Pro and Con

By this point, some Harlan21 employees were getting suspicious. Harlan was not only cagey about his own background, but he became furtive about his employees' identities, too. He insisted they use made-up names on their business cards, like "Joe Bling," "Evan Chop" and "Jillibean." "He was really big on identity theft," says Virginia Reyna, one of his employees. "He said he would never give out our Social Security numbers, that they were going in a vault so nobody could see them." And while he acted as if he was financially well off, he became stingy whenever the company needed equipment or supplies. "Every time I would ask him to help, all he would say is, all you want is money, money, money," says Hall, who asserts that he donated computer printers and had to pay for paper, ink cartridges and advertising himself.

Soon after the Wells Fargo tournament, employee Evan Johannigman approached his boss for an advance on his paycheck. Harlan wrote him a personal check for $2,600 and told Johannigman to deposit it and give him $2,150 back in cash. Johannigman did as he was told, and later that afternoon, his debit card stopped working. The $2,600 check had been returned for insufficient funds. Soon it wasn't just Johannigman who was in financial trouble; when payday came in early November, several other people say, their checks bounced, too.

Harlan himself avoided repeated requests for a meeting with Westword (see story, page 18). An attorney representing him didn't return a call seeking comment.

"No matter what happens, you will get paid," Harlan reassured his apprehensive staff at the time, explaining that the checks had bounced because he was switching payroll companies. Some people didn't believe it; while Harlan indicated he had relationships with and loans from several different banks, such as Wells Fargo, Chase, Academy Bank and Bank of Denver, they had seen little proof that there was any actual money behind the operation. A few employees quit. "He seemed to be strict and semi-organized, but he had no idea how to run a business," says Brittany Joyce Rienart, who worked for Harlan for nine days.

Johannigman, Pineda and Hall stayed on and hoped for the best — and they were soon joined by new hires, including an older man named "Winchester," whom Harlan introduced as his father. Their boss was confident, assuring — and slick. "He's really good at making you think what he wants you to think," says Johannigman. "He will belittle you into thinking that you are in the wrong, so you try to be in the right. When you are in the right again, you have always forgotten about your issue. If that man was a motivational speaker, he could move oceans."

In mid-November, Roger Young, owner of the executive suite Harlan21 had leased on East Florida Avenue, told the company he was going to disconnect its phone and Internet access. The checks Harlan had written for the $1,500 lease had bounced. Harlan took the hint. He told his employees to pack up and move the operation out — in the middle of the night. Harlan21 was moving on to bigger and better things.

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The man walked into the Kuni Lexus dealership in Littleton the night of October 23, 1995, and introduced himself as Naudeus Harlan. "He was a big guy, pretty buff, and he said he was a brand-new sign-up for the Broncos," remembers Ronald Yontz, a salesman there at the time. Harlan told Yontz he was a recent graduate of Texas Tech, that his first game was that weekend — please root for him — and that he wanted a car.

Harlan talked casually about his alma mater with a salesman who also went to Texas Tech, then handed over a phone number he said was for the Broncos' front office. When the dealership called the number, a man on the other end said yes, Harlan was a new player. That's all the dealership needed to hear.

Harlan drove out of the dealership that night in a $32,000 white BMW 325 after giving Yontz a $4,000 down-payment check signed by a woman Harlan said was his mother (he explained he hadn't yet been paid by the team). A few days later, the check was returned for insufficient funds.

"I've been in the business a long time," says Yontz. "It's hard to fool me, but he did. He was pretty damn sharp."

Russ Hoffman, the Littleton police detective assigned to the case, was also surprised. He discovered the phony football star was actually 26-year-old Johnny Harlan, who, according to police records, had changed his first name to Amadeus and been living from one run-in with the law to the next. In January 1991, Harlan had been released on probation from his prison sentence for the murder of McCoy, but his parole was revoked a year later when he was arrested for vehicle theft. He was out again in 1993, only to be charged with criminal impersonation and forgery in 1994 after he was pulled over for speeding in a car containing forged documents and telling the officer his name was Amadeus Storm.