For decades, the village of Hamilton, New York, nestled just down the road from Colgate University, prided itself on its sense of community and trust. At the heart of this trust stood Miles “Burt” Marshall, a familiar face whose reputation as a reliable businessman seemed unshakable. Marshall, now 73, wore many hats: tax preparer, insurance agent, property manager, and, most notably, the operator of what locals called the “8% Fund.” For many, he was the go-to man for investing a nest egg close to home, with the promise of an annual 8% return that seemed too good to pass up.
Marshall’s operation was as folksy as it was persuasive. Clients received gift bags filled with maple syrup, pickles, and honey—each jar labeled with a pun or a friendly reminder to call Miles for insurance. He built deep relationships, hosting annual client parties, and even calling investors on their birthdays. According to Associated Press reports, this personal touch fostered an atmosphere of trust so strong that clients like Christine Corrigan reasoned, “He would tell you about all the other people that invest. Churches invest. Fire companies invest. Doctors invest. So you’d think, ‘Well, they’re smart people. They wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t okay to do … Why are you going to be the suspicious one?’”
Word of Marshall’s investment opportunity spread quickly. Professors, laborers, retirees, and even snowmobile clubs joined in, encouraged by friends and family who had already invested. In the 1980s, an 8% return didn’t seem outlandish—interest rates were high, and Marshall’s plan was to invest in local rental properties, using the profits to pay investors. Clients received promissory notes, and for years, Marshall made good on his promises, processing withdrawals with only 30 days’ notice and offering regular interest payments.
But as the years rolled by and interest rates fell, Marshall’s fixed 8% offer began to stand out. The community’s trust in him only grew as he continued to deliver on his promises. Dennis Sullivan, a local resident whose family and friends all invested with Marshall, recalled, “Everybody gets snowballed into it.” The Marshall name was synonymous with reliability; his parents had run an insurance and realty business in the area before him, and his office, adorned with French doors and a plush carpet, projected prosperity and stability.
Behind the scenes, however, the reality was far less rosy. By 2011, according to bankruptcy trustee Fred Stevens, Marshall’s business had crossed a critical line. He began using new investor money to pay previous investors—a classic marker of a Ponzi scheme. The operation, which had started in the 1980s, grew to include nearly 1,000 individuals and organizations, with Marshall owing them about $95 million in principal and interest by the time the whole structure began to crumble.
The collapse came swiftly in 2023. Marshall, suffering from a serious heart condition that required two surgeries and cost him $600,000, filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection in April. As news of his illness spread, investors rushed to withdraw their funds, triggering a run that exposed the scheme’s fragility. According to court filings cited by AP, Marshall declared over $90 million in liabilities against just $21.5 million in assets—most of it tied up in real estate.
In the summer of 2025, the other shoe dropped. Marshall was indicted on charges of grand larceny and securities fraud, accused of stealing more than $50 million. Prosecutors allege that he falsely represented the profitability of his real estate ventures, had staff generate fake transaction summaries, and funneled investor money into his other businesses—including self-storage, a print shop, and even personal expenses like airline travel, groceries, meals out, and yoga studios. The trustee’s filings assert that by the last decade, Marshall’s business practices amounted to little more than financial sleight-of-hand, propping up the illusion of success with deception.
The fallout has been devastating for the tight-knit community. Many investors, including Colgate professors, local workers, and retirees, lost their life savings—sometimes tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars. Christine Corrigan and her husband, who own a restaurant nearby, were owed about $1.5 million. Dennis Sullivan’s family and even his snowmobile club were caught in the web. “You look at life differently after this happens. It’s like, ‘Who do you trust?’” Sullivan told AP. “It’s sad because of what he’s done to the area.”
Barbara Baltusnik, another victim, summed up the sense of betrayal: “We left it there so that it would accumulate. Well, it accumulated in his pocket.” For some, the losses have meant drastic changes in lifestyle. Sullivan’s mother had to move in with him. In Georgia, retiree Carolyn Call, who found out about Marshall’s fund through family ties to the area, said, “I’m just able to pay my bills and keep going. Nothing extravagant. No trips. Can’t do anything hardly for the grandkids.”
Marshall’s lawyers have declined to comment on the ongoing case. Meanwhile, the bankruptcy proceedings continue, with Marshall’s home and properties already sold off. The grim reality for victims is that they may recover only about 5.4 cents on the dollar from asset sales. The trustee is also pursuing potential claims against financial institutions that may have facilitated the transactions, but for most, the hope of meaningful restitution seems remote.
Marshall’s story is not one of big-city greed or Wall Street excess; it’s a cautionary tale about misplaced trust in the heart of small-town America. The ripple effects of the scandal have left a community questioning the very fabric of its relationships. As the legal process unfolds, Hamilton’s residents are left to pick up the pieces, their faith in local institutions shaken, their savings gone, and their futures uncertain.
The saga of Miles “Burt” Marshall stands as a stark reminder that even the most familiar faces can hide the most damaging secrets, and that the bonds of trust—once broken—are not easily repaired.
