虚构安娜

“她们都不觉得自己在骗人，因为所有的谎言都只不过是还未兑现的诺言。

”标题摘自短评区一则热门影评安娜真的心理素质贼强大，好几次我尴尬得不得不按暂停退出播放，安娜还能淡定自若，并由于种种原因，顺利度过难关。

当然这样未免也太奇幻了，原型就这么好运气吗?一个短评“so many wealthy well educated people，没有人怀疑，事后也出于reputation考虑，并不追究，Anna正是深知这点，才能如此光明正大行骗。

令人讽刺的是，富人被盗刷信用卡的钱，和身为联邦信贷CEO的闺蜜打个招呼钱就回来了，而普通人Rachel被公司、银行逼到到处躲藏，最后美国运通为了避免成为新闻热点主动清除了这笔债务。

🤔”这点值得思考同时，安娜自信心爆棚，富有野心。

口才也好，深谙丛林法则，擅长利用人际关系牵线搭桥，必要时心也够狠。

某种意义上，安娜算是坚定地坏，毫不怀疑地坏，从而坏出魅力、坏出风采的“恶女角色”。

律师、记者和安娜相处时的耐心真的令人肃然起敬，面对安娜种种刁难和鄙视，还能冷静处理、继续交涉。。。。

太拼了。。。

换我就一起发疯了。。。

安娜和Rachel的关系也很错综复杂。

剧中花了一定的篇幅描写Rachel因为公司的卡被安娜刷爆，无论事业还是情绪都受到创伤，使观众先入为主同情Rachel，但Rachel用这段经历出书赚了几百万、安娜曾经请Rachel吃喝玩乐两年而不用Rachel买单，这几件事混在一起使得一切变得微妙而杂乱。

成年人的人际关系都这么复杂的么……唉:-(……安娜在喝醉的情况下不小心对Neff说出真话，那一刻无意中流露出的脆弱很动人。

她们的关系也很复杂，有互相利用，有真心帮助，安娜果决的行事风格一定程度上也帮助Neff踏出了实现导演梦的第一步。

安娜和记者在剧中都很美，两种不同气质的美:前者是娇矜、傲慢、略带神经质，后者也暗暗憋着一口气，但也许是摔过跟头，更稳重踏实些。

剧的节奏很快，情节跌宕起伏，大量场景赏心悦目，感觉适合下饭用。

剧中安娜有好几次提到女权主义:成功说服金融从业者帮她拉贷款时，靠的是抓住社会对年轻女性创业者不宽容以及对方有个和她差不多大的女儿两点；吐槽社会对男性犯罪者比对女性犯罪者宽容多了，以此动摇了记者的偏向。

这些问题的存在不可否认，但义正言辞的安娜真的关心女性创业者和犯罪者所受到的不公平对待吗?不，这只是她用于达成目的的手段。

从始至终，她最关注的只有自己。

所以，我不认为这是碰瓷女权，更像是对安娜的讽刺。

这是第一部让我看完结局非常无语让我觉得纯纯浪费时间的美剧 开头几集其实拍的还不错 展现了安娜的野心和她的社交魅力 但是最后两集可以说是败笔中的败笔 第一点我实在不明白为什么女记者和律师以及nef这些人在明白安娜完全就是在骗人之后居然变本加厉的支持她 甚至要帮她开脱罪名 拜托 即使是她聪明 她就是盗刷了别人的信用卡甚至害的朋友因此背债 而她本人就是一个彻头彻尾活在自己幻想里的精神病骗子 而且看到最后我完全不觉得安娜有多大的魅力让大家这么支持她 她就是一个装阔但是无时不刻信用卡都刷不出一分钱的假名媛 而且一旦出了点事情就开始破口大骂情绪崩溃的精神病 老实说看到最后我觉得她很烦人 特别是她非得要在法庭上穿的跟女明星一样然后不停发脾气责怪律师的那一段 给我看的火冒三丈 但是莫名其妙女记者和律师即使要抛弃自己的家庭也要去支持她努力帮她开脱罪名 简直就是把观众的三观按在地板上摩擦 这是在公开支持犯罪吗？

老实说 如果它多花一些part去好好展现安娜是如何利用自己的社交魅力打动那么多富豪圈里的人 那这部剧其实还是有看点的 但很可惜它展现的一直是安娜不停的刷不出钱而出糗 只会一点一点把安娜在观众心目中的形象不断拉低 原本以为是一个社交名媛玩转名利场 没想到是给我们看一个拙劣的精神病骗子 全剧被她耍过的人都跟弱智一样 不检查自己的信用卡账单 收不到钱照样给她办事 通过几个电话就能肯定她的信托基金 看到她每次都刷不出卡还能坚信她是一个富婆 只是偶尔爸妈的钱没跟上。。。

看到我真觉得我的智商被侮辱了 还有他们最后打击瑞秋的那一段更是让我三观崩塌 瑞秋相信她把自己的银行卡甚至连公司的卡都抵押给酒店 还被她刷了个精光 害的瑞秋失去自己的工作债台高筑 而剧里面竟然把她描述成一个假惺惺的骗子 我的天被刷了六万美金的是瑞秋不是你们这些旁观者。。

人家把自己的受骗经历卖给出版社好像是什么大罪一样 一开始安娜请她吃请她穿不也是安娜自愿的？

剧里面把所谓的朋友定义成即使被盗刷了钱也要忍气吞声支持她真是给我看笑了 然后安娜到最后谎言全被拆穿之后居然还是不知悔改 我只能说她病的太重了 已经完全深陷在自己的幻想里 以及剧里面似乎想要给她一些什么渴望亲情的人设 但是实际上我支持她的父母 因为她就是一个眼高手低 不懂的什么是法律边界 不懂的什么是别人财产的疯狂骗子 她活在自己想象里 这样的人谁能叫的醒她？

剧里面应该是想展现她的口才和说服别人的能力 但是每次有关这部分的剧情我只看到了一个刷不出钱的骗子在非常局促不安竭斯底里的逃避 转移话题 试图画一些大饼来让别人认同那些狗屁设想理念 而她这样苍白无力的狡辩被剧里面大多数人接受了才是最令人无语的一点 大家都像没有带上脑子一样跟她相处 并且在发现自己上当受骗后的第一反应竟然是觉得自己丢人疯狂给自己找面子 我只能说现实里的富豪即使表面上装作不在意但是背地里怎么可能放过你？

老实说 这部剧的原型故事其实非常有看头 原型人物确实有很强的能力手段 她的故事是真的很精彩很不可思议但是这部剧里完全把安娜这个人物形象给毁了 编剧将一个精明 善于利用他人信任 有着庞大野心并也为此付出努力 游刃有余周旋在富豪圈里的安娜摧毁成了一个耍小聪明 有点脑子但不多 总能时时刻刻把事情搞砸出糗 然后再苍白无力的狡辩 情绪极度不稳定 看起来好像很强大其实什么都不做好 一边大谈特谈自己要独立 一边又拿着所谓的信托基金这种空头支票到处骗人的傻缺心机女形象 非常失败的人物塑造 加上演员本身也没有展现出安娜的魅力其次整部剧女记者的这个视角非常冗长 剧名叫虚构安娜 但我看完觉得不如叫薇薇安的职场复仇计划 铺垫了不少薇薇安职业上的挫折 提到了好几次她之前文章里的失误 但最后居然就是一笔带过 那为什么要提这件事情 展现女记者的懦弱？

不敢出来道明真相？

不能理解的一些剧情出现了 而且作为一个女记者最后去支持一个诈骗犯 我觉得真的很离谱还有就是最后两集提到了安娜的家人 一开始以为有什么惊人转折 毕竟是电视剧 还真以为编剧把她爸爸改编成一个起码能扑腾点水花 结果整了那么多悬念 最后人家就是个普通人并且跟安娜断绝关系 看完也不知道该说他符合现实呢还是为了凑时长硬编呢 这个所谓的家人完全没有出现的必要 到律师请他来出庭一次都不肯 这个人物角色出现的意义我只能看出来一点：政治正确 俄罗斯人 外国人受到德国人排挤 纯纯的政治正确工具 就跟那个nef不停的强调自己是个黑人一样全剧结尾非常仓促败笔 安娜直到最后都没有从自己的幻想里走出来 记者和律师被她PUA成了她的脑残粉 无视法律 真正的受害人成为了众矢之的 只有她被判的刑符合常理从头到尾大谈特谈所谓的美国梦 所谓的为了自己的梦想努力 以及试图展现了一个年轻女孩的梦想和她的独特魅力 实际上就是给我们展现了一个拙劣的骗子和她脑残的受害人 主角有一种没见过钱所以有钱的时候一定要大手大脚疯狂挥霍 等到没钱了又开始疯狂抓瞎的脑瘫感 说实话看到豆瓣评分还能上7分是有被震惊到的 我只能说可能很多人没有看完或者看完了也是稀里糊涂 以为自己看了部跨越阶级的大爽剧 其实被编剧霸凌了智商和三观 还有被演员们夸张的表演尴尬到的眼睛 我真的被整部剧里的演员演技给无语到了 不是挤眉瞪眼表情浮夸油腻 就是抓狂大叫发癫 最好的就是保持面瘫 只能说整部剧的水平非常平均 就是烂到家了

郊区的监狱里，有一位女子，与周围格格不入。

她戴着黑框眼镜，逻辑清晰，谈吐优雅。

有人嗤之以鼻，她就是纽约第一女骗子；也有人坚信不疑，她家财万贯，是上亿资产的继承人。

而她自己却说，钱对我来说不是问题，信不信由你。

她就是——虚构安娜

*以下内容为真实事件与剧情相结合，少部分为剧集杜撰她叫安娜·索罗金，另一个更广为人知的名字，叫安娜·德尔维。

她是“德尔维”家族的继承人，父亲希望她能自力更生，便在她名下设立了6000万欧元的信托基金。

只要她年满26岁，就能自由支配这笔钱。

而安娜的社交平台，也充满着富二代的奢靡气息——游走时尚秀场，穿梭艺术画廊，跨界名流峰会。

无处不在的高端奢侈品，数不尽的上流派对，还有与她亲密合影的富豪贵族、时尚名流，甚至不乏商界大拿的身影。

整个纽约的富豪名流圈里，似乎就没有安娜不认识的人，走到哪里都能听见她的名字。

安娜还和一般只会挥霍玩乐的富二代们不同，她有着自己的事业：以自己的名字来命名的基金会。

在基金会初创阶段，安娜凭借广泛的人脉，组建了基金会的核心成员。

并通过详细的商业计划书，成功说服银行投资人为她作担保，向国家城市银行申请了2200万美元的贷款，并且拿到了高达20万美元的信贷额度。

从始至终，没有一个人怀疑过安娜的真实身份，直到她因为涉嫌诈骗锒铛入狱。

为了挖掘安娜的故事，《曼哈顿》的女记者耗费了几个月的时间，从社交平台到辩护资料，再到安娜住过的酒店、交往过的人群进行详细的采访取材。

这位传奇女子的神秘面纱，终于被揭开——令人大跌眼镜的是，安娜并不是什么坐拥上亿遗产的富二代。

她的父亲是货车司机，母亲是家庭主妇，家中还有一个弟弟，非常普通的家庭。

作为俄罗斯移民，16岁才到德国生活学习的她，并不受待见。

传闻中的那些富豪身世，全都是假的！

实在让人震惊。

安娜到底是怎么融入纽约名流圈，又是怎样让富豪名流们对她的满口胡言深信不疑，甚至心甘情愿被骗的？

这一切都离不开最关键的两个字，“人设”。

从小，安娜就流露出对时尚的兴趣与关心，在高中毕业之后，便到伦敦中央圣马丁学院进行学习。

然而待了没多久，安娜就从圣马丁退学，在柏林的一家公关公司实习。

随后，她又辗转去了巴黎，拿到了在法国时尚杂志《Purple》实习的机会。

也正是在《Purple》实习的那段时间里，让安娜有了接触时尚、艺术和名流的机会。

现实中安娜·索罗金的日常在最能够一眼辨别暴发户和网红的时尚人士看来，安娜的品味是独一无二的。

她总能很精准地抓到“品味”的精髓，不管是穿着、谈吐、行为举止，甚至细节到去哪里吃什么样的菜，该点什么年份区域的红酒。

安娜浑身上下散发着“上流社会”的气息。

在真正的名媛眼里，安娜和她们就是同一类人。

“不试图给人留下深刻印象，不畏惧，不在乎，而且对艺术很有品味。

”

安娜时常辗转于各大画廊艺术展中，在无意中与名流大家们分享自己对于艺术的见解。

一旦碰上同道中人，便很快能与对方结成友谊。

对于时尚与艺术的独到见解，是安娜跻身名流社会的第一块敲门砖。

当安娜拥有了这些“人脉”与“朋友”，便要最大程度地利用这些资源。

首先是社交平台。

安娜通过社交平台留下了与各种名流的合影，并亲密地标记对方的名字，不断对自己是贵族继承人的形象进行印象加深。

与此同时，社交平台上也不乏各种艺术展览、旅游度假的照片，甚至搭乘私人飞机、豪华邮轮，让越来越多的人对她编造的身世深信不疑。

人设已经搭建成功，安娜便开始了自己的新一步扩张。

通过“我和某某名流认识”、“某某名流是我的朋友”这样的搭桥牵线，安娜开始挤进更高层次的圈层。

她有了一个新的名号：创业。

安娜不断地利用女性崛起和创业热情来大做文章，强调家族虽然有钱，但是希望她能够独立自主，所以她需要靠自己的努力来创业，获得更多人的支持与引荐。

和其他只懂得享受的富二代不同，安娜对于创业的热情，吸引了一部分投资人的青睐。

与此同时，当时安娜的男友蔡斯正处于创业失败阶段，她利用了蔡斯的失败，向蔡斯的引荐人诺拉告发，将诺拉的资源顺到了自己的阵营里。

之前因人际网络不够庞大而四处碰壁的安娜，顺利地将建筑师、收藏家、地产大亨都纳入了自己创业团队中，形成了一份“完美”的商业计划。

要想启动这份计划，便需要通过融资贷款来实现。

起初，她也和所有创业人士一样，提交商业计划书，试图说服投资人艾伦为她担保贷款。

但不管她说得再怎么天花乱坠，艾伦从她的项目里看不到利益，也无法对这样一个年轻人产生信赖，便拒绝了她。

多次碰壁之后，安娜找到了新的出路：先改变自己的形象，她不再是一个出入时尚派对的富二代，而是头脑清晰的女企业家。

戴了眼镜，换了更为深沉的色调搭配，摇身一变商界人士。

接着，她试图寻找着艾伦身上的弱点：他有一个女儿。

好巧不巧，艾伦的女儿就跟所有纨绔子弟一样，不学无术，天天只想着花家里的钱。

安娜对创业充满热情的姿态，逐渐点燃了艾伦的生活激情。

当然最重要的，还是利益。

安娜施加了一些简陋的伎俩，像是购买虚假电话卡、变声装备，为她的假身份提供更为真实的验证，让艾伦相信她所提供作为担保物的信托基金没有任何问题。

甚至在承销商要求交出10万美金的保证金时，艾伦用自己的判断作为担保，替安娜向国民城市银行申请到了20万美金的信用额度。

艾伦坚信，这是一笔“能够吃到死”的生意，在做到全球扩张之前，他就能吃下超过两亿美元。

就算现在安娜无法马上拿出钱来，但也都是迟早的事。

故事看到这里，不禁让人有了一种错觉：这不是一个女骗子的行骗故事，而更像是一个女企业家的血泪创业史。

然而，最关键的问题在于——安娜的钱都从哪里来的？

她用了一个很聪明的办法，以小博大。

一开始，安娜刚踏入名流社交圈时，豪掷千金，用高奢衣服和消费来包装自己。

就连给小费，一般人最多10美金，但安娜都是100美金起步。

当认识的有钱人越来越多，安娜便以自己只有现金、或者只能汇款为由，让对方提前帮自己刷卡垫付。

和男友蔡斯恋爱时，住酒店、吃饭、逛街，刷的都是蔡斯的卡；

帮诺拉到买手店取衣服、记账消费、招待朋友时，将自己的消费记在诺拉名下，或者直接刷诺拉交给她的信用卡。

就连预约私人飞机，也是借用投资人的名号，一分钱都没付，敷衍几句赶时间便坐上了私人飞机。

也正因为她骗的都是有钱人，有钱人们都理所当然地觉得，安娜没有理由会欠他们钱不还，便心安理得地替她先行付款。

就算发现被骗了，有钱人们也碍于面子，而选择不了了之。

甚至其中还有不少人直到安娜入狱，他们才意识到自己被骗了。

唯一一位不停向安娜追讨欠款的，是《名利场》的一位女记者瑞秋。

和安娜成为朋友之后，为了表现出自己的阔绰，大多数时候，安娜都不会让瑞秋付钱。

不管是美容、购物还是吃饭，安娜都会主动为瑞秋掏腰包。

然而就在她们一同结伴去摩洛哥游玩的时候，安娜的信用卡刷不了了，便只好让瑞秋垫付了六万多美金的消费。

对于一般的有钱人来说，可能这并不算什么钱。

但对于瑞秋而言，这相当于她一年的工资，还刷爆了她的信用卡。

为了追讨回这一笔欠款瑞秋便把安娜骗钱的故事发表在了《名利场》上，并向警方报案。

与此同时，安娜也由于不断在各个酒店吃霸王餐、逃酒店钱，被警方正式逮捕。

安娜因被身负四项“重大诈骗”罪名，被判4到12年有期徒刑，罚款19.9万元和2.4万。

长达四年的纽约第一假名媛诈骗案，就此划下句号。

直到被保释出狱、这部以她为主人公的剧集播出，她依然在利用着世界的有钱人们。

每次庭审，安娜都精心打扮自己，甚至找了设计师为自己设计“出庭造型”，也会因为对造型不满意而拒绝出庭。

安娜在庭审上的“时装秀”，一度还成为社交平台的热门话题。

*与日本女杀人犯木嶋佳苗的“庭审搭配”如出一辙在监狱里的安娜，也忙着写自己在纽约的回忆录，还打算将自己在监狱里的生活撰写出书。

而她的这段诈骗故事，以32万美元卖给了网飞，拍成了这部剧集。

庭审中的安娜·索罗金安娜的人生，确实是一出极其精彩的戏剧。

她深谙名流社交，掌握了游戏规则，强势的气场和自信的谈吐让她在真正的有钱人们面前也显得十分突出。

她制造了一种“世界唯我独尊”的存在感，这也是有钱人们的通病。

当别人对上流社会仰望不已、俯首称臣的时候，安娜以更高贵的姿态一脚踏入，打破了名流们的固有思维习惯。

即便安娜的诈骗手法并不高级，更有着肉眼可见的漏洞百出，但“当局者迷”。

安娜的演技已经卓越到，连她自己都活在预设的虚假之中。

在被捕之前，安娜疑似服药自杀，被送入了医院。

在医院里，即便她的谎言被揭穿，她却把所有的罪责推给了自己臆想中的“原生家庭”——爸爸是黑帮，不仅家暴，自己因为是俄罗斯移民，还收受到各种歧视……等等。

然而在调查过后，平凡又普通的蓝领家庭，并不能为安娜的犯罪而背锅。

在很多残忍的案件背后，总是充斥着对原生家庭的控诉。

但像安娜这样的现实故事却在告诉我们，基因与环境，并不是让一个人“变坏”的绝对因素。

安娜的性格扭曲与自命不凡，来自于她对于命运的不服，还有对金钱与名利的偏执。

她所渴望的，早已不仅仅是钱，是那种万人拥戴、受人追捧的虚荣感。

被安娜所欺骗的人们，可以追回钱财，断绝往来；然而唯有她自己，深陷在亲手布下的骗局，永生难逃。

*本文作者：D

Anna典型Psychopath，骗人不心虚，谎言信手拈来。

有的评论说她还是格局太小了，没有去调查清楚这个这么大的局该怎么骗，被抓包只会气急败坏地骂人。

这看似不合理，但的确是很教科书式的psychopath作风。

这类人不会去细想骗局的细节，怎么去完善骗局。

因为他们蜜汁自信，觉得自己只要这么说了，对方就一定会相信。

如果不信也没关系，下一个会信，总有人会信。

抓包后发疯似地骂人也是很典型的。

因为他们无法接受自己被抓包，于是故技重施，想通过骂人来pua对方。

而且这列人不会与人建立什么长久关系。

像剧里的Nora（虽说这角色是虚构的），正常人如果是一心想上位的，碰到Nora这种不会做出什么出格到让她跟自己断绝关系的事。

而是会尽量跟她搞好关系，通过她去认识更多的豪。

虽然Anna也这么做了，但刷了Nora 40万刀这种事实在太不明智，非正常理性思维人所为。

只能说这也是非常符合psychopath作风了。

Kacy姐妹团里最喜欢的就是Kacy。

可能也是因为Kacy年龄比较大，所以比较成熟。

Kacy一直很拎得清。

她眼里Anna就是一个客户，所以她好生伺候着。

包括一起去摩洛哥，她也是抱着一个出差的心态，不会真的当Anna是个朋友。

后来Anna找她求救，她不知道发生了什么事，但也帮忙了，Anna来到她家楼下求借宿，她也心软了。

感觉是一个成熟善良的妹子。

虽然经常说些很禅的话，但她说的那些你又是无法反驳，而且她也的确live by those words。

Rachel虽然看到后面她被欠钱时的压力山大也是可怜，但她的吃相真的从头到尾都很难看。

一开始跟Anna做朋友是因为以为她豪，跟在她旁边像个跟屁虫一样，什么都Anna说好就好。

整个吃人嘴短，拿人手短的样子。

Anna花钱如流水，Rachel也是脸皮厚各种蹭，简直把Anna当作ATM，吃饭能吃贵的绝对不挑便宜的，酒店房间也要往贵的挑。

朋友之间就算对方有钱+大方，也不该这样理直气壮地花人家的钱啊。

早期的吃相真的太难看了。

后来发现被骗了，在Vanity Fair跟上司开会那段也是噁心。

不停说it's not my fault。

这怎么就不是你的fault了？

退一万步说，你也是bad judgment了，怎么可以那么坚定地拒绝任何责任？

真的很Karen，很娇生惯养的美式白妞，错都是别人，自己永远是白莲花。

再到后期，借这件事炒作还成功了，继续噁心。

各种上节目说this is the worst thing ever happened to me. Gimme a break！

明明这件事对Rachel来说就是一个blessing in disguise，她借这件事出名了，原来是个照片编辑，结果Vanity Fair让她写了篇文章（文风也是超Karen），然后还出书继续讲这件事，上节目说这件事。

就像Todd结尾说的，她的个人财产+事业都因为这件事peak了，还在这里装什么受害者。

Anna最近在IG上怼她了，也是看得爽。

Neff无法理解Neff的脑回路，不分是非黑白，只强调loyalty的圣母。

早期Anna的小恩小惠收买了她。

中途发现被骗时，她的反应也是正常人的反应。

对Anna态度强硬，坚决要Anna还钱。

Anna真还她钱后，她有整个人软了倒向Anna了。

Rachel被Anna骗了6万多后，Neff的反应真的是站着说话不腰疼。

Anna欠酒店钱时，她可是另一般嘴脸。

到后期Anna已经入狱在等待庭审，Neff跟女记者老公聊天也还是坚信Anna是真的。

你是脑残吗？

根本就是一个拒绝接受现实的人。

我是很反对loyalty这个概念的，如果你是对的话，你为什么会在乎loyalty，loyal与否你都是对的啊。

什么人最强调loyalty？

懂*王就最强调loyalty，要的就是在明明错的情况下，都还给予支持撑腰。

我觉得loyalty只适用于无关是非对错的时候。

你朋友明明是个诈骗犯，你还loyal to her？

你脑子里装了个太平洋吗？

Vivian她不算Anna的姐妹团吧，但这个人物槽点实在太多了，不吐不快。

你一个孕妇，这么辛苦工作干嘛？？？

别说什么事业心重敬业乐业的，你就是在带动内*卷！

拒绝内*卷！

怀孕过程中各种身体不适，但依旧坚持高强度工作，那别的同事眼里这是什么？

这是压力啊。

你没Vivian努力工作你还好意思要求加薪升职吗？

你没怀孕你怎么还不如人家努力工作？

你怀孕了那人家怀孕了也是可以很努力工作啊？

你就是娇气。

有个这样的同事，真的是整个办公室都要卷得飞了好吗？

老板倒是乐呵呵，最喜欢这种拿着一份工资干着几个人的活的员工，来大家像她学习！

Vivian就是一个很不负责任的孕妇啊！

别说什么她不是一个生育机器，她事业心重，燕雀安知鸿鹄之志的。

这些都是屁话。

她可以不怀孕，她可以选择堕-胎，她可以专注事业。

但她要决定怀孕，决定要生孩子了，那就要负责任，不能不顾宝宝的生长发育啊。

产·检什么的放了医生鸽子这些也都算了，毕竟只是检查。

但她把自己搞得那么压力山大，高强度工作的，这些真的会影响胎儿发育。

我承认，这是不公平。

为什么准爸爸可以继续高强度工作，熬夜，喝酒？

为什么对准妈妈诸多要求？

但没办法，事实就是胎长在准妈妈身上。

准爸爸喝酒对胎儿发育0影响，准妈妈喝酒胎儿发育就严重障碍了。

准爸爸可以各种出差坐飞机，但准妈妈到了一定月份就不得不考虑坐飞机的高空辐射问题。

所以对准妈妈的要求是不公平。

但没办法，要么不生，要生就得负责。

生*育方面的两·性偏差是永远会存在的。

社会能做的只是尽量减少，比如把paternity leave变成常态，让爸爸们可以担当多些责任，减轻妈妈的负担。

故事情节而言，高走低开。

主线索是剧中以记者的视角去探索安娜事件的原委，通过多个当事人视角还原事件。

女主的事业线，从被诬陷发配边疆到凭借这个事件名利双收；女主怀孕，临盆，到孩子出生的时间线。

律师的事业线和家庭线。

第一集的渲染让我对安娜有所期待，但后来看到她在入狱前狼狈不堪的样子，再去风光至极的场面，我都替她心虚，即使她面对很多上流阶层时，可以口若悬河，但我还是能感受到这个人内心深处极致的自卑。

最后两三集，记者试图寻找安娜行骗的原因，还有律师和女记者都被攥得死死的，对她言听计从，即使大家都明白她就是个骗子。

关于友谊，大家不过是各取所需而已，安娜没有朋友，而瑞秋等人不过是想榜上安娜过骄奢淫逸的生活，当然有人可能说内芙有一点点真感情，但maybe因为还她钱了，最后大结局也说了她俩后来掰了。

很多人批评演技问题，但是我觉得都不是什么大问题，甚至有一些吵架和对峙的比较有张力的戏，让我看的很过瘾。

安娜是罪犯，但她会利用人性去达成自己的目的，她会包装和营销自己，特别是从时尚角度去进入上层，正是契合了上流阶层的虚荣，让那些富人和商人信以为真，的确是有技术；她有过目不忘的记忆力，和应对自如，见人说人话 见鬼说鬼话的社交能力；另一方面，为了包装自己，她拆了东墙补西墙，可是她原本就没有墙可以拆，她就是老赖，虚构标的，信托基金办理贷款，开支票弄到现金（虽然我还是不理解怎么套到钱的），她是为了满足自己虚荣心，为了让所有人都看得起甚至仰慕自己，这一根源就是源于移民的身份给她带来的青少年阴影，她就是个心理畸形的女骗子。

所有人唾弃她，又想成为她，因为她敢于做她dream的事。

内芙的男朋友也看到了安娜的野心和行动力。

或许，点明主旨的是安娜和律师儿子的那段对话“当然了，人们会出于各种原因给别人钱，内疚和爱是最大的两个原因”，这可能是记者一直寻找但一直没能找到的原因，安娜蛊惑人心就是利用了这个原理。

人是一个多么复杂的动物，在摆正三观的同时，我们也要反思和映照现实，不要被PUA，但要dare to do！

每一集的开头都已经说的很清楚，除了真实的部份，其他部份都是编造的。

为什么看这部剧的人要各种去扒他真实情况，去扒真实的Ana是怎么样的，然后来给这部剧打低分？

你们想要的真实，难道不是应该去看新闻或者看纪录片？

这个还是个剧情片啊！

他只是因为Ana的故事有感而发，而创作了这样一部剧。

这部戏里那么多亮眼的人物刻画和表现，就都被你们的低分掩埋了。

你们没有看到记者因为是一个女生，职业生涯做错了一件事，而这件事还仅仅是因为太过信任自己作为朋友的同事，而导致自己一直被遗弃在角落，还要被背叛自己的同事领导吗？

而另一边华尔街的男高管，做错了事情，错误的给Ana背书，得到的惩罚确实升职加薪，仅仅是打球的球场从1号换到了12号。

这是多么鲜明的对比与讽刺！

你们没有看到那个想要借Ana上位的《名利场》女生，又做婊子又立牌坊，但最后却自己又是出书，又是被信用卡公司waive credit，名利双收，什么都没有损失，还要一把眼泪一把鼻涕在法庭哭泣，最后恶有恶报了嘛？

你们没有看到Ana的父母告诉记者，有些孩子就是超出了你的能力，而放弃了Ana吗？

这是多么现实，并多么无奈。

就，明明这部剧 值得一个四星半！

剩下半颗星的确是我也不喜欢ana的high pitch嗓音

“Maybe She Had So Much Money She Just Lost Track of It” Jessica PresslerIt started with money, as it so often does in New York. A crisp $100 bill slipped across the smooth surface of the mid-century-inspired concierge desk at 11 Howard, the sleek new boutique hotel in Soho. Looking up, Neffatari Davis, the 25-year-old concierge, who goes by “Neff,” was surprised to see the cash had come from a young woman who seemed to be around her age. She had a heart-shaped face and pouty lips surrounded by a wild tangle of red hair, her eyes framed by incongruously chunky black glasses that Neff, an aspiring cinematographer with an eye for detail, identified as Céline. She was looking, she said in an accent that sounded European, for “the best food in Soho.”

Anna

Vivian原型、原作者：Jessica Pressler“What’s your name?” Neff asked, after the girl waved off her suggestions of Carbone and the Mercer Kitchen and settled on the Butcher’s Daughter.“Anna Delvey,” said the young woman. She’d be staying at the hotel for a month, she went on, which Neff also found surprising: Usually it was only celebrities who came for such long stretches. But Neff checked the system, and there it was. Delvey was booked into a Howard Deluxe, one of the hotel’s midrange options, about $400 a night, with ceramic sculptures on the walls and oversize windows looking onto the bustling streets of Soho. It was February 18, 2017.“Thanks,” said Delvey. “See you around.”That turned out to be a promise. Over the next few weeks, Delvey stopped by often to ask Neff’s advice, slipping her $100 each time. Neff would wax on about how Mr. Purple was totally washed and Vandal was for hipsters, while Delvey’s eyes would flit around behind her glasses. Eventually, Neff realized: Delvey already knew all the cool places to go — not only that, she knew the names of the bartenders and waiters and owners. “This is not a guest that needs my help,” it dawned on her. “This is a guest that wants my time.”This was not out of the ordinary. Since she’d started working there, Neff, a Washington, D.C., native with a wedge of natural hair, giant Margaret Keane eyes, and a gap-toothed smile, had found herself playing therapist to all manner of hotel guests: husbands cheating on their wives, wives getting away from their husbands. “You just sit there and listen, because that’s your concierge life,” she recalled recently, at a coffee shop near her apartment in Crown Heights.Usually, these guests went back to their own lives, leaving Neff to hers. But February became March, and Delvey kept showing up. She’d bring food down, or a glass of extra-dry white wine, and settle near Neff’s desk to chat. Some of the other hotel employees found Anna deeply annoying. She could be oddly ill-mannered for a rich person: Please and thank you were not in her vocabulary, and she would sometimes say things that were “Not racist,” Neff said, “but classist.” (“What are you bitches, broke?” Anna asked her and another hotel employee.) But to Neff, it didn’t come across as mean-spirited. More like she was some kind of old-fashioned princess who’d been plucked from an ancient European castle and deposited in the modern world, although according to Anna she came from modern-day Germany and her father ran a business producing solar panels. And despite her unassuming figure — “a sort of Sound of Music Fräulein,” one acquaintance later put it — Anna quickly established herself as one of 11 Howard’s most generous guests. “People would fight to take her packages upstairs,” said Neff. “Fight, because you knew you were getting $100.” Over time, Delvey got more and more comfortable in the hotel, swanning around in sheer Alexander Wang leggings or, occasionally, a hotel robe. “She ran that place,” said Neff. “You know how Rihanna walks out with wineglasses? That was Anna. And they let her. Bye, Ms. Delvey …”Anna was preparing to launch a business, a Soho House–ish type club, she told Neff, focused on art, with locations in L.A., London, Hong Kong, and Dubai, and Neff became her de facto secretary, organizing business lunches and dinners at restaurants like Seamore’s and the hotel’s own Le Coucou. (“That’s what they do in the rich culture, is meals,” said Neff.) On occasion, when Delvey showed up while the concierge desk was busy, she would stand at the counter, coolly counting out bills until she got Neff’s attention. “I’d be like, ‘Anna, there’s a line of eight people.’ But she’d keep putting money down.” And even though Neff had begun to think of Anna as not just a hotel guest but a friend, a real friend, she didn’t hesitate to take it. “A little selfish of me,” she admitted later. “But … yeah.”Who can blame her? This was Manhattan in the 21st century, and money is more powerful than ever. Rare is the city dweller who, when presented with an opportunity for a sudden and unexpected influx of cash, doesn’t grasp for it. Of course, this money almost always comes with strings attached. Sometimes you can barely see them, like that vaudeville bit in which the pawn dives for a loose bill only to find it pulled just ahead. Still, everyone makes the reach. Because here, money is the one thing that no one can ever have enough of.For a stretch of time in New York, no small amount of the cash in circulation was coming from Anna Delvey. “She gave to everyone,” said Neff. “Uber drivers, $100 cash. Meals — listen. You know how you reach for your credit card? She wouldn’t let me.”The way Anna spent money, it was like she couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. Her room was overflowing with shopping bags from Acne and Supreme, and in between meetings, she’d invite Neff to foot massages, cryotherapy, manicures (Anna favored “a light Wes Anderson pink,” according to Neff). One day, she brought Neff to a session with a personal trainer–slash–life coach she’d found online, a svelte, ageless Oprah-esque figure who works with celebrities like Dakota Johnson.“Stop sinking into your body,” the trainer commanded Anna. “Shoulders back, navel to spine. You are a bright woman; you want to be a businesswoman. You gotta be staying strong on your own power.”Afterward, as Neff panted on the sidelines, Anna bought a package of sessions. “It was, I’m not lying, $4,500,” said Neff.Anna paid cash.Neff’s boyfriend didn’t understand why she was spending so much time with this weird girl from work. Anna didn’t understand why Neff had a boyfriend. But he was rich, Neff protested. He’d promised to finance her first movie. “Dump him,” Anna advised. “I have more money.” She would finance the movie.Neff did dump the guy. Not because of what Anna had said, although she had no reason to doubt it. Her new friend, she discovered, belonged to a vast and glittering social circle. “Anna knew everyone,” said Neff. At night, she’d taken to hosting large dinners at Le Coucou, attended by CEOs, artists, athletes, even celebrities. One night, Neff found herself seated next to her childhood idol, Macaulay Culkin. “Which was awkward,” she said. “Because I had so many questions. And he was right there. But they were talking about, like, friend stuff. So I never got the chance to be like, ‘So, you the godfather to Michael Jackson’s kids?’”Despite her seemingly nomadic living situation, Anna had long been a figure on the New York social scene. “She was at all the best parties,” said marketing director Tommy Saleh, who met her in 2013 at Le Baron in Paris during Fashion Week. Delvey had been an intern at European scenester magazine Purple and appeared to be tight with the magazine’s editor-in-chief, Olivier Zahm, and its man-about-town, André Saraiva, an owner of Le Baron — two of “the 200 or so people you see everywhere,” as Saleh put it: Chilterns and Loulou’s in London; the Crow’s Nest in Montauk; Paul’s Baby Grand and the Bowery Hotel; Frieze, Coachella, Art Basel. “She introduced herself, and she was a sweet girl, very polite,” said Saleh. “Then we’re just hanging with my friends all of a sudden.”Soon, Anna was everywhere too. “She managed to be in all the sort of right places,” recalled one acquaintance who met Anna in 2015 at a party thrown by a start-up mogul in Berlin. “She was wearing really fancy clothing” — Balenciaga, or maybe Alaïa — “and someone mentioned that she flew in on a private jet.” It was unclear where exactly Anna came from — she told people she was from Cologne, but her German wasn’t very good — or what the source of her wealth was. But that wasn’t unusual. “There are so many trust-fund kids running around,” said Saleh. “Everyone is your best friend, and you don’t know a thing about anyone.”She was wearing really fancy clothing. Some one mentioned she flew in on a private jet.After a gallerist at Pace introduced her to Michael Xufu Huang, the extremely young, extremely dapper collector and founder of Beijing’s M Woods museum, Anna proposed they go together to the Venice Biennale. Huang thought it was “a little weird” when Anna asked him to book the plane tickets and hotel on his credit card. “But I was like, Okay, whatever,” he said. It was also strange, he noticed during their time there, that Anna only ever paid with cash, and after they got back, she seemed to forget she’d said she’d pay him back. “It was not a lot of money,” he said. “Like two or three thousand dollars.” After a while, Huang kind of forgot about it too.When you’re superrich, you can be forgetful in this way. Which is maybe why no one thought much of the instances in which Anna did things that seemed odd for a wealthy person: calling a friend to have her put a taxi from the airport on her credit card, or asking to sleep on someone’s couch, or moving into someone’s apartment with the tacit agreement to pay rent, and then … not doing it. Maybe she had so much money she just lost track of it.The following January, Anna hired a PR firm to put together a birthday party at one of her favorite restaurants, Sadelle’s in Soho. “It was a lot of very cool, very successful people,” said Huang, who, while aware Anna owed him money for their Venice trip, remained mostly unconcerned about it, at least until the restaurant, having seen Polaroids of Huang and Anna at the party on Instagram, messaged him a few days later. “They were like, ‘Do you have her contact info?’” he says now. “‘Because she didn’t pay her bill.’ Then I realized, Oh my God, she is not legit.”As Anna bounced around the globe, there was some speculation as to where her means to do this came from, though no one seemed to care that much so long as the bills got paid.“I thought she had family money,” said Jayma Cardoso, one of the owners of the Surf Lodge in Montauk. Delvey’s father was a diplomat to Russia, one friend was sure. No, another insisted, he was an oil-industry titan. “As far as I knew, her family was the Delvey family that is big in antiques in Germany,” said another acquaintance, a millionaire tech CEO. (It is unclear what family he was referring to.) The CEO met Anna through the boyfriend she was running around with for a while, a futurist on the TED-Talks circuit who’d been profiled in The New Yorker.For about two years, they’d been kind of like a team, showing up in places frequented by the itinerant wealthy, living out of fancy hotels and hosting sceney dinners where the Futurist talked up his app and Delvey spoke of the private club she wanted to open once she turned 25 and came into her trust fund.Then it was 2016. The Futurist, whose app never materialized, moved to the Emirates, and Anna came to New York on her own, determined to make her arts club a reality, although she worried to Marc Kremers, the London creative director helping her with branding, that the name she’d come up with — the Anna Delvey Foundation, or ADF — was “too narcissistic.”Early on, Anna and architect Ron Castellano, a friend of her Purple cohort, had scouted a building on the Lower East Side, but it turned out to be too close to a school to get a liquor license, and soon Anna had shifted her aspirations uptown. Through her connections, she’d befriended Gabriel Calatrava, one of the sons of famed architect Santiago. His family’s real-estate advisory company, Calatrava Grace, had helped her “secure the lease,” she informed people, on the perfect space: 45,000 square feet occupying six floors of the historic Church Missions House, a landmarked building on the corner of Park Avenue and 22nd. The heart of the club would be, she said, a “dynamic visual-arts center,” with a rotating array of pop-up shops curated by artist Daniel Arsham, whom she knew from her Purpledays, and exhibitions and installations from blue-chip artists like Urs Fischer, Damien Hirst, Jeff Koons, and Tracey Emin. For the inaugural event, Anna told people, the artist Christo had agreed to wrap the building. Some people raised their eyebrows at the grandiosity of this plan, but to others it made sense, in a New York kind of way. The building’s owner, developer Aby Rosen, was no stranger to the private-club genre; a few years earlier, he’d bought a midtown building and opened the Core Club, which housed an art collection. He also happened to own 11 Howard.With the help of Calatrava executive Michael Jaffe, a former employee of Rosen’s RFR realty firm, Anna soon began meeting with big names in the food-and-beverage world to discuss possibilities in the space. One was André Balazs, who, according to Anna, suggested they add two floors of hotel rooms. Another was Richie Notar, one of the founders of Nobu, who did a walk-through of the building with Anna as she described her vision, which included three restaurants, a juice bar, and a German bakery. “Apparently her family was prominent in Germany,” Notar said, “and funding this big project for her.”But a project of this size required more capital than even someone of Anna’s apparently considerable resources could manage: approximately $25 million, “in addition to $25m existing,” Anna wrote in an email to a prominent Silicon Valley publicist in 2016. “If you think this is something you could help us with and have anyone in mind who would be a good cultural fit for this project.” But by fall, Anna had turned on the idea of private investors, in part because she didn’t want anyone telling her what to do. “If we were to bring in investors, they would say, ‘Oh, she’s 25; she doesn’t know what she’s doing,’” Anna explained later. “I wanted to build the first one myself.”To help secure a loan, one of Anna’s “finance friends” had told her to get in touch with Joel Cohen, best known as the prosecutor of Jordan Belfort, a.k.a. the Wolf of Wall Street. Cohen now worked at Gibson Dunn, a large firm known for its real-estate practice. He put her in touch with Andy Lance, a partner who happened to have the exact kind of expertise that Anna was looking for. In the past, she’d complained to friends about feeling condescended to by older male lawyers because of her age and gender. But Lance was different. “He knows how to talk to women,” she said. “And he would explain to me the right amount, without being patronizing.” According to Anna, she and Lance spoke every day. “He was there all the time. He would answer in the middle of the night, or when he was in Turks and Caicos for Christmas.”After filling out Gibson Dunn’s new-client-intake form, which included checking boxes that confirmed the client had the resources to pay and would not embarrass the firm, Lance put Anna in touch with several large financial institutions, including Los Angeles–based City National Bank and Fortress Investment Group. “Our client Anna Delvey is undertaking a very exciting redevelopment of 281 Park Avenue South, backed by a marquee team for this type of venue and space,” Lance wrote in one email, in which he explained that Anna needed the loan because “her personal assets, which are quite substantial, are located outside the US, some of them in trust with UBS outside the US.” The monies she received, he added, would be “fully secured” by a letter of credit from the Swiss bank. (Lance did not respond to requests for comment.)When the banker at City National asked to see the UBS statements, he received a list of figures from a man named Peter W. Hennecke. “Please use these for your projections for now,” Hennecke wrote in an email. “I’ll send the physical statements on Monday.”“Question: Are you from UBS?” the banker replied, puzzled by Hennecke’s AOL address.No, Anna explained. “Peter is head of my family office.”With Anna in fund-raising mode, the artists and celebrity friends at her dinners were gradually supplanted by men with “Goyard briefcases and Rolexes, and Hublot, like that Jay-Z lyric,” according to Neff, who at one point looked across the table at Le Coucou and recognized the face of infamous “pharma bro” Martin Shkreli, who would later be convicted of securities fraud. Anna introduced Shkreli as a “dear friend,” although it was really the only time they’d met, Shkreli told New York in a letter from the penitentiary; Anna was close with one of his executives. “Anna did seem to be a popular ‘woman about town’ who knew everyone,” he wrote. “Even though I was nationally known, I felt like a computer geek next to her.”As for Neff, she was not as discreet as she had been with Macaulay Culkin, tweeting after the fact that Shkreli had played her and Anna the leaked tracks from Tha Carter V, the delayed Lil Wayne album he’d acquired. Anna was furious, but Neff refused to delete the tweet. “I wanted everybody to know that I heard this album that the world is waiting on! But Anna was pretty mad. She didn’t come down to my desk for maybe three days.”In the meantime, though, Neff said she had another visitor: Charlie Rosen. Aby Rosen’s sons were generally regarded as pretty-boy trust-fund kids — a few years back, they made headlines for reportedly racing ATVs over piping-plover nests in the Hamptons — but Neff liked them, and when Charlie stopped by one evening, she dropped that she’d recently been to visit the Park Avenue building that one of the guests, a young woman, was leasing from their father for an arts club.Rosen looked confused. He didn’t appear to have ever heard of Anna or her project. “What room is she staying in?” he asked. When Neff told him, he looked skeptical. “If my dad has someone buying property from him staying here,” he said, “would she be in a Deluxe or would she be in a suite?”He had a point. A few days later, Neff broached the subject. “Why did you tell me you’re buying property from Aby but you’re not staying in a suite?” she asked.Anna looked surprised but answered immediately. “She said, ‘You ever have someone do so many favors for you, you kind of just want to pay them back in silence?’”“Genius,” Neff said.Soon it was April. Spring was poking its head through the gray New York City sidewalks, and the weather was getting warm enough to sip rosé on rooftops, one of Anna’s favorite activities, although the circle she was doing this with, Neff noticed, was smaller than it had been in the past and mainly consisted of herself; Rachel Williams, a photo editor at Vanity Fair; and the trainer, who, although she was notably older, had taken a motherly interest in her client. “I know a lot of trust-fund babies, and I was impressed that Anna had something that she wanted to do, instead of, you know, living like a Kardashian,” said the trainer. Plus, she said, Anna seemed lonely. Neff noticed the same thing. “What happened to your friends?” she asked Anna after one night out. “Oh,” Anna said vaguely. “They’re all mad I left Purple.” She was too busy for parties, anyway, she said, what with building her business.It was true that Anna was spending a lot of time working, frowning at her in-box and huffing into the phone. “She was always on the phone with lawyers,” said Neff, who would sort of listen in from the concierge desk. “They were always toning her down. Like, ‘Anna, you’re trying to make something that’s worth this much be worth that much, and that’s just not how it works.’”Back in December, City National had turned down her loan request — a management decision is how Anna framed it — and while the ever-loyal Andy Lance was reaching out to hedge funds and banks for alternate financing, executives at RFR were pressuring her to come up with the money fast, Anna said. If she didn’t, they were going to give it to another party, rumored to be the Swedish museum Fotografiska. “How do they even pay for that?” Anna fumed. “It’s like two old guys.”In the meantime, Anna was having cash-flow issues of her own. One night, Anna asked Neff to dinner at Sant Ambroeus in Soho. They were by themselves, which was unusual. Even more unusually, at the end of the meal, Anna’s card was declined. “Here,” she told the waiter, handing him a list of credit-card numbers. In Neff’s admittedly foggy memory, they were in a small book, though it may have been the Notes app on her phone. But she’s clear on what happened next. “The waiter went back to his station and began entering the numbers. There were like 12, and I know the guy tried them all,” she said. “He was trying it and then shaking his head. And then I started to sweat, because I knew the bill was mine.” While the amount — $286 — was a fraction of what Anna usually spent, it was a lot for Neff, who quietly transferred money from her savings to cover the bill. Doing so made her feel sick, but after all the money Anna had spent on her, she understood it was her turn.What happened to all your friends?” “Oh, they’re all mad I left Purple.Not long after, Neff’s manager called and asked her to address a delicate issue: It seemed 11 Howard didn’t have a credit card on file for Anna Delvey. Because the hotel had been so new when she arrived, and because she was staying for such an unusually long time, and because she was a client of Aby Rosen’s and a very valued guest, it had agreed to accept a wire transfer. But a month and a half later, no such transfer had arrived, and now Delvey owed the hotel some $30,000, including charges from Le Coucou that she’d been billing to her room.Neff wasn’t sure what to think. She was sure Anna was good for the money. The day after the Sant Ambroeus debacle, she’d paid her back triple. In cash.When Anna came by her desk the next day, Neff took her aside and told her that management had said Anna needed to pay her bill. Anna nodded, her eyes inscrutable behind her sunglasses. There was a wire transfer on the way, she said. It should arrive soon. Then, about midway into her shift, Anna came by the desk again and, with a mischievous smile on her face, told Neff to expect a package. When it arrived, Neff opened it to find a case of 1975 Dom Pérignon, with Anna’s instructions to distribute it among the staff. Neff hesitated. Gifts, especially of the liquid variety, needed to be approved by management. “They were like, ‘How do we look approving this if she hasn’t paid us?’ So they went after her. ‘We need the money or we’re locking you out.’”One morning, Anna showed up to her morning session with the trainer looking visibly upset. “Can we do a life-coaching session?” she pleaded. She was trying to build something, to do something, she went on, and no one was taking her seriously. “They think because I am young, they think I have all this money,” she sobbed. “I told them the money would be there soon. I’m having it transferred.”The trainer told her to breathe. “I feel like you are in a little over your head,” she offered. “Maybe you just need a break.”Then something miraculous happened. Citibank sent 11 Howard a wire transfer on behalf of Ms. Anna Delvey for $30,000. Neff called Anna on her cell phone. “Where you at?” she asked. Across the street at Rick Owens, Anna replied. Neff checked the clock: It was her lunch break. When she came through the door of the store, Anna was holding up a T-shirt. “Look what I found,” she said, beaming. “It’s perfect for you.” She was right: The shirt was the exact orangey red of the creepy bathroom scene in The Shining, one of Neff’s favorite movies, and the signature color of the brand Neff was trying to launch, FilmColours. It was also $400. “I’d love to buy it for you,” Anna said.A few weeks later, Anna told Neff she was going to Omaha. “I’m going to see Warren Buffett,” she announced, grandly. One of her bankers had gotten her on the list to Berkshire Hathaway’s annual investment conference, and she’d decided to bring the executive from Martin Shkreli’s hedge fund, who was fun and a friend of his, on the private jet she’d rented to take them there. “I’ll be back,” she promised Neff.But there was still a problem with her account at 11 Howard. Despite being repeatedly asked by hotel management, she still hadn’t given the hotel a working credit card, and her charges continued to mount. Following through on their warning, hotel employees changed the code on the lock of Anna’s room and put her things in storage. Neff texted Anna in Omaha to deliver the bad news.“How can they do that?” Anna asked indignantly, although if she was truly shocked, it didn’t last long. The conference had been great, she said. The best part had happened the very last day, when, having exhausted all the opportunities for luxury Omaha had to offer, Anna and her party had taken a cab driver’s suggestion to check out the zoo. They hadn’t expected much, but then, while they were riding around on their golf carts, they’d stumbled on a private dinner hosted by Buffett for a slew of VIPs. “Everyone was there,” she said. “Like, Bill Gates was there.”For a little while, they’d watched through the glass, then they’d slipped in and mingled among them.When Anna got back to 11 Howard, she made her fury known. She was going to purchase web domains in all of the managers’ names, she told Neff, a trick she’d learned from Shkreli: “They’re going to pay me one day,” she said. Also, she was moving out — as soon as she got back from Morocco. Inspired by Khloé Kardashian, she’d reserved a $7,000-a-night riad with a private butler at La Mamounia, an opulent resort in Marrakech, and asked Neff if she wanted to join herself, the trainer, Rachel Williams, and a videographer, who she was hoping would make “a behind-the-scenes documentary” about the process of creating her arts foundation on a vacation. They’d wake up to massages, she said, and spend their days exploring the souk, lounging by the pool. Neff wanted to go, badly. But there was no way the hotel would let her take off eight days. “Just quit,” Anna said airily.For a day or two, Neff considered it. But her mom told her she had a bad feeling about it. “Nothing in life is free,” she said. So Neff stayed behind, morosely following her friend’s journey on Instagram. “I was pretty jealous,” she said.As she would find out, the pictures didn’t exactly tell the whole story. Two days in, after coming down with a nasty case of food poisoning, the trainer had gone back to New York early.About a week later, the trainer got a call from Anna, who was alone at the Four Seasons in Casablanca and hysterical. There was, she sobbed, a problem with her bank. Her credit cards weren’t going through, and the hotel was threatening to call the police. After calming Anna down, the trainer asked to speak to management. “They were like, ‘She is going to be arrested,’” she said.The trainer was torn: On the one hand, this was not her problem. On the other, Anna was her client, her friend, and someone’s daughter. Offering a prayer to the universe, the trainer gave the hotel her credit-card number and, when it failed to go through, made the requisite calls to her bank. When it still failed to go through, she went the extra mile: She called a friend and had her give her credit-card information. When that failed to work, the hotel conceded the problem might be on their end.Later, the trainer would recognize this as a substantial gift from the Universe. At the time, she promised the hotel in Casablanca that Anna would make them whole. “Trust me,” she told them. “I know she’s good for it. I just spent two days with her in Marrakech.” When Anna came back on the phone, the trainer told her she was booking her a ticket back to New York. Anna snuffled her thanks. Then she asked for one last favor: “Can you get me first class?” she asked.A few days later, a silvery Tesla pulled up in front of 11 Howard. Neff, at the concierge desk, felt her cell phone buzz. “Look out the window,” said a familiar German accent. The car’s futuristic doors slowly raised up to reveal Anna. “I’m here to get my stuff,” she said.Anna was making good on her promise to leave 11 Howard. She was moving downtown to the Beekman Hotel, she told Neff, who watched her drive away in a car that she only later realized someone must have rented to her. Moving didn’t stem Anna’s mounting troubles. Not only did she owe the hotel, but, over in London, Marc Kremers, the designer she’d hired to do her branding work, was getting antsy: The £16,800 fee Anna had promised would arrive by wire almost a year before had yet to materialize, and now emails to Anna’s financial adviser, Peter W. Hennecke, were bouncing back. “Peter passed away last month,” Anna replied. “Please refrain from contacting or mentioning any communication with him going forward.”In retrospect, her terseness was understandable. Things were rapidly deteriorating for Anna Delvey in New York. Twenty days into her stay, the Beekman Hotel, having realized it did not have a working credit card on file and having not received the promised wire transfer for her balance of $11,518.59, locked Anna out of her room and confiscated her belongings. A subsequent two-day stay at the W Hoteldowntown ended in a similar fashion, and by July 5, Anna was effectively homeless, wandering the streets in threadbare Alexander Wang sportswear.Late one night, she made her way to the trainer’s apartment and dialed her from outside. “I’m right near your building,” she said. “Do you think we could talk?”The trainer hesitated: She was in the middle of a date. But there was a desperate note in Anna’s voice. She made her way to her lobby, where she found Anna with tears streaming down her face. “I’m trying to do this thing,” she sobbed. “And it’s so hard.”Maybe she should call her family, the trainer suggested. She would, Anna replied, but her parents were in Africa. “Do you mind if I crash at your place tonight?” No, the trainer said, she had a date.“I really just don’t want be alone,” Anna sniffled. “I might do something.”The date hid in the bedroom while the trainer made a bed for her unexpected houseguest and offered her a glass of water.“Do you have any Pellegrino?” Anna asked. There was one large bottle left. Anna ignored the two glasses placed on the counter and began swilling from the bottle. “I’m so tired,” she yawned.As Anna slept, the trainer’s spidey sense began to tingle. “I mean, I’m born and raised in New York,” she told me later. “I’m not stupid.” She texted Rachel Williams, who told her about what had happened at La Mamounia: Apparently, after the trainer returned to New York, the credit card Anna had used to book the hotel was found to be nonfunctional, and when Anna was unable to produce a new form of payment and a pair of threatening goons appeared in the doorway, the photo editor was forced to put the balance — $62,000, more than she was paid in a year — on the Amex she sometimes used for work expenses. Anna had promised her a wire transfer, but a month later, all Rachel received was $5,000, and her excuses had turned “Kafkaesque.”The following morning, the trainer resolved to draw a clear boundary. After lending Anna a clean (and flattering) dress, she sent her on her way with a gratis motivational speech. But when Anna walked out the door, she left her laptop behind. The trainer was having none of it. She deposited the computer at the front desk and texted Anna that she could pick it up there.That evening, the trainer got a call from her doorman. Anna was in the lobby. He’d told her that the trainer was out, at which point she’d asked for access to her suite. When he refused, Anna had resolved to wait for the trainer to return home.“Let me know when she goes,” the trainer told the doorman.But hours passed and Anna didn’t budge. “They were like, She’s still here. She’s texting,” the trainer recalls. “I was like, Oh my God, I’m a prisoner of my own house.” It wasn’t until after midnight that Anna finally left the building.The relief the trainer felt soon turned into worry. “I started calling the hotels to see where she was staying, and each hotel was like, ‘This girl,’ she said.She found out why later that month, when both the Beekman and the W Hotel filed charges against Anna for theft of services. WANNABE SOCIALITE BUSTED FOR SKIPPING OUT ON PRICEY HOTEL BILLS, blared the headline in the Post, which referenced an incident in which Anna attempted to leave the restaurant at Le Parker without paying. “Why are you making a big deal about this?” she’d protested to police. “Give me five minutes and I can get a friend to pay.”But no friends arrived. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding, as Anna told Todd Spodek, the criminal attorney she hired to fight the misdemeanor charges. Maybe the poised young woman in the Audrey Hepburn dress who’d cold-called him on his cell phone repeatedly, insisting it was an emergency until he’d agreed to come into his office on a Saturday, really was a wealthy German heiress, he thought, as his 4-year-old pasted Paw Patrol stickers up one of Anna’s bare arms, and her credit cards had gotten jammed up, or someone had taken away her trust fund. Just in case, Spodek, whose everyday clientele includes grifters, dog-murderers, femme fatales, rapists, and cybercriminals, among other miscreants, had her sign a lien on all of her assets, one that would ensure he got paid. On her way out, Anna asked a favor. “I kind of need a place to stay,” she said. Spodek demurred. The last thing his wife wanted was for him to bring his work home with him.Anna again got in touch with the trainer, who did not invite her to stay but instead organized an intervention at a nearby restaurant, during which she and Rachel Williams attempted to get answers: about why Anna had done what she’d done, who she really was, if she’d ever planned on paying anyone back. Anna hemmed and hawed and dissembled and prevaricated and, as the women got increasingly angry, allowed two fat tears to roll down her cheeks. “I’ll have enough to pay everyone,” she sniffled. “Once I get the lease signed …”“Anna,” the trainer said, summoning her last shred of patience. “The building has been rented.”She held up her iPhone and showed her the headline: FOTOGRAFISKA SIGNS A LEASE FOR ENTIRE 45K SF AT ABY ROSEN’S BUILDING.“That’s fake news,” Anna said.Is “Fotografiska really get the building?” sighed the tiny, accented voice after the recording identifying the call as coming from Rikers Island, where Anna Delvey, a.k.a. Anna Sorokin, has been remanded without bail since October 2017.As it turned out, Anna’s hotel bills were merely the first loose threads in a web of fraudulent activity, one that began to unravel in November 2016, after she submitted documents claiming a net worth of €60 million in Swiss accounts to City National Bank in pursuit of a $22 million dollar loan. The following month, she submitted the same documents to Fortress in an attempt to secure a $25 million to $35 million loan. After that bank asked her for $100,000 to perform due diligence, she convinced a representative at City National to extend her a $100,000 line of credit, which she then wired to Fortress. Then, apparently spooked by Fortress’s decision to send representatives to Switzerland to personally check her assets, she withdrew herself from the process halfway through, wiring the remaining $55,000 to a Citibank account that she used for “personal expenses … shopping at Forward by Elyse Walker, Apple, and Net-a-Porter,” according to the New York District Attorney’s office. Then, in April, she deposited $160,000 worth of bad checks into the same account, managing to withdraw $70,000 before they were returned, which is how she managed to pay off 11 Howard and, ostensibly, buy Neff’s T-shirt and the domain names of the managers of the hotel. (“They called me down to the office. They said, ‘Neff, did you know about this?’ And I started dying laughing. I thought it was a boss move.”) In May, Anna convinced the company Blade to charter her a $35,000 jet to Omaha by sending them a forged confirmation for a wire transfer from Deutsche Bank. It might have helped that she had the business card of the CEO, whom she’d met in passing at Soho House but who says he didn’t actually know her at all. Not wanting to leave Anna homeless after their intervention last summer, the trainer and a friend agreed to put Anna up at a hotel for one night, after having the hotel remove the mini-bar and giving strict instructions not to allow her any room service. She subsequently checked in to the Bowery Hotel for two nights, sending the hotel a receipt for a wire transfer from Deutsche Bank that never came. Rachel Williams, City National, and others also received phony wire-transfer receipts, which a representative of the bank identified as forged. Anna’s “family adviser,” the late Peter W. Hennecke, seems to have been a fictional character; his cell-phone number belonged to a now-defunct burner phone from a supermarket, New York found. (A living Peter Hennecke did not return calls for comment.) Later in the summer, with her misdemeanor charges pending, Anna deposited two bad checks into an account at Signature Bank, netting her $8,200, which is how she managed to take what she said was a “planned trip” to California, where she was arrested outside of Passages in Malibu and brought back to New York to face six counts of grand larceny and attempted grand larceny, in addition to theft of services, according to the indictment. “I like L.A.,” she giggled when I visited her at Rikers this past March. “L.A. in the winter, New York in spring and autumn, and Europe in summer.”People looked over curiously. “She’s like a unicorn in there,” Todd Spodek, Anna’s lawyer, had told me. “Everyone else is in there for like, stabbing their baby daddy.” He had mentioned that his client was taking incarceration unusually in stride, and indeed, this appeared to be the case.“This place is not that bad at all actually,” Anna told me, eyes sparkling behind her Céline glasses. “People seem to think it’s horrible, but I see it as like, this sociological experiment.”She’d made friends, of course. The murderers were the most interesting to her. “There are couple of girls who are here for financial crimes as well,” she told me. “This one girl, she’s been stealing other people’s identities. I didn’t realize it was so easy.”Over the course of three months, I spoke to Anna over the phone and visited her several times, occasionally bringing her copies of Forbes, Fast Company, and The Wall Street Journal at her request. Clad in a beige jumpsuit, her $800 highlights faded and her $400 eyelash extensions long fallen away, she looked like a normal 27-year-old girl, which is what she is.Anna Sorokin was born in Russia in 1991, and moved to Germany in 2007, when she was 16, with her younger brother and her parents, who, after being independently tracked down by and speaking with New York, asked to remain anonymous, as news of their daughters arrest has not yet reached the small rural community where they live.Anna attended high school in Eschweiler, a small working-class town 60 kilometers outside Cologne, near the Belgian and Dutch border. Her classmates remember her as quiet, with an unwieldy command of German. Her father had worked as a truck driver and later as an executive at a transport company until it became insolvent in 2013, whereupon he opened a heating-and-cooling business specializing in energy-efficient devices. Anna’s father was circumspect about the family’s finances, possibly out of a not-unreasonable fear of being held responsible for his daughter’s debts, which it was suggested to New York multiple times are larger and more wide-ranging than officially documented. “She screwed basically everyone,” said the acquaintance in Berlin, who passed on the names of several individuals who were said to have had amounts large and small borrowed or stolen but were too embarrassed to come forward. (Also paranoid: “I heard she commissions these stories,” I was told more than once, after I reached out to alleged victims. “They’re strategic leaks.”)In any case, according to Anna’s father: “Until now, we have never heard of any trust fund.”That said, he went on, the family did support her to an extent after Anna graduated from high school in 2011. She moved first to London, where she attended Central Saint Martins College, then she dropped out and returned to Berlin, where she interned in the fashion department of a public-relations firm before relocating to Paris, where she landed a coveted internship at Purple magazine and became Anna Delvey. Her parents, who say they do not recognize the surname, told New York: “We always paid for her accommodations, her rent, and other matters. She assured us these costs were the best investment. If ever she needed something more at one point or another, it didn’t matter. The future was always bright.”Anna, in jail, told me: “My parents had high expectations. They always trusted me with my decision-making. I guess they regret it now.”Over the course of our conversations, Anna never admitted any guilt, although she did say she felt bad about what happened with Rachel Williams. “I am very upset that things went that way and I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said. “But I really can’t do anything about it, being in here.”She expressed frustration about not being able to bail herself out. “If they were doubting — ‘Oh, she can’t pay for anything’— why not give me bail and see?” she challenged. “If I was such a fraud, it would be such an easy resolution. Will she bail herself out?”She was frustrated with the New York Post’s characterization of her as a “wannabe socialite” — “I was never trying to be a socialite,” she pointed out. “I had dinners, but they were work dinners. I wanted to be taken seriously” — and the District Attorney’s portrayal of her as, as Anna put it, “a greedy idiot” who had committed a kind of harebrained Ponzi scheme in order to go shopping. “If I really wanted the money, I would have better and faster ways to get some,” she groused. “Resilience is hard to come by, but not capital.”She seemed most interested in expressing that her plans to create the Anna Delvey Foundation were real. She’d had all of those conversations and meetings and sent all of those emails and commissioned those materials because she thought it was actually going to happen. “I had what I thought was a great team around me, and I was having fun,” she said. Sure, she said, she might have done a few things wrong. “But that doesn’t diminish the hundred things I did right.”Maybe it could have happened. In this city, where enormous amounts of invisible money trade hands every day, where glass towers are built on paperwork promises, why not? If Aby Rosen, the son of Holocaust survivors, could come to New York and fill skyscrapers full of art, if the Kardashians could build a billion-dollar empire out of literally nothing, if a movie star like Dakota Johnson could sculpt her ass so that it becomes the anchor of a major franchise, why couldn’t Anna Delvey? During the course of my reporting, people kept asking: Why this girl? She wasn’t superhot, they pointed out, or super-charming; she wasn’t even very nice. How did she manage to convince an enormous amount of cool, successful people that she was something she clearly was not? Watching the Rikers guard shove Fast Companyinto a manila envelope, I realized what Anna had in common with the people she’d been studying in the pages of that magazine: She saw something others didn’t. Anna looked at the soul of New York and recognized that if you distract people with shiny objects, with large wads of cash, with the indicia of wealth, if you show them the money, they will be virtually unable to see anything else. And the thing was: It was so easy.“Money, like, there’s an unlimited amount of capital in the world, you know?” Anna said to me at one point. “But there’s limited amounts of people who are talented.”

Rachel 和 AnnaRachel在名利场发表的原文：“AS AN ADDED BONUS, SHE PAID FOR EVERYTHING”: MY BRIGHT-LIGHTS MISADVENTURE WITH A MAGICIAN OF MANHATTANBY RACHEL DELOACHE WILLIAMSShe walked into my life in Gucci sandals and Céline glasses, and showed me a glamorous, frictionless world of hotel living and Le Coucou dinners and infrared saunas and Moroccan vacations. And then she made my $62,000 disappear.According to my closest friends and various suspect Internet sources, turning 29 on January 29, 2017 marked my golden birthday. At the time, I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I had a gut feeling about my 30th year: it was going to be special; it was going to be good.It was a total disaster.It began with Anna. In her signature black athleisure wear and oversize Céline sunglasses, she sat beside me in the S.U.V., pecking at her phone. Seemingly everything she owned was packed into Rimowa suitcases and stacked in the trunk, just behind our heads. We were running late. Anna was always late. Our S.U.V. hummed along the cobblestones of Crosby Street as we drove from 11 Howard, the hotel Anna had called home for three months, to the Mercer, the hotel Anna planned to move into when we got back from our trip. The bellhops at the Mercer helped us to off-load her bags (all but one), and they checked them away to await Anna’s return. Our errand complete, we climbed back into the car and set off for J.F.K. two hours before our flight: we were Marrakech-bound.Anna taking an iPhone photo during a daytrip to Kasbah Tamadot Sir Richard Bransons resort in Moroccos High Atlas...Anna, taking an iPhone photo during a day-trip to Kasbah Tamadot, Sir Richard Branson’s resort in Morocco’s High Atlas Mountains. Anna returned for a stay at Kasbah Tamadot after leaving La Mamounia. I first met Anna the year prior, in early 2016, at Happy Ending, a restaurant-lounge on Broome Street with a bistro on the ground floor, and a popular nightclub past the bouncer one flight down. I was with friends in the lounge downstairs. It was a group that I saw almost exclusively on nights out, fashion friends, whom I’d met since moving to the city in 2010. We walked in as the space was kicking into gear, not empty but not crowded. Young men and women made laps through machine-pumped fog, scouting for action and a place to settle in, as they sipped their vodka soda through plastic black straws. We made our way to the right and back, where the fog and people were denser and the music was louder.I can’t remember which arrived first: the expectant bucket of ice and stack of glasses, or “Anna Delvey”—but I knew that she had appeared and with her came bottle service. She was a stranger to me, and yet not unknown. I’d seen her on Instagram, smiling at events, drinking at parties, oftentimes alongside my own friends and acquaintances. I’d seen that @annadelvey (since changed to @annadlvv) had 40K followers.The new arrival, in a clingy black dress and flat Gucci sandals, slid into the banquette. She had a cherubic face with oversize blue eyes and pouty lips. Her features and proportions were classical—almost anachronistic—with a roundness that would suit Ingres or John Currin. She greeted me and her ambiguously accented voice was unexpectedly high-pitched.Pleasantries led to discussion of how Anna first came into our friend group. She said she had interned for Purple magazine, in Paris (I’d seen her in photos with the magazine’s editor-in-chief), and evidently traveled in similar social circles. It was the quintessential nice-to-meet-you-in-New York conversation: hellos, exchange of niceties, how do you know X, what do you do for work?I CAN’T REMEMBER WHICH ARRIVED FIRST: THE EXPECTANT BUCKET OF ICE AND STACK OF GLASSES, OR “ANNA DELVEY”—BUT I KNEW THAT SHE HAD APPEARED AND WITH HER CAME BOTTLE SERVICE.“I work at Vanity Fair,” I told her. The usual dialogue ensued: “in the photo department,” I elaborated. “Yes, I love it. I’ve been there for six years.” She was attentive and engaged. She ordered another bottle of vodka. She picked up the tab.Not long after we first met, I was invited to join Anna and a mutual friend for dinner at Harry’s, a steakhouse downtown, not far from my office. The vibe at Harry’s was distinctly masculine, fussy but not frilly, with leather seating and wood-paneled walls. Anna was there when I arrived, and the friend came a few minutes later. We were shown to our table, and my company ordered oysters and a round of espresso martinis. Conversation went along, as did the cocktails. I’d never had an espresso martini, but it went down just fine.Anna told us huffily that she’d spent the day in meetings with lawyers. “What for?” I asked. She lit up. She was hard at work on her art foundation—a “dynamic visual-arts center dedicated to contemporary art,” she explained, referring vaguely to a family trust. She planned to lease the historic Church Missions House, a building on Park Avenue South and 22nd Street, to house a night lounge, bar, art galleries, studio space, restaurants, and a members-only club. In my line of work, I had often encountered ambitious, well-off individuals, so though her undertaking sounded grand in scale and promising in theory, my sincere enthusiasm hardly outweighed a measured skepticism.For the rest of 2016, I saw Anna every few weekends. As a visiting German citizen, she’d explained, she didn’t have a full-time residence. She was living in the Standard, High Line, not far from my small apartment in Manhattan’s West Village. Anna intrigued me, and she seemed eager to be friends. I was flattered. I saw her on adventure-filled nights out, for drinks and sometimes dinner, usually with a group, but occasionally just the two of us. Towards autumn of that same year, Anna told me she was returning to Cologne, where she said she was from, just before the expiration of her visa.Nearly half a year later, she came back.On Saturday, May 13, 2017, we landed in Marrakech. Our hotel sent a V.I.P. service to greet us at the airport. We were escorted through Customs and taken to two awaiting Land Rovers. After a 10-minute drive, we pulled up to a palatial compound and entered through its gates. At the front entrance, we were welcomed by a host of men wearing fez caps and traditional Moroccan attire. We had arrived at our singularly opulent destination. Miss Delvey, our host, opted for a tour of the grounds for her and her guests. We proceeded directly, not having any need for keys or a traditional check-in procedure, since our villa was staffed with a full-time butler and, according to our host, all billing had been settled in advance.The vacation was Anna’s idea. She again needed to leave the States in order to reset her ESTA visa, she said. Instead of returning home to Germany, she suggested we take a trip somewhere warm. It had been a long time since my last vacation. I happily agreed that we should explore options, thinking we’d find off-season fares to the Dominican Republic or Turks and Caicos. Anna suggested Marrakech; she’d always wanted to go. She picked La Mamounia, a five-star luxury resort ranked among the best in the world, and knowing that her selection was cost-prohibitive for my budget, she nonchalantly offered to cover my flights, the hotel, and expenses. She reserved a $7,000/night private riad, a traditional Moroccan villa with an interior courtyard, three bedrooms, and a pool, and forwarded me the confirmation e-mail. Due to a seemingly minor snafu, I’d put the plane tickets on my American Express card, with Anna promising to reimburse me promptly. Since I did this all the time for work, I didn’t give it a second thought.Anna also invited a personal trainer, along with a friend of mine—a photographer—whom, at a dinner the week before our trip, Anna had asked to come as a documentarian, someone to capture video. She was thinking of making a documentary about the creation of her art foundation, and she wanted to experience what it felt like to have someone around with a camera. Plus, it’d be fun to have video from the trip, she said. I thought this was a bit ridiculous, but also entertaining, and why not? The four of us stayed in the private villa together. Anna and I shared the largest room.We spent our first day and a half exploring all that La Mamounia had to offer. We roamed the gardens, relaxed in the hammam, swam in our villa’s private pool, took a tour of the wine cellar, and ate dinner to the intoxicating rhythms of live Moroccan music, before capping our night with cocktails in the jazzy Churchill bar. In the morning, Anna arranged for a private tennis lesson. We met her afterward for breakfast at the poolside buffet. Between adventures, our butler appeared, as if by magic, with fresh watermelon and chilled bottles of rosé.Anna was no stranger to decadence. When she returned to N.Y.C. in early 2017, after months away, she checked into 11 Howard, a trendy hotel in SoHo. Her routine dinner spot became Le Coucou, winner of the James Beard Award for best new restaurant that same year, which was on the ground level of her hotel. Buckwheat fried Montauk eel to start and then the bourride: her dish of choice. She befriended the staff, and even the chef, Daniel Rose, who, upon her request, obligingly made off-the-menu bouillabaisse just for her. Dinners were accompanied by abundant white wine.Her days were spent at meetings and on phone calls, often in her hotel. She regularly went to Christian Zamora for $400 full eyelash extensions, or $140 touch-ups here and there. She went to Marie Robinson Salon for color, Sally Hershberger for cuts. She toured multi-million-dollar apartments with over-eager realtors and chartered a private plane for a weekend trip to Berkshire Hathaway’s annual shareholders meeting in Omaha. All things in excess: she shopped, ate, and drank. Usually wearing a Supreme brand hoodie, workout pants, and sneakers, she embodied a lazy sort of luxury.Anna checked into 11 Howard on a Sunday in February and that same day invited me to lunch. She’d texted me occasionally while she’d been gone, excited to get back and eager to catch up. I wondered if she kept in touch with other friends that way. She had a directness that could be off-putting and a sort of comical overconfidence that I found equal parts abhorrent and amusing. She isolated herself, and I felt privileged to be one of the few people whom she liked and trusted. Through past experiences, both personal and professional, I was casually accustomed to the lifestyle and quirks of moneyed people, though I had no trust fund or savings of my own. Her world wasn’t foreign to me—I was comfortable there—and I was pleased that she could tell, that she accepted me as someone who “got it.”I met her at Mamo, on West Broadway. Anna had settled into the L-shaped booth closest to the door. Above her hung an oversize illustration of Lino Ventura and Jean-Paul Belmondo, both holding guns, floating above a dark cityscape. “ASFALTO CHE SCOTTA,” it read, in caps-locked Italian. She had come directly from the Apple Store, where she’d purchased a new laptop and two new iPhones—one for her international number and one for a new local number, she said. She ordered a Bellini, and I followed her lead.When we finally left, it was almost five o’clock. We walked towards Anna’s hotel and she invited me in for a drink. We passed through 11 Howard’s modern lobby, heading straight for the steel spiral staircase to the left, which swooped twice around a thick column, rising to the floor above. On the second level, we entered a large living room called the Library.The room’s design had distinctly Scandinavian overtones. My eyes scanned the setup and paused on a photograph that hung in a frame across from the concierge desk, a black-and-white image of an empty theater—part of a series by Japanese photographer Hiroshi Sugimoto. Light emanated from a seemingly blank, rectangular movie screen, casting its glow out from the center of the composition onto the empty stage, seats, and theater. Sugimoto used a large-format camera and set his exposure to be the full length of a film, hoping to capture a movie’s thousands of still frames within a single image. The result was otherworldly. Looking at his work always reminded me of Shakespeare, a play within a play. It captured kinetic energy, portentous and alive with emotion and light. The viewing experience was meta and inverted: I was the audience, looking into an empty theater, beneath a blank screen. Anything was possible, or maybe it’d already happened. Maybe it was all already there.After that day in February, Anna and I became fast friends. The world was charmed when she was around—the normal rules didn’t seem to apply. Her lifestyle was full of convenience, and its easy materialism was seductive. She began seeing a personal trainer and invited me to join. The sessions were her treat, as she generously insisted that working out was more fun with a friend. We went as frequently as three or four times a week, often ending our sessions with a visit to the infrared sauna.I saw Anna most mornings. During the day, she’d text me frequently. After work, I’d stop by 11 Howard on my walk home. We’d regularly visit the Library for wine before going downstairs to Le Coucou for late dinners.Anna did most of the talking. She held court, having befriended the hotel staff and servers, with me as her trusted adviser and loyal confidante. She would tell me about her meetings with restaurateurs, hedge-fund managers, lawyers, and bankers—and her frustration over delays with the lease signing. (She was set on the Church Missions House.) She mused about chefs she’d like to bring in, artists she esteemed, exhibitions that were opening. She was savvy. I felt a mixture of pity and admiration for Anna. She didn’t have many friends, and she wasn’t close with her family. She said that her relationship with her parents felt rooted more in business than in love. But she was strong. Her impulsivity and a sort of tactlessness had caused a rift between Anna and the friends through whom I’d met her, but I felt that I understood her and would be there for her when others were not.Anna was a character. Her default setting was haughty, but she didn’t take herself too seriously. She was quirky and erratic. She acted with the entitlement and impulsivity of a once spoiled, seldom disciplined child—offset by a tendency to befriend workers rather than management, and to let slip the occasional comment suggesting a deeper empathy. (“It’s a lot of responsibility to have people working for you; people have families to feed. That’s no joke.”) In the male-dominated business world, she was unapologetically ambitious and I liked this about her.She was audacious where I was reserved, and irreverent where I was polite. We balanced each other: I normalized her eccentric behavior, as she challenged my sense of propriety and dared me to have fun. As an added bonus, she paid for everything.It was late on Monday afternoon, after almost two full days in La Mamounia’s walled palace. It was time to venture out. Anna wanted two things: piles of spices worthy of an Instagram photo and a place to buy some Moroccan kaftans. La Mamounia’s concierge arranged everything: within minutes we had a tour guide and set off with a car and driver. Our van came to a stop and we stepped out one by one, fresh from our sheltered resort life, into the dusty warmth of the medina’s mysterious maze.“Can you make this dress, but with black linen?” Anna asked of a woman in Maison Du Kaftan. Before the woman could reply, Anna continued, “I’ll take one in black and one in white linen and, Rachel, I’d love to get one for you.” I scanned the store’s racks as Anna tried on a bright red jumpsuit and a range of gauzy sheer dresses. I tried on a few things but, wary of the iffy fabric content and high prices, I soon joined the videographer and trainer in the shop’s seating area for glasses of mint tea. Anna went to pay. Her debit card was declined.“Did you tell your banks that you were traveling?” I asked. “No,” was her reply. Then I wasn’t surprised that such a purchase would be flagged. Anna asked to borrow money, promising to reimburse me the following week. I agreed, careful to keep track of the receipt. We wandered the medina until dusk. Back in the van, we went directly to La Sultana for dinner. I paid for that, too, adding it to my “tab.”On Tuesday, we were walking through La Mamounia’s lobby, leaving for a visit to the Jardin Majorelle, when a hotel employee waved Anna to a stop. “Miss Delvey, may we speak with you?” he said, as he tactfully pulled her aside. “Is everything O.K.?” I asked, when she rejoined the group. “Yes,” Anna reassured me. “I just need to call my bank.”The next morning, I, too, was stopped as I passed through the lobby: “Miss Williams, have you seen Miss Delvey?” I sent Anna to the concierge. She was agitated by the inconvenience. You could always tell when Anna was agitated: she made almost comical huffy noises (“ugh, why!”) and typed furiously on her phone. She left the villa and came back shortly after, ostensibly relieved that the situation was being resolved.We set off on a day trip to the Atlas Mountains and returned to Marrakech after dinner that same evening, re-entering La Mamounia through the main lobby. Two men stepped forward as Anna approached. They pulled her aside and she sat down to make a call, as the videographer and I lingered awkwardly to the side. (The trainer was sick in bed for the second day in a row.) As we waited, an employee mentioned that someone had been fired because of the trouble with our villa’s payment. A functioning credit card should have been on file before we’d arrived, he explained.The men followed us back to our villa, as Anna spoke clipped phrases into her phone. They stood ominously on the edge of our living room. I offered them chairs, but they declined. I offered them water, smilingly trying to diffuse the tension. They declined. Anna sat in front of them, intensely focused. I excused myself, feeling the embarrassment of the situation, and thinking it best to give Anna some privacy since there was nothing I could do to help.In the morning, I awoke to a text message from the trainer. Still feeling sick, she wanted to go home and needed help making arrangements. She gave me her credit card and I booked a flight. As she packed, I called the concierge to request a car to take her to the airport.Instead of the car, five minutes later the two men from the night prior reappeared in the villa. I left the trainer and went to wake up Anna. She indignantly resumed her post in the living room, cell phone back to her ear. I called the concierge again. “Hi, can you please send that car? No, we’re not all leaving; we have one sick traveler who needs to make her flight. The rest of us are staying.” A car came and the trainer left. The rest of us sat in gridlock.Anna was no longer making calls. She sat there blankly. The men insisted that a functioning card was needed for a block on the reservation’s balance only, not to be charged for the final bill, which could be settled later. First Anna, and then the men, pressured me to put down my credit card for that block while Anna sorted out the situation with her bank. I was stuck. I had exactly $410.03 in my checking account. I had no alternate transportation from the hotel. I wanted to go home. And most importantly, I was told that my card would not be charged.Later that day, when American Express flagged my account for irregular spending activity, I went to the concierge desk to see why the “block” was registering as actual charges. I was told that credits for the same totals would appear in my account. I’ve been to many hotels and was familiar with that process: the way, when you check in, your card is often pre-charged for some amount that’s later credited back to your account. I rationalized this as the same thing. At least I knew Anna was good for the money. I’d seen her spend so much of it. You learn a lot about someone when you travel together.I left Marrakech early the next day, before Anna and the videographer. As I arrived at my destination, I received a text from Anna promising that she’d forward a wire confirmation as soon as possible. She’d checked out of La Mamounia and taken a car to Sir Richard Branson’s Kasbah Tamadot, a destination hotel in the foothills of Morocco’s High Atlas mountains. “I’ll wire you 70,000 [U.S.D.], that way everything’s covered,” she said. I suddenly understood that she intended to leave the hotel charges on my account, to add that amount to the total she owed me from expenses outside the hotel. The balance was more money than I net annually. It suddenly felt like a foregone conclusion.Anna stayed in touch daily, but in the following week I did not receive the wire as I’d been promised. I attributed her delay to disorganization and a failure to grasp the urgency of my situation. I was frustrated, but not surprised by her ineptitude, and I assumed the international wire transfer was just taking longer than expected.Her texts became increasingly Kafka-esque: assurances of incoming reimbursements through varying methods of payment that never materialized. She spun a web of promises that grew increasingly self-referential and complex. I thought there was an issue with her trust-fund disbursement, and I resented her unwillingness to be straight with me.When she got back to New York, she checked into the Beekman. (The Mercer was sold out, she said.) It was comforting to know that she was physically nearby, not far from my office in the World Trade Center. At least I knew where to find her. Bafflingly, she invited me to join our usual visits to the personal trainer. I declined.Seeking reimbursement from Anna became a full-time job. Stress consumed my sleep and fueled my days. My co-workers saw me unravel. I came to the office looking pale and undone.At last, a month after I’d left Marrakech, Anna claimed to have picked up a cashier’s check. She had been upstate dealing with a “work emergency,” but had made it to a bank before closing time and would deposit the check into my account in the morning, she said. This news should have incited a wave of relief, but instead, I remained skeptical.I showed up at the Beekman unannounced the next morning and rang Anna from the concierge desk. She answered, sounding groggy. “Hey, I’m here. What’s your room number?” I asked.Her room was a mess. Papers were everywhere. Her suitcases lay open and overflowing. Her black linen dress from Morocco hung in dry cleaner’s plastic from an open closet door. “Where’s the check?” I questioned, trying to make the transaction simple. She shuffled through piles of papers, looked under clothing, and dumped out various bags before claiming to have left the check in the Tesla she’d driven back from upstate. Of course, it couldn’t be easy. Of course, there was a problem.She called the Tesla dealership, and then her lawyer’s office. (“He must have it,” she said). I refused to leave. Anna said the check would be dropped off, so I waited. I went with her to Le Coucou, where she met with a different lawyer and a private-wealth manager. I followed her back to the lobby in the Beekman, where she ordered oysters and a bottle of white wine. I sat in silence, sending work e-mails from my phone, largely ignoring Anna, but keeping a watchful eye and asking periodically for an update. To prove a point, I stayed until 11 P.M. I left angrily, telling her I’d be back at 8 A.M. so we could go together to the bank. She agreed. “I hope you had fun, at least,” she chirped, with an impish grin. “No, this was not fun. This is not O.K.,” I stammered incredulously.The next morning, I arrived at the hotel on time. Anna was not there. I was livid. Her overt evasion confirmed what I had feared most: Anna was not to be trusted.Finally—why had it taken me so long?—I began to investigate on my own. I reached out to the friends through whom I’d met Anna and was referred to a guy who’d once loaned her money. He was German, like she was, and had known Anna since she lived in Paris. He told me a story that was alarming and reassuring in equal measure. He said that, after weeks of pestering, he had gotten his money back by threatening to involve the authorities, since Anna always maintained she was afraid of being deported. “Her dad is a Russian billionaire,” he said. “He brings oil from Russia to Germany.” The details obviously came directly from Anna, but they didn’t add up—Anna had told me that her parents worked in solar energy. He said that Anna had told him that she received around $30,000 at the start of each month and blew through it, and that she stood to inherit $10 million on her 26th birthday, the previous January, but because she was such a mess, her dad had arranged for the inheritance to be delayed until September of the same year, just a few months away.I knew that something wasn’t right. I searched for a way to reach Anna’s parents, but could find none. On the week of July Fourth, while I was in South Carolina with my family (who knew nothing of the situation), I received a text from the trainer. She told me that Anna was asleep on her couch. Did she not have another place to stay? Two days later, Anna texted me, too, asking if she could stay at my apartment. I said no.A day later, Anna called me crying. “I can’t be alone right now,” she pleaded. I offered to meet at her hotel. “I had to check out. Can I come to you?” she asked. I said no and hung up. Then my conscience got the better of me. I called her back: “You can come by, but you can’t stay here.” She was at my door within the hour. I didn’t have the energy to engage, so I said very little. My tiny studio apartment was in terrible disarray, the physical manifestation of my mental state: piles of papers, boxes, clothing, and stuff. I apologized for the mess. “You don’t need to apologize to me,” she said. She was right. I made a conscious decision to turn the proverbial cheek. I ordered two salads and put on Bridget Jones’s Diary. When she asked to sleep on my couch, I was hardly surprised.ANNA CALLED ME CRYING. “I CAN’T BE ALONE RIGHT NOW,” SHE PLEADED. I OFFERED TO MEET AT HER HOTEL. “I HAD TO CHECK OUT, CAN I COME TO YOU?” SHE ASKED. I SAID NO AND HUNG UP.Even this far down the road, I tried to maintain an optimistic view of the situation: my friend had run into an unimaginable spell of bad luck; any day it would be resolved. This optimism was one of my defining characteristics, an Achilles’ heel. It’s what allowed me to befriend Anna in the first place: a willful suspension of judgment, an earnest filtration that looked for the best in others and excused the worst.Anna could certainly be the worst. At one point, before we left for Morocco, the management at 11 Howard asked Anna to pay for her reservations in advance. She was infuriated by this irregular treatment: “No one else must do that,” she protested. As retribution, she made note of the general managers’ names. Once she checked out, she claimed, she purchased the corresponding Internet domains. She then sent them e-mails to show what she’d done. “I’ll sell them back for a million dollars each,” she told me. This was a trick she’d learned from Martin Shkreli—whom she admired, and even claimed to have met with once or twice. I tried to rationalize her affinity for his antics, even as it made my stomach turn. I’m left to grapple with that in the aftermath.On the first day of August, I walked into a police station in Chinatown. I’d had enough. I told my story to a lieutenant. He fixated on the Morocco aspect of the situation and told me there was an insurmountable jurisdictional issue. “But with your face,” he said, “you could start a GoFundMe page to get your money back.” He suggested I try the civil court. I went outside and sobbed.When I stopped crying, I went straight to the nearby civil court. I found a help center and spoke to a woman through an institutional plexiglas divider before a mousey man in khakis walked me over to his cubicle. I relayed my tale of woe. “Well, gee, I’m kind of jealous that you got to go to Morocco,” he responded. He tried to help by offering pamphlets on pro-bono lawyers and artist-defense leagues, but the money involved surpassed the financial limit dealt with in civil court, he told me. I left feeling distraught.And then came the decisive moment: an episode that unfolded like the climax of a staged drama. Anna reappeared in the lobby of the trainer’s apartment, just as I left civil court. The trainer called me immediately and we decided to confront Anna together. The trainer also invited a friend of hers—someone she thought would be helpful—and the four of us convened at the Frying Pan, a bar on the West Side Highway. Anna was crying behind oversize sunglasses. She was wearing the same dress that she’d worn for weeks (a loan from her night’s stay in the trainer’s apartment). “Have you seen what they’re saying about me?” she whined. Apparently, the night before, an article had come out in the New York Post calling Anna a “wannabe socialite.” She’d stiffed the Beekman for her stay. Her belongings had been detained. She was being charged with several misdemeanor offenses, including an embarrassing dine-and-dash incident.At an outdoor table, surrounded by young professionals boisterously enjoying after-work drinks, the four of us existed in our own little world. “We are here because we want to help you,” the trainer began. “But to do that, we need to hear some truth from you, Anna.” It was the same old song and dance: Anna stuck to her story, claiming that all she’d said was true; nothing was her fault. Anna sat across from me as the women relentlessly pressed for answers, for names, for a way to reach Anna’s family. I said very little as I watched. I seemed to float outside of my body, while tears ran down my cheeks. Against the raised voices and direct accusations, Anna’s face assumed an unsettling blankness. Her eyes were empty. I suddenly realized that I didn’t know her at all. With this epiphany came a sort of release and a strange calmness. I understood the women’s anger and disbelief; I’d had those feelings for months. But I had come through to the other side, and I knew that there was only one answer.The next day, I e-mailed the New York County District Attorney’s Office, linking to an article about Anna: “I think this girl is a con artist,” I wrote. An hour later, my cell phone rang. The caller I.D. read “United States.” I picked up the phone, as I stepped away from my desk. “We think you’re right,” a voice said.An assistant district attorney confirmed that Anna Sorokin (a.k.a. Anna Delvey) was the subject of an ongoing criminal investigation.Anna photographed in Manhattan Supreme Court where she plead not guilty to charges including grand larceny and theft on...Anna photographed in Manhattan Supreme Court where she plead not guilty to charges including grand larceny and theft on October 25, 2017. PHOTOGRAPH BY STEVEN HIRSCH.On the last Wednesday in August, I awkwardly lowered my tote bag to the floor, resting it against the wall, before turning to face the roomful of Manhattan jurors, nearly two dozen faces dotting curved tiers of seating that reminded me of a college classroom. I assumed the position of a professor, though I was hardly fit to teach the group—I, the dupe, the dope, the sorry case. And then I recalled one class I might now be qualified to teach, or at least I could be a guest lecturer, the only one for which I’d received an A+ during my time at Kenyon: “The Confidence Game in America,” an advanced-level English course taught by Lewis Hyde, who’d written a book all about tricksters (Trickster Makes This World). Well, at least the irony was gratifying.I stood behind a small wooden table in the front of the room. The court reporter sat to my left, and an assistant district attorney stood at a podium to my right, next to a projector. The foreperson, a girl about my age, sat in the center of the back row and asked from above, “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” I did.I was the victim of alleged grand larceny in the second degree—grand larceny by deception. “How much do you make in a year?” the assistant D.A. asked me. Beside her, on the wall behind my chair, was a projector screen, on which shone a spreadsheet of all the charges on my accounts related to Morocco. The bolded total at the bottom of the display read $62,109.29. “Would you have gone on this trip if you knew that you’d be the one paying?” the attorney continued. The idea was laughable, even while I cried.I wasn’t the only one who’d believed in Anna. At the grand-jury hearing, Anna was indicted on six felony charges and one misdemeanor charge. I realized the scope of her purported deceit as I later read the indictment. She was accused of falsifying documents from international banks showing accounts abroad with a total balance of approximately €60 million. According to a press release from the New York County District Attorney’s Office announcing the indictment, in late 2016, she took these documents to City National Bank in an attempt to secure a $22 million loan for the creation of her art foundation and private club. When City National Bank denied the loan, she showed the same documents to Fortress Investment Group in Midtown. Fortress agreed to consider the loan if Anna provided $100,000 to cover legal and due-diligence expenses.I EMAILED THE NEW YORK DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE: “I THINK THIS GIRL IS A CON ARTIST,” I WROTE. AN HOUR LATER, MY CELL PHONE RANG. THE CALLER ID READ, “UNITED STATES.” I PICKED UP THE PHONE. “WE THINK YOU’RE RIGHT,” A VOICE SAID.On January 12, 2017, almost a month before she returned to New York, Anna secured a $100,000 loan from City National Bank by convincing a bank representative to let her overdraft her account. She allegedly promised the bank that she would wire the funds shortly to cover the overdraft (a familiar tune). She gave the borrowed money to Fortress.In February, when Anna re-entered my life, Fortress had used approximately $45,000 of Anna’s $100,000 deposit and was attempting to verify her assets to complete the loan. At that point, Anna backed out. She told me that her father had gotten wind of the deal and didn’t like the terms. She withdrew herself from consideration and kept the remaining $55,000 from the City National Bank loan, which Fortress had returned. Apparently, that’s how she paid for her lifestyle: 11 Howard, the dinners, personal-training sessions, and shopping.Between April 7 and April 11, Anna allegedly deposited $160,000 in bad checks into her Citibank account and transferred $70,000 from the account before the checks bounced. She never paid Blade for the $35,000 private plane she had chartered to Omaha in May. In August, she opened a bank account with Signature Bank and, according to the indictment, deposited $15,000 in bad checks. She withdrew approximately $8,200 in cash before the account was closed. She was, allegedly, check-kiting.The reality of Anna’s behind-the-scenes dealings, these figures flying from one account to another, remains dizzying to this day—that she was allegedly orchestrating such elaborate schemes while maintaining a believable, surface cool, wielding her debit cards to pay for dinners, workouts, beauty products, and spa treatments. She conjured a glittering, frictionless city—whatever one wanted would be bought, wherever one wanted to go was a cab ride or plane trip away. The audacity of her performance sold itself, until it collapsed under the weight of its own ambition. It’s a part of why I believed her—and continued to believe her: who would think to make up such an elaborate tale, and carry on like this for so long? Who was she? How do you know who anyone is, really? Back on June 9, Anna sent me $5,000 via PayPal. I thought she was stalling, but this gesture tugged at me. Knowing what I know now, why did she give me anything at all? Surely, she would have paid me the full amount if she could have, right?Anna was scheduled to appear in court on September 5, for the misdemeanors that had come out in the news, including her allegedly stolen stay at the Beekman, but she never appeared. I resumed communication with her via text message, not letting on that anything had changed. She had gone to the West Coast and was checked into a rehab in Malibu. In early October, when I was in Beverly Hills for V.F.’s annual New Establishment Summit, Anna and I arranged to have lunch. She never made it. She was arrested in Los Angeles on October 3 and arraigned in a Manhattan court on October 26. She is currently being held without bail on Rikers Island.IT WAS A MAGIC TRICK—I’M EMBARRASSED TO SAY THAT I WAS ONE OF THE PROPS, AND THE AUDIENCE, TOO.Contacted for this article, Anna’s attorney, Todd Spodek, had a much more pedestrian view of matters concerning Anna. “The burden rests squarely with a lender to conduct the appropriate due diligence before extending credit of any type,” he wrote, “and to document the terms of the loan. This is a civil matter, and the appropriate recourse for Ms. Williams is to sue Ms. Sorokin for defaulting on a loan, not to initiate criminal charges. I submit that Ms. Williams does not have an iota of proof to support any agreement, of any type, whatsoever.”Anna told me once that her plans were either going to work out, or all go horribly wrong. Now I see what she meant. It was a magic trick—I’m embarrassed to say that I was one of the props, and the audience, too. Anna’s was a beautiful dream of New York, like one of those nights that never seems to end. And then the bill arrives.CORRECTION: An earlier version of this story misidentified the grand-jury hearing at which Anna Sorokin was indicted. It was a hearing, not a trial.

Anna出狱后自己给insider写的稿子，关于自己对Netflix的Inventing Anna的看法和她在狱中生活的情形： Erasing Anna: From ICE detention, Anna Delvey talks about her new Netflix show and life behind barsWhile the world is pondering Julia Garner's take on my accent in "Inventing Anna," a Netflix show about me, the real me sits in a cell in Orange County's jail in upstate New York, in quarantine isolation.I am here because Immigration and Customs Enforcement decided that my early merit release from prison means nothing to them and, despite being perfectly self-sufficient when left to my own (legal) devices, I, in fact, present "a continuous danger to the community." Apparently, Daily Mail headlines are admissible evidence that override the decisions of the New York State Board of Parole and can be used to back up the Department of Homeland Security's arguments that instead of getting a job, I was "busy getting my hair done" — me and my bad ways.While I was in prison, I paid off the restitution from my criminal case in full to the banks I took money from. I also accomplished more in the six weeks they deemed were long enough for me to remain free than some people have in the past two years. My visa overstay was unintentional and largely out of my control. I served my prison sentence, but I'm appealing my criminal conviction to clear my name. I did not break a single one of New York state's or ICE's parole rules. Despite all that, I've yet to be given a clear and fair path to compliance.Did I mention I'm the only woman in ICE custody in this whole jail? Tell me I'm special without telling me I'm special."The court finds that, even if released from detention and ordered to report regularly to ICE, the respondent would have the ability and inclination to continue to commit fraudulent and dishonest acts," an immigration judge ruled. "She clearly possesses the knowledge to do so and has failed to demonstrate remorse." Sorry, am I on trial for this again?So no — it doesn't look like I'll be watching "Inventing Anna" anytime soon. Even if I were to pull some strings and make it happen, nothing about seeing a fictionalized version of myself in this criminal-insane-asylum setting sounds appealing to me.Garner as Sorokin on Rikers Island on "Inventing Anna." Aaron Epstein/NetflixI still remember the night of ABC's "20/20" episode about me in October. It was also unfortunately the night when the meds come really late, so everyone was up waiting and watched it.It's hard to explain what I hate about it. I just don't want to be trapped with these people dissecting my character, even though no one ever says anything bad. If anything, everyone's really encouraging, but in this cheap way and for all the wrong reasons. Like, they love all the clothes and boats and cash tips. I saw only the first couple minutes before I went back into my cell. I was definitely not going to sit there and watch it with everybody. And I don't need any more jail friends, thank you very much.For a long while, I was hoping that by the time "Inventing Anna" came out, I would've moved on with my life. I imagined for the show to be a conclusion of sorts summing up and closing of a long chapter that had come to an end.Nearly four years in the making and hours of phone conversations and visits later, the show is based on my story and told from a journalist's perspective. And while I'm curious to see how they interpreted all the research and materials provided, I can't help but feel like an afterthought, the somber irony of being confined to a cell at yet another horrid correctional facility lost between the lines, the history repeating itself.Admittedly, I, the ultimate unreliable narrator, have made some questionable choices that I wouldn't necessarily repeat today.Do these decisions inevitably make me a permanent threat to public safety? The government says yes.But in comparison with whom? Everything's relative.It makes no sense for me to still be here long after they have brought in and then released numerous violent offenders (robbers, rapists, would-be murderers) and people with an assortment of felony DUIs and grand larcenies. Do they not "clearly possess the knowledge" to recommit the same crimes they've been accused of before, or do different standards apply to them?Meanwhile, I spent another set of holidays followed by a COVID-19-tainted birthday in a depressing cell, which therefore logically categorized me as more dangerous than every single one of those people. In that case, it's totally understandable why I shouldn't be allowed out of my cell for weeks at a time. Who'd want to take the risk?After I finished my prison sentence and left Albion, I thought all this was over, forever, and that I'd never see the inside of another correctional institution again.Shortly afterward, I found myself in the Orange County jail by way of Bergen County Jail, where everything triggers constant flashbacks. Altogether, I've been through seven different facilities for one single case. It's like "Groundhog Day."I never complained about a lot of things. From the very beginning of my journey incarcerated in the state of New York, I thought people just wanted to see me be miserable.The same hand consistently finds its way to your knee, lingers on your calves, grabs your ankles, wrists, waist: cuffs, chains, bruises on the same spots. It's all for the sake of security, of course.Be cool. Don't be annoying. I was considered "not a regular white girl, like the rest of them here." I tried to be a "good sport," and it got me things. Not always but most of the time. Small stuff — enough to be competitive about. I got away with things others didn't. It's not that I wanted their validation. It was more that I didn't want to deal with the consequences of not having it.I didn't say anything when they brought article printouts and tearouts from papers and magazines, in a jail where the New York Daily News is being policed daily and purged of any mentions of Rikers and any of its inmates in "media review."A lot of this nonabuse is subtle, shaped by an understanding that in jail, you are a problem that needs to be dealt with.What you won't see in the Netflix show is my newly acquired habit. I have to methodically bite the skin around my nails until the nail beds slowly fill with blood from both sides, collect at the tip, which I then squeeze until there's enough to drip down the sink of the cell with opaque white-spray-painted windows I spend 91.2% of my day in. Rinse and repeat. It doesn't accomplish anything tangible, other than dulling an obsessive fixation on another wasted day that I'll never get back. And I can't just stop.In jail, I quickly gave up on the concept of privacy. How many people can really say they are fully in control of theirs, anyway?And most importantly — didn't I put myself here?Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, on January 19, I tested positive for COVID-19.I'm sure I'll live, but I haven't been this sick in years.The jail's response to a positive test is to just lock you up. It's convenient for them. It all shall pass, no? The majority of people here quickly caught on and stopped complaining about symptoms out of fear of getting locked in. The staff insists on using the words "medical isolation," even though there's nothing medical about it. One is simply being made to sit in a cell with a hole in the door. This place is like a Petri dish for viruses and bacteria. The only fun is listening to dim-witted sergeants come up with 50 different ways to tell you no.There is always a good reason for everything. They're understaffed and tired, and there is a hundred-day backlog (Of what? No one ever specifies.), which apparently is supposed to be my problem, even though I never asked to be here. I don't recall any delays or backlogs in me getting arrested.I haven't seen a real doctor in over four years. Dismissive nurses who suspect everyone just wants to get high and would do anything to obtain generic meds don't count.It's designed this way, the jail. They take away your choices, and give you the worst, so next time you'll think twice before stabbing your neighbor — or overstaying your visa.During my latest ICE bond hearing, in October, it was the government's burden to prove I would be a danger to my community if I were released.They presented no evidence to demonstrate my alleged insatiable drive for continued criminal exposure. With eight remaining years of parole supervision apparently not being a good enough deterrent, and in absence of anything better, what they did find was an Instagram post from 2018 — an old picture of my friend Neff and me on a rooftop in Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood, posted by her to my account with the location tagged as "Rikers Island maximum security prison" (which isn't even a thing), as a throwback joke. (Editor's Note: Neffatari Davis is Anna's friend and a consultant on "Inventing Anna," and was extensively quoted in the New York magazine story.)The picture started multiple internal and NYPD investigations, none of which yielded results. I never got as much as a written infraction.It was refreshing to find out that for an agency that thrives on flaunting all kinds of rules, ICE created very few restrictions for its own operations.It's hard to prepare or submit any evidence for the court's consideration when you find out about the hearing 10 minutes before it takes place. Is it fair to call me "unpredictable" if you never gave me a chance to create stability?The most recent twist from ICE is that I've been waiting since November for a decision "to reissue" a letter that never arrived here. It should be an easy thing to determine considering all my mail is being logged. Who knows how much longer it will take to think this over — a month, six months, a year?Such decisions can't be rushed. And as long as the threat to public safety is secured in a cell, who cares?Many of the inmates here don't speak a word of English but are released into the community without as much as an ankle bracelet or token bail. I'm genuinely glad for them. The majority I've encountered seem like kind and well-meaning people who happen to have made a couple of mistakes. But I doubt any of them meet the standards of financial stability and property ownership ICE has used to keep me in here.Most Americans think of Mexico when they hear "ICE." No wonder — the mainstream media is flooded with news where Immigration and Customs Enforcement is mentioned mainly in the context of deportations and detentions of minorities.During my time in this jail (where I'm in general population with others who are in regular criminal proceedings), I've learned that most people don't even realize ICE deals with every immigrant, not just enforcement of the southern border. I've heard numerous variations of, "I didn't realize you were Mexican. You really can't tell!" and, "It's crazy that they can hold you for this long, and you aren't even from Mexico."The revelation that you didn't have to be Hispanic to have all kinds of problems with ICE seemed to register as genuine surprise.Some go a step further and offer friendly advice: "Did you know there's an office in the city where you can renew your visa? Did you ask your lawyer?" Yes, and then I kind of got arrested at that office.Will I forever be judged by my early-to-mid 20s? Is there anything else I could possibly have done to close this chapter?Will I forever be stuck in a past not entirely of my creation without getting a chance to move on?

你相信你自己编的谎言吗？

最近与“诈骗犯”有缘，接连看了三部：猫鼠游戏、Tinder诈骗王、创造安娜，都是真人真事，但最好看的我认为是猫鼠（看看编/导/演的阵容就明白什么叫一分价钱一分货），而这部百分之五十：一半亮点，一半糟点。

糟点首先此篇编造的成分实在高于真实的本身；其次虽然编剧有胡诌八扯的段位，但九集还不如两小时的电影把内容还原的有力清晰，最后是关于这骗子的品质：虽然都是骗子，但当下的骗子（网红）的水平真是越来越low，仅靠简单粗暴的强势与人格分裂便能节节升高？

如果这也叫高&明？

那老一代的诈骗犯看到年轻的诈骗犯估计不能不痛斥：神马 玩意儿？

真是一代（骗子）不如一代…..胆量尚且有，智商岂可言？

全程安娜hold不住时说的最多的一句话就是 ：“Do you know who i am ？

” 连她代理律师都形容她的妄想症到了史诗级别！

“your delusion must be on some epic level.”

亮点首先在安娜的扮演者朱莉亚身上，她的演技基本撑起了一大半亮点。

压根没想到她是个纯犹太人纯以色列妞。

虽然有人批她说她没仿好俄罗斯人的口音，但这张脸真有九分俄罗斯人的特征。

而且朱莉亚把安娜的人格分裂也演出了极致：一点一画，一颦一笑，一招一式，一哭一闹，她把现代网红病态心理和状态拿捏的还是超精准的！

其次的亮点在片子的一些内容建构与呈现里，如片子呈现出安娜欺骗的水平其实并不高明，相反很low，只是她为达到目的时造谣亲人，利用爱情，藐视朋友这些冷血的行为成了亮点….而这不需要任何“高级智商”，仅仅靠妄想症+自恋狂+分裂症（通俗点就是全然不顾羞耻）就可以搞定！

这种病态的人格只有在身无分文、无人帮助与理会的时候，她才能恢复点点“正常”：对黑夜的胆怯（无家可归）让她心底最深处的良知反而有一丝涌现。

编剧让我们籍着安娜顺便看到了那些莫名相信她谎言的上流or中流社会的猫三狗四们真实的面目。

他们能被安娜骗就是因为他们各个都与安娜一样“有病”：孤独、骄傲、自负、贪婪、色相、玩忽职守、自以为是……孤独并不可耻，但人忘了本分真是可耻。

虽说人应当有同理心，但有些情况，同理心真的不必给那些不听劝告且非要享受自作自受的人，羞愧则是这群病人所得的最好的果实！

必须要提的是安娜的亲生父母：这对普通的不能再普通的新一代俄罗斯移民父母真是最了解他们女儿问题与真相的人。

（想起我妈经常说我弟的一句话：你一撅屁Gu要拉什么💩，妈都知道，😂亲爹妈从来都是话糙理不糙）而他们也选择了最佳的方式与有问题的女儿相处，那就是完全放手：谁的生活谁负责！

（十八岁前你撒谎的后果父母帮你一起担；十八岁后，你继续撒谎的后果就要自己承担，合情合理不是？

）

最后一集安娜在败诉前奔溃着给自己25岁的人生做了一个总结：“全世界终于都知道我离“成功”那么近，我不是个白痴！

” what？？？？

F？？？

这无可救药的女主，这病入膏肓的台词….这中了浮夸造作世界的毒，这执迷不悟的领悟……OK，编剧的动机如果是要观众服了二十一世纪那些丑陋网红们那无与伦比的病态心理的话，那小编你赢了！

全集最高潮我不觉得是安娜花偷来钱时的嚣张跋扈态，或是她流落街头时的落魄相，而是她在面对她曾能利用的“朋友”与她讨债时，她仍把谎言说成是“努力” ，把欺骗当成创业，而全场只有那一位与她第一次见面却如她亲生父母一样了解她的陌生人，云淡风轻滴送给她一句评价：嗨！

碧～痴！

你是个骗子！

”

还表演呢？

还装 牛呢？

还继续耍疯啊？

还相信自己编造的谎言呢？

看到这里真是大快吾心， 这编剧应该是 童话之王Andersen《皇帝新装》的巨粉啊！

废话太多，不如一语到位：就！

她！

人！

间！

清！

醒！

啊！

至于倔强、执着、善良又心软的记者薇薇安戏份确实不少，有时候还有点盖过女主安娜，但没她的串线也会失去那些重要的线索。

她最经典的一句是 “A boring life doesn’t produce Anna.” 可经典话语不代表它是完全正确的！

的确她只说中了一半：平庸创造不了安娜，但病态心理是可以创造的，而且可以创造无数个“安娜”（网红）。

最诙谐的冷幽默则是瑞秋儿偷摸去唐人街警局告发安娜这段，那两个警察的台词即时戳中我的笑点。

对啊！

你知道在警察眼里，你瑞秋儿的困难与这大千世界里所有的麻烦相比是属于哪个级别吗？

想解决你的问题只有一个办法：please擦亮心眼！

谨慎择友！

不要再相信天上总给你莫名掉下来馅儿饼吃！

永远吃自己的、拿自己正当赚来的才是减少这类麻烦的捷径。

金钱、成功、权利，名誉…..魔毒害人不浅！

再漂亮再精明的骗子仍旧是骗子， The Devil is a liar and the father of liars.(John8:44 ) 。

除非骗子真的洗心革面….弃魔从义….

真实安娜&演员安娜

很早的时候就听过这个事件，当时只是惊讶于欧美富豪居然这么容易被糊弄，然后就抛之脑后了，没想到这个离奇的事件居然被搬上了荧幕，可见其本身就富有戏剧性。

剧中以各种巧思反复出现一句话“The story is completely true except for the parts that are totally made up."（如果我没记错的话）。

故事是真的，人物也是真的，那便总有些经验可以提取出来。

为什么一个25岁的职场萌新，会将一群最聪明最成功的人忽悠的唯命是从呢？

我看下来，总结安娜有几个特殊能力：1、极强的观察力，或称之为看人下菜碟。

她可以看出女记者的情绪受伤并用之控制女记者来达成自己想要的目的，看出金融家为独女而犯愁而将自己包装成一个女儿形象，利用金融家的父爱来帮助自己解决路上的许多烦恼。

2、极强的造梦能力，或称之为画大饼。

不论是帮助前男友推销WAKE APP，还是她向各类精英描述自己的ADF愿景，她都是极富煽动力且极为成功的。

Anna让五六十的秃头金融家在跟她合作后又充满活力回复青春，她让一群金融家相信她这个小女孩的梦是必然可以成真的。

3、极强的自信。

Anna所拥有的，不过是一个虚幻的梦和一本产品策划书。

她首先让自己坚定不移地相信了这个宏大的愿望，然后再坚定不移地推销给其他人。

她直到上法庭还坚信自己的能力足够让她成功，只不过是差那么一点。

4、极强的学习能力。

Anna的最高工作经历是一个实习生，然而企业家最上层的东西她都懂，且能做出一个像模像样的企划书。

她跟前男友在一起的两年，从前男友身上学会了做生意的一整套流程，并加以优化，同时把前男友的人脉都变成自己的，当然了，还有前男友的画大饼行骗技巧，ex可谓是Anna经商或是行骗路上的第一位导师。

后来，在Anna自己寻求投资的路上，她一直在观察学习，如何穿着、如果说话、谁是什么性格、什么事情应该怎么做。

正是因为她哪方面都很懂，所以连上层人物都几乎很难找到她的破绽。

5、极强的人际交往能力。

人际交往是个圈，尤其是上层社会。

跻身金字塔尖的人就那么多，交际来交际去总会认识。

Anna就有能力只要进入圈的边缘，就能把圈里的所有人都变成自己的人脉，且都是褒奖她。

办Party用信用卡轮盘决定谁来付钱，这样也可以实现免费的交际。

6、极大的胆子，亦或是极厚的脸皮。

在朋友不在的情况下，可以在朋友的朋友家一住几个月；在朋友邀请在游艇上吃晚饭然后大家下游艇之后，再回到游艇上待了一个礼拜且不付钱；白吃白喝白住不感到羞耻，即使没钱还要一次次打肿脸充胖子，五星级酒店照住不误。

被Anna骗到的这些精英又反映了什么问题呢？

1、金融界掌握在banker手中。

他们可以凭个人意愿给某个人少则几十万多则几千万的钱；2、以貌度人。

Anna掌握了通往上层社会的钥匙，即昂贵有品位的穿着。

几十万的衣服包包穿在身上，你说她是普通人谁也不信；3、越是社会地位高的人越好面子。

其实很多富人是察觉到了不对的，但要不是受限于财务状况不能公开，亦或是抹不开面子，大家都选择了沉默，最后还是一个工薪阶层的所谓闺蜜告发了她，要不然Anna还可以继续逍遥。

Anna洞悉了人性，抓住了所有人性的弱点，才能让她在上层社会如鱼得水畅行无阻。

她是和我们一样的普通人，但她又是拥有各类超nb能力的不普通的人。

抛开法律来说，我个人是Respect Anna的。

关于骗子，如果骗子能混到上下通达，说明她摸透了白男社会的体系，而这时大部分身在其中的人还属局外人。

像轻视剧本版安娜一样轻视骗子们，以为不过是刷不了卡大呼小叫的人，这也是骗子会希望的，没有人会意识到被猎手接近直到最后一刻。

不过以上都不重要，这部剧真正隐藏的东西恰好是人们主动轻视的部分。