swanky lifestyle for the trailer park. What had he learned living here?
“I feel very blessed,” he said. “I have a blessed life.”
When pushed, he wouldn't bite on why he chose this Florida mobile home park or whether any of the parents he turned on have contacted him to say “How could you?”
Again, he would only say: “After my sentencing, after my sentencing, after my sentencing,” with a growing smile.
The only time he fully engaged during the 20-minute interaction — and became most animated — was when he asked where the reporter's children went to high school and college and provided an assessment of their choices — Cal Poly was a diamond in the rough, San Diego State was tougher to get into for Northern California kids; “Healthy” parents understand their children don't need Ivys to thrive.
“He understands that he did wrong,” said Blankenship, recounting conversations he's had with Singer on their walks. “He told me there's right and wrong and he kind of operated in the middle. And then the law jumped all over that.”
Singer also told him, he said, that he expects his punishment is “gonna be pretty light.”
Whether he returns to a privileged California life one day is uncertain. Speculation that Singer stashed millions away in secret offshore accounts, raised in court papers by lawyers for one of the parents, was shot down by federal prosecutors who have collected $6.5 million from Singer “through forfeiture or voluntary payments.” A new lawyer was named in Singer's case after Sacramento attorney Don Heller died in June after a long illness.
Singer sold his Newport Beach home for $2.5 million when the scandal broke in 2019. The federal government, Blankenship said, was the one to “encourage” Singer to move. It was a bad look for their star informant.
“They just didn't want him living that lifestyle,” Blankenship said.
So here he is at Isle of Palms, awaiting his fate, offering free paddleboard rides to his neighbors and waiting for someone to accept. He walks alone in the evenings now. Most of the others have petered out.
“I can almost feel bad for the guy,” Hurt said, “but it's like, no, I'm not that big a sucker.”