When Bank of America Vice President Robert Conner filed for bankruptcy in May 2005, he said he had in his pocket and in his accounts. Schelp called Conner a "financial predator," who got the cash under the table by giving dozens of unqualified people credit cards with ,000 limits in exchange for kickbacks of up to ,000.
But in June, he cooked up a scam that allowed him to find and spend 5,000 cash in the next six months, including ,000 for a Yukon Denali SUV for his wife, ,000 for a Mustang GT for his girlfriend and a ,000 Hummer H2 for himself, Assistant U. On Friday evening, a jury convicted Conner of all 36 charges against him — 17 counts of bank fraud and 19 counts of unauthorized use of an access device — after a five-day trial in federal court in St.
All at once, the band falls silent mid-phrase, as if someone pressed pause, opening a path for a lean sweatshirted figure who looks like a software engineer, or some other kind of educated geek, with a navy wool mugger’s cap pulled down low over his close-cropped hair.
The news that Justin Timberlake has a head cold on the eve of the Grammys is as close to a scoop as I am likely to get, I am thinking, as JT’s goons give me their best wait-till-we-catch-you-after-school glare.
The band starts up again with a Brazilian pop-funk groove. ” the star says, feeling out the dynamics of the vocal in the high-roofed arena. It’s Vegas-casino-hotel-lobby party-time music, with a wink.
Mick Jagger, the person, could hardly have created Mick Jagger, the rock star, alone in his bedroom using Instagram and Pro Tools, let alone programmed the contingent and chaotic human and creative interactions with Keef and the late, great junkie producer Jimmy Miller that went into the recording of .My favorite thing about the Grammys is the odd time warp that the broadcasts still somehow manage to generate; they are like transmissions from a distant planet on which rock stars still dance and sing like Mick.My specific excuse for visiting Los Angeles for the Grammys was a special-delivery envelope that had arrived at my doorstep in Brooklyn two months earlier, while I was playing with my daughter on the rug and watching the ferry boats ply the open harbor between Lower Manhattan and Staten Island.Inside a black box, encircled by a detachable gold band that promised quite simply, the most fabulous party of the year!, was an invitation to attend Clive Davis’s annual party at the Beverly Hilton the night before the Grammys, on Saturday, February 9, with cocktails at 7 pm followed by dinner at 8.
Every boy and girl could be Virginia Woolf and Keith Richards and David Foster Wallace depending on what day of the week it was, thanks to fun new digital software that ushered in a freshly branded universe of frictionless self-gratification in which all movies and books and music would be free, because they should be free, because they were made to be free, because paying for stuff is an unconscionable rip-off in a world where stuff was meant to be free, and who else does art belong to if not to the people, right?