The New Yorker Hotel: A Tempting Target for a Con Man

The New Yorker Hotel. It’s impossible to miss, with its massive Art Deco sign and prime location near Penn Station. According to Google Maps, it is conveniently right across the street from a couple of law offices, a payday loan establishment, a security company, and a beauty parlor that has the word “Illusions” in its name. Trust us — all of that is relevant.

What you probably didn’t know is that this iconic hotel became the scene of one of the most bizarre legal capers in recent memory. A man named Mickey Barreto managed to “steal” it—or at least convince the legal system that he did.

Armed with nothing but a deep understanding of New York’s Rent Stabilization Act, a sharp suit (we assume), and an unrelenting belief in his own audacity, Mickey turned a one-night stay into a five-year residency and briefly claimed ownership of the entire hotel.

And we consider ourselves fortunate to stay in a place that offers complimentary donuts and coffee.

This is a story about how to game the system, lose everything, and somehow involve North Korea along the way, because anything this outlandish and disastrous is just begging for a North Korea shout-out.

A Manhattan Marvel with a Storied Past

Let’s take a moment to appreciate the New Yorker Hotel. Built in 1930, this Art Deco icon was the epitome of modern luxury, boasting 41 floors, 27 acres of space, and 2,503 rooms. It had its own power plant, an ice rink, and rooms priced at a mere $3.50 per night. Adjusted for inflation, that’s about the cost of a single avocado toast today. OK, that’s not entirely true. That would be about $67.00 today, so in New York City, that will get you about half of an avocado toast.

Nikola Tesla spent his final years holed up in room 3327. A plaque on the wall identifies the hotel as the place where Tesla died. The New Yorker evidently had a better relationship with the inventor than did the Governor Clinton Hotel. Tesla scammed that establishment out of his hotel bill with a phony “death beam.”

By the 1980s, the New Yorker was no longer the city’s belle of the ball, but it was still standing tall. And thanks to a little-known clause in the Rent Stabilization Act, its rooms became prime targets for anyone bold enough to exploit the system.

Rent Stabilization 101: The Legal Hack Nobody Knows About

The Rent Stabilization Act of 1969 was designed to keep housing affordable in New York City. But by 1981, the law extended its protections to hotels like the New Yorker. Here’s the gist: if a hotel was built before 1969, had six or more rooms, and charged less than $88 a week in 1968, its rooms could be “rent-stabilized.” This meant guests could request a six-month lease at a discounted rate and stay indefinitely—essentially turning a transient hotel room into a permanent residence.

Naturally, when the government gets involved to try to keep prices down, you can expect the exact opposite to occur but not before needlessly complicating everyone’s life. Our story is one such example.

Naturally, hotels weren’t in the habit of advertising this loophole, and most guests had no clue it even existed. Enter Mickey Barreto, a man who not only knew about the rule but was determined to push it to its absolute limit.

The $200 Room That Changed Everything

In June 2018, Mickey checked into the New Yorker for a one-night stay, shelling out $200.57 for room 2565. By all accounts, it was supposed to be a simple transaction. But Mickey had other plans.

With some encouragement from his partner-in-crime (or partner-in-cunning?), Matthew Hannan, Mickey decided to invoke his rights under the Rent Stabilization Act. The next morning, instead of checking out, he requested a six-month lease. The hotel staff, understandably baffled, declined his request and escorted his bags to the curb. But Mickey wasn’t about to let a little thing like being thrown out stop him. He marched straight to housing court and claimed he’d been illegally evicted.

Shockingly, the court sided with him. The hotel had failed to send a representative to defend their case, and the judge ruled that Mickey could stay. Not only that, but he became a permanent resident under the Rent Stabilization Act. Mickey had officially gamed the system.

Life at the New Yorker: Mickey Barreto Lives the Dream

For the next five years, Mickey enjoyed his rent-stabilized digs at the New Yorker. He wasn’t required to sign a lease, pay rent, or even leave his room. He lived within a stone’s throw of some of New York’s finest eating establishments and culture. He enjoyed weekly linen service. Presumably, he could visit the site of Tesla’s death (or at least stand outside the door) as often as he wished. Life was good.

But Mickey wasn’t content to simply stay in the hotel. No, he wanted more. When the judge ruled in his favor, the court didn’t say he had the right to rent a room or even get a lease. The court order awarded him “possession” of his room. He took that order to the Department of Finance and argued that if he had “possession” of his room, he essentially owned it.

Mickey prepared a deed that showed he had complete ownership — not of a single room — but of the entire building. After six failed attempts at filing the deed, Mickey finally succeeded on his seventh try. The deed to the New Yorker Hotel—yes, the entire hotel—was transferred to his name.

It was an unbelievable turn of events, made possible by the government’s limited review process for deed transfers. As long as the paperwork was in order and properly notarized, it was approved. What could possibly go wrong?

The Plot Thickens: Taxes, Lawsuits, and North Korea

Spoiler alert: a lot went wrong. For starters, the New Yorker’s true owner—the Unification Church, a religious group with alleged ties to North Korea—was not amused. The church had enjoyed significant tax exemptions thanks to their nonprofit status. But when Mickey’s name appeared on the deed, those exemptions disappeared, and the hotel’s property taxes skyrocketed by nearly $3 million.

Meanwhile, Mickey began flexing his newfound “ownership.” He tried to convince the diner downstairs to send their rent checks to his room instead of the church. (They didn’t.) He also attempted to access the hotel’s accounts and management systems. (He failed.)

The church, understandably livid, filed multiple lawsuits against Mickey, accusing him of fraud. The courts eventually allowed the New Yorker to evict him in 2023, but the damage was done. Mickey’s antics had cost the hotel millions and thrown its management into chaos.

Mickey’s Downfall — And Reprieve

In February 2024, Mickey’s wild ride came to a screeching halt. He was arrested and charged with 24 counts of fraud, including 14 felonies. If convicted, he could face significant prison time. As for Matthew Hannan, he somehow escaped unscathed—proof that sometimes the sidekick gets off easier than the mastermind.

One would think this is where everything would come to a crashing and disastrous end, but our story is not yet over. In November 2024, Mickey was declared to be mentally unfit to stand trial. He was mentally sharp enough to pull of one of the greatest cons in recent memory, but when it came time to answer for what he did, the court determined that mentally, he’s not all there.

Could You Steal a Hotel?

Technically? Yes. Realistically? Probably not. There are an estimated 51 hotels in New York City with rent-stabilized rooms, but finding one—and successfully invoking the law—requires a mix of luck, legal knowledge, and sheer boldness. Mickey Barreto may have blazed the trail, but he also proved just how slippery that path can be.

So, the next time you’re in Manhattan and spot the New Yorker Hotel, think of Mickey. He may not have owned the building for long, but for a brief, shining moment, he was living the dream. And if you’re ever tempted to follow in his footsteps, remember that Nikola Tesla seemed to have a pretty tenuous grip on reality, himself. Maybe there’s something in the hotel’s water?

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