A crypto scam has inundated the once polygamous town of Short Creek. A man named Harvey Dockstader has roped hundreds of people into it, including one local who invested $200,000. A man in Sebastopol who invested 1 million dollars was found dead last December.

Be Scofield is a prominent cult reporter who exposed Love Has Won, which led to the hit HBO series. She is the author of Hunting Lucifer: One Reporter's Search for Cults and Demons. Her work is cited by the NY Times, Rolling Stone, People, and more. It was also turned into an episode of "Unwell" on Netflix.

By BE SCOFIELD

8/10/25

I’m standing in a dimly lit bar in Short Creek, a dusty outpost straddling the Utah-Arizona border. “We’ve invested over $15,000,” the bartender confides, referring to SmartLab, a multilevel marketing scheme spreading like wildfire in town. “I’ve signed up 20 people, mostly cousins,” she adds, her tone blending pride and defensiveness. When pressed about the company, she leans in: “Do you know anything about sports betting? You have to sign up yourself to really understand.”

"Are you former FLDS?" I ask. “Yep," she shoots back. The tight-knit networks and large families of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (FLDS) explain why MLMs thrive here, with Utah hosting more per capita than any other state.

Short Creek, once controlled by FLDS leader Warren Jeffs—now serving a life sentence for child sexual assault—is now faced with SmartLab’s influence. I had come here after meeting a Mormon in Mount Shasta who had invested $140,000 and said SmartLab was spreading heavily in former and current FLDS communities.

“I have a family member who mortgaged her home for $100,000 to invest in SmartLab,” a local woman shared with me the day prior. "Somebody I work with put in $5,000," a man revealed to me. "I know of someone who mortgaged their home for $30,000 to invest," someone told me. A city worker had mentioned her ex-husband’s involvement, while a librarian and a barista confirmed hearing about the scheme.

"I have a family member who mortgaged her home for $100,000 to invest in SmartLab."

That morning I met a silver-haired man in his late 60s outside the grocery store. “I’ve got $2,500 invested,” he says, adding, “I know at least 12 others in town who have invested. If it pays off, great. If not, you eat the loss.” Inside, the manager tells me he fended off at least five recruitment attempts. Two of his clerks also share they've been propositioned. A grocery clerk shows me a Facebook message she recently received promoting a SmartLab event: “A lot of people in town have invested. They’re already making money.”

The event was private, however. Locals have gotten into heated arguments in Facebook groups over whether SmartLab is a scam. The bartender explains that evening, “You have to be on the list” to attend the SmartLab event. "I can pass your name to Harvey."

Harvey Dockstader, a former FLDS member, runs Homespun Health, a local health food store, and has organized many of Short Creek's July 4th events. He also served in the chamber of commerce. Known for his black cowboy hat, outlaw mustache, and American flag shirts, he exudes a gritty charisma.

Harvey Dockstader leading the SmartLab event in Rome, Italy.

In 2006, Dockstader was convicted for running Elite Activity, a pyramid scheme targeting Christian churches, earning a two-year sentence and a $10,000 fine, though he was later released on a technicality. News reports noted, “A man who helped lure Humble churchgoers into a bogus investment with promises of large returns has been found guilty of promoting a pyramid scheme.”

Dockstader later repurposed Elite Activity as a “church,” targeting Mormon and Brazilian communities with promises of “$800, $2,000, $4,000, $8,000, $16,000, $32,000, and $48,000 in gifts—over and over again!” Several associates were arrested in Brazil. He then launched Connecting Us All, registered in the UK as a “worldwide giving network,” but it was another failed gifting scheme. In 2013, as vice president of ProfitClicking.com, Dockstader promoted “advertising packages” with “daily profits,” leaving users reporting losses in the tens of thousands.

Now a central figure in SmartLab, Dockstader has built a vast downline through local networks, webinars, and events in places like Rome and Las Vegas, often presenting alongside SmartLab’s elusive leadership. Locals note his recent wealth, evident in a new cherry-red Land Rover, a Cadillac Escalade, and a costly home renovation. Two of his colleagues tell me he’s made millions from SmartLab.

AS I ARRIVE BACK IN my hotel, the towering walls—20 feet high and 2.5 feet thick, topped with spikes—loom above me. This former compound of Warren Jeffs, now a quirky hotel run by his former bodyguard Willie Jessop, reflects the town’s polygamous past. For decades, Jeffs controlled the community, with loyal FLDS members comprising the police, government officials and even medics. He preached that only men with multiple wives could attain the highest realms of heaven. Jeffs is now serving a life sentence for child sexual assault.

That evening, I delve into SmartLab, which claims to use an AI bot for sports arbitrage betting—placing bets on all outcomes across bookmakers to exploit odds discrepancies. The company promises “consistent profits,” but investors cannot withdraw their initial investment, only the profits, which range from 5% to 14% monthly based on investment size. At the lowest rate, breaking even takes 20 months.

BehindMLM labeled SmartLab an “AI trading bot ruse Ponzi scheme,” stating, “As it stands, the only verifiable source of revenue entering SmartLab is new investment.” Investors report monthly “earnings” through SmartLab’s platform, withdrawable for a 5% fee, but only in cryptocurrency. Without verifiable income, these earnings likely come from investors’ own funds or new recruits’ investments, a hallmark of Ponzi schemes.

The company's operations are shrouded in secrecy. The founder’s name appears only in the website’s FAQ, which describes SmartLab as a “cutting-edge market-spread trading company founded by Alex Wu.” I had to dig for a few bits of information about him. Wu claims expertise in AI and finance, citing a brief fintech management course.

A 2023 video shows Wu speaking in Chinese with subtitles, claiming Hong Kong origins, where the website is hosted. He references a team of “AI specialists, financial experts, and industry leaders,” but no names or photos are provided, only stock footage of a generic business meeting. No LinkedIn profiles, Glassdoor reviews, or independent news articles exist, only paid press releases. SmartLab did not respond to multiple email inquiries, further casting doubt on its legitimacy.

By 11 p.m., exhausted, I estimate hundreds of Short Creek residents may have invested in SmartLab, given its apparent popularity in this small community.

The next morning, at Sweet Sage coffee shop, I resume my research at a rustic table in the back. SmartLab was initially registered in Malta and later incorporated in Seychelles, both notorious for facilitating money laundering and tax evasion. The company claims its headquarters are now in Vietnam.

Videos I uncover from exclusive SmartLab events in Cancun, Rome, London, Las Vegas, and New Jersey show that the company shares key information only in controlled settings where filming is not allowed. A Reddit user who attended a Panama event noted, “The amount of psychological manipulation, appeal to authority, and subliminal manipulation they used was actually masterclass.”

Attendees of a London event described the leadership to me as well-dressed Asian men, often in Louis Vuitton, and recalled a lavish private cruise with fireworks and dinner. The unearthed videos confirm this, revealing the first glimpses of the elusive SmartLab leadership. The group, including a financial advisor, left London convinced it was a Ponzi scheme. One member had already invested $1 million, however.

SmartLab representatives: Jack Wong, Sien Tigley, an event planner, and Andrew.

A Zoom video I discover features a man identifying as “Jack Wong,” SmartLab’s AI bot specialist. He also is seen in videos explaining the system at events. I identified another individual, who used “Jun Bo” on Zoom, via facial recognition as Sien Tigley from Toronto. He previously ran a company called Pirana Poker.

I connect with a senior SmartLab investor in the U.S. who helps further identify the company's leadership. I send him screenshots of the team from the videos I've uncovered. He tells me the man dressed in a navy blue suit and clear-framed glasses is "Andrew," who oversees "SmartLab's long-term vision." Another man with slick black hair is an event planner and handles venues and excursions. The investor also confirms Sien Tigley's role as a SmartLab investor who regularly leads international events.

MY INVESTIGATION INTO ONLINE SCAMS takes me on a three-day journey into Southeast Asia's criminal underworld, dwarfing the doomsday cult exposé I previously wrote. One article I read is titled, "Laos’ criminal casino empire: Chinese gangsters suspected of running brothels and online scams, and trafficking humans, animal parts, and drugs." Another report from CNN describes a "massive global criminal operation predominantly run by Chinese gangs who have built a multibillion-dollar scam industry in Southeast Asia."

One term stands out: “pig butchering.” Criminals build trust with victims, “fattening” them up through relationships before defrauding them. In 2024, Americans lost over $5 billion to these types of online scams.

That evening I start to wonder if SmartLab was the brainchild of some sinister Asian crime boss 7,000 miles away. Alex Wu is from China and had set up the company in Vietnam, matching the pattern experts describe. After China has cracked down on online scams in recent years, criminal networks have focused on Southeast Asia. The red flags with SmartLab are many: hiding its corporate leadership, incorporating in the Seychelles, and refusing any third-party verification of their claims, just to name a few.

A lead emerges through Harvey Dockstader’s son, whose LinkedIn profile lists involvement in “International Sports Betting” since April 2024, based in Ho Chi Minh City—SmartLab's purported home. My doubts about SmartLab’s legitimacy intensify, as its listed office on the 14th floor of the Metro Tower is padlocked. "It hasn't been used in many months," a journalist I hired to investigate it told me after speaking with the security guard and snapping photos and video. He also notes that SmartLab’s registered addresses don’t align with the Metro Tower.

The following morning, I visit a retail shop in Short Creek. The woman behind the counter tells me, "Around 30 of my family members attended the SmartLab Panama event," and says they are FLDS. That afternoon, I speak with one of her relatives, who reveals that he took out a loan to invest $60,000 in SmartLab, while his sister maxed out her credit cards for the same investment package.

Over 70 people attended Harvey's SmartLab event in Short Creek.

Later, a young woman working in another shop down the street tells me her father is involved with SmartLab. "Harvey, Bryan, and I all started around the same time, about 1.5 years ago," he explains to me in a call that afternoon. He notes that Dockstader was at the top of the MLM. Tom initially invested $1,150, which yielded only $650 over 1.5 years. However, Bryan later gifted him a $21,000 "bot" that performed better, aiming for Tom to join the "millionaires club" with Bryan and Dockstader.

Tom tells me he had just come from Dockstader's house ten minutes ago and saw the backend of his SmartLab account. "Harvey said he's got around 250 people in his downline," Tom tells me. He also says the turnout for Dockstader's private SmartLab event in town was over 70 people. "He's got millions in total value in his downline." Two of Dockstader's close colleagues had told me he has made millions from SmartLab. They estimate that SmartLab has ensnared tens of thousands of people. The two also tell me there are individuals who have invested several millions each.

LEFT: The address listed on SmartLab's business registration is a steel shop. CENTER: The Metro Tower, where SmartLab's office is. RIGHT: Photo taken in July of SmartLab's vacant office.

They all agree that investing less than $21,000 is futile because of the low return rate. They assert that with at least that amount and by building a downline, one can recoup the initial investment within six months and then earn monthly profits. Without such efforts, it could take nearly two years to break even. However, the longevity of SmartLab remains uncertain.

The next day, I receive an update from my contact in Vietnam. He visited the two addresses where SmartLab registered its business: one a fabric shop, the other a steel shop selling items like ladders. None of the people he spoke to at these locations had heard of SmartLab.

FROM MY HOTEL ROOM IN Short Creek, I message Bryan Clum's bookkeeper, "Danielle." Clum, who invested $1 million in SmartLab, attended a company event in London in September 2024. Three months later, he was found dead in his Sebastopol, California, home, with the coroner attributing his death to an accidental overdose of ketamine and alcohol. Yet, doubts linger among those close to him, who question his cause of death.

Having recently come from Sebastopol, where I interviewed Clum’s friends and family, I learned of their suspicion that his notebook with his crypto passwords was stolen. Additionally, as much as $2 million of Clum's gold coins are missing.

I share with Danielle an article about Chinese Triad gangs targeting a Tether crypto trader in Hong Kong. The trader was lured under false pretenses. "When he arrived, the man was forced to give up his mobile phone and crypto exchange passwords," the article stated. "The gang demanded $3.8 million ransom from his family and smashed his arms and legs with hammers to prevent his escape." A surge of electricity courses through me, as if struck by a tuning fork. “Did you just get chills?” I text Danielle, feeling spooked. She confirms, “Yeah, literally just now. Heebie-jeebies.”

I also forward a news segment about China’s arrest of over 1,100 suspects involved in crypto-related money laundering, noting the crackdown on 170 criminal groups using "cryptocurrencies to launder illegal proceeds from internet scams."

Bryan Clum (center rear) and his group of friends in London for the SmartLab event.

Clum had inherited $17 million in recent years, making him a target for exploitation. Friends and associates owed him $250,000, and despite his generous nature, he was often taken advantage of. At the time of his death, he had withdrawn $500,000 from SmartLab, leaving another $500,000 invested—a significant sum that could have motivated someone to prevent further withdrawals.

I then send Danielle a photo of a SmartLab leader I’ve unmasked. A surge of electric sensations courses through me. “Full body chills,” I text her. Moments later, she replies, “I just got three waves,” and shares a photo of her leg, prickled with goosebumps. “He must be connected to Bryan,” I suggest. Danielle responds, “Ok, so now every hair on my entire body is standing up.” I echo, “me too,” as an intense vibration grips me.

Danielle writes, “This is Bryan connecting with us.” I liken the experience to Stranger Things, as if we’re communicating with someone from the upside down world. The moment recalls eerie discoveries from my investigation into the Love Has Won cult. Heart pounding, I text, “Were you murdered, Bryan?” Danielle replies, “Chills again,” as another wave of tingles washes over me. “I imagine Bryan was connected with the SmartLab leaders given the amount of money he was investing,” I share. She reveals, “I have lots of messages from Bryan talking about ‘higher-ups.’” Nervously, I text, “Am I in danger, Bryan?” A sharp, unrelenting surge of vibrations pulses through me.

I'M AT THE FARMER'S MARKET in Short Creek. There are a dozen white pop-up tents perched at the edge of Cottonwood Park. I walk down the sidewalk perusing the variety of baked goods and crafts. I spot chocolate zucchini brownies, crochet stuffed animals, handmade skin creams, and locally grown produce. The market symbolizes the town’s revitalization in the post-Warren Jeffs era, reflecting a community rebuilding after years of controversy.

My focus, however, is SmartLab. Engaging a vendor, I learn, “My stepbrother has invested $8,000,” though he remains “on the fence” about joining himself. Another vendor mentions a young man in his early twenties who invested. "I'm waiting for my big paycheck to come," he told her. A woman suspects her husband has invested, noting, “He went to their Panama event.”

The next day, I speak with the stepbrother, Louis, who clarifies that his investment was $13,000, taken as a loan. He reveals his brother invested $21,000, and two other locals have as well, one as high as $200,000. Louis notes his $13,000 yields about $250 monthly. Posing as a potential investor, I agree to a meeting with him and a SmartLab leader named Missy for the next morning. Ten minutes later, Louis calls back, acting strangely, and cancels.

An hour later, my phone rings. It’s Harvey Dockstader. “Why are you asking around Colorado City about SmartLab?” he demands. Realizing my cover is blown, I admit I’m a journalist investigating SmartLab. Surprisingly, he agrees to an interview that evening.

"I've got to flee town," I text to Danielle. "They are onto me." When she asks where I'm headed, I tell her I have no idea. I find a cheap hotel in Sedona since it's the off-season and head that way to prepare for my interview with the infamous "Doc."

That evening, over the phone, Dockstader dismisses critics in town as “gutless cowards” who refuse to engage him. He praises SmartLab as a “massive gift and blessing” to many. His associate, Jim, joins the call. When I question the company’s lack of transparency, Dockstader explains it’s for “like-minded people who want a positive experience and can accept the available information."

He clarifies that Alex Wu is not SmartLab’s founder; instead, it’s a billionaire with philanthropic goals, aiming to help people earn money for charitable causes. Jim elaborates, “The owner doesn’t need to do this; he wants to spread wealth around the world.” Yet, it’s unclear why investors would feel compelled to donate their profits.

Pressing further, I ask why SmartLab conceals its corporate team’s identities. “SmartLab has published what they are going to publish," Dockstader responds. "If people aren’t satisfied with the information, then this is not for them.” Jim adds bluntly, "They don't give a rat's ass about what anybody thinks." Dockstader echoes Jim, "We don't care what the public thinks if they're not like-minded." He also emphasizes personal responsibility for those who invest: "It's an open invitation that they get to choose as consenting adults to accept the invitation or not," he says. "They are 100% responsible for the choice they make."

“We don’t encourage loans or mortgages for investments,” Dockstader states, telling me it’s against policy. “Your best friend Louis took out a $13,000 loan,” I counter. Angrily, he says, “He borrowed it from me!” Confused, I note the contradiction. Jim interjects, “We can help friends out.” I persist, “It’s still a loan.” Later, Dockstader tells me, “My private actions with friends are personal.”

Cautiously, I raise Dockstader’s past involvement in pyramid schemes. “I went to prison for following the advice of my attorney,” he says of Elite Activity. When I ask how participants received “gifts” ranging from $8,000 to $48,000, he evades, claiming his lawyer assured compliance for the rebranded Connecting Us All site.

LEFT: Bryan Clum with his son. RIGHT: Harvey Dockstader with a SmartLab corporate team member.

Dockstader denies ties to Profitclicking.com, stating he worked for an employee, JJ Ulrich. I cite an interview with him naming him as vice president and a video, “The last days of Harvey Dockstader,” from a user who lost $1,800. He dismisses both as “fake news,” alleging a conspiracy by individuals and the government.

Two locals mentioned Dockstader recently spent a month in Vietnam, which he also calls “fake news.” He explains, “When I was first approached, I was invited to Vietnam to meet the team, but I declined to go because I had no interest.” He adds, “I was later given the opportunity to experience the bot live and experience an audit and the third-party transparency that we see at their events,” which convinced him to share SmartLab with his close circle.

The interview, spanning hours, ends with Dockstader angrily asserting I have no right to use his name and threatening legal action. The next day, I send follow-up questions via text, all of which he answers, except for one. I asked about a $1.1 million federal tax lien from 2005 during his prosecution. "This was an unjustified attack where the government destroyed three corporations and seized millions," he told me. "The IRS stepped in to collect corporate taxes on the businesses they ruined."

I also text about his son’s LinkedIn profile, listing “International Sports Better” in Ho Chi Minh City, inquiring if he travels or resides there part-time. Radio silence from Dockstader. He refused my several attempts to get him to answer.

At this point, I became suspicious that Dockstader might have been involved in the creation of SmartLab. It echoed many of his previous forays into pyramid schemes, including a religious theme. He had sent me SmartLab's "Ten Commandments," which I found odd for a Southeast Asian company to use. I also found it suspicious Dockstader was "approached" and offered to meet the team in Vietnam. Furthermore, his son's apparent ties there only deepened my concerns.

SmartLab’s large prevalence in Short Creek, where residents seek economic stability post-FLDS, is alarming. The community is vulnerable, and Harvey Dockstader has a history of exploiting idealistic people hoping for "life-changing" opportunities. The painfully simple adage of "If it's too good to be true, then it probably is" is fitting.

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