Confessions of a Tax Collector (7 page)

“I didn’t want to be your OJI,” Melissa said abruptly. “Being an OJI gets you nothing. They take your inventory away, but give your trainees seventy cases. So I’ve gone from managing forty cases to managing seventy. They say that’s okay because all of you are 3.5s and you’ll pick it up quick. Well, I don’t care what your GPA is, this isn’t fucking college.”

“It sure isn’t,” Rachel said.

“I wanted Billy to take you.”

“Who’s Billy?” Allison asked.

“Billy Culpepper. Only never call him Billy. He was my OJI, and if I had to take him, you should.”

William Culpepper was the office star, according to Melissa, the one RO in Lakeside who seemed destined for upper management, perhaps even an executive position in Washington.

And he’s a fucking maniac. I mean, I think he really might be crazy. When I was a trainee he took my case file and set fire to it.“

“Why?” Caroline asked.

“Because he wanted to scare me.” He scares me and I haven’t even met him,“ Dee said.

“I would avoid him if I were you.”

I had begun to shut down mentally: too much information had been thrown at me in six hours to absorb it all. The only things I had pretty clear by this point were Inspection was probably something bad, the Union was probably something good, and thirty minutes for lunch was definitely something unreasonable. Despite Gina having told me more than a dozen times that my job was collecting taxes, I still wasn’t entirely sure what my job was. The bright January sun cast a glare on Melissa’s dirty windshield and I wondered how she could see the road. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she navigated by sonar, like a bat. The car had a funny smell, similar to the smell of decaying paper. I tuned out the conversation while I watched the fields and orange groves glide by outside my window. This was my hometown, the place in which I was raised; we were actually not far from my father’s cattle ranch on the far north side of town, where I had spent every summer of my youth, daydreaming of future conquests, of glories to come when I reached the full age of maturity. Where would I be, I wondered then, when the time for daydreams expired, when the freedom finally came to make my own way in the world? Packed into a car with strangers, destination unknown, with a mustard stain on my tie, being driven, at a death-defying speed of eighty-five miles per hour, by a revenue officer of the Internal Revenue Service.

The answer startled me.

“Don’t say anything,” Melissa instructed us. “Let me do all the talking. Don’t make eye contact with him and don’t—”

“Make any sudden moves?” Rachel asked.

“Interrupt me.”

“Sorry.”

“If he asks a question, don’t say you don’t know the answer. Just keep your mouths shut and I’ll answer. You’re here to watch and learn.”

She whipped into a parking place-before a small brick building. A sign by the door read NEWMAN, CRAIG & PAUL, ATTORNEYS AT LAW.

“It’s a law firm?” Caroline asked.

“No,” Dee whispered in my ear. “It’s a taxidermist.”

Melissa stepped out of the car and flipped her hair over her collar. We stood behind her as she opened the trunk and removed her briefcase and her purse. She pulled out something that resembled a large, thin wallet covered in black leather. She flipped it open, laying her finger in the crease, and held it up. Her picture, of slightly better quality than a driver’s license photo, occupied the top right half. Beside it was a drawing of the Treasury Building in Washington, D.C. On the top were the words, in ornate script, department of the treasury/internal revenue service.

“Somebody asked what a commission was,” Melissa said. “This is a commission. Some people call them ‘credentials.’”

“Oh,” Caroline said. “It’s like our badge.”

“It’s not a badge,” Melissa said. “Because they won’t let us carry guns.”

She slapped the commission closed but did not return it to her purse. We followed her to the door. Rachel said, “Well, I’m disappointed about the gun thing. I kind of wanted to pack some heat.” I heard Allison whisper to her, “Shhh. Melissa told us not to talk.”

“I’m too busy fighting the urge to goosestep,” Dee said.

We trooped into the dark-paneled foyer, furnished with soft leather chairs, a glass-topped coffee table, and potted palm trees. Muzak was piped through speakers hidden, it sounded, within the palms. I was inexplicably nervous. Melissa went directly to the receptionist, who sat behind a glass partition. Allison shadowed her, standing directly behind her while the rest of us hovered near the coffee table. Rachel picked up a magazine. Melissa said, “I’m here to see one of the partners.”

“Which one?” the receptionist asked. She was smacking a piece of gum.

“I’d rather talk to the senior partner, if he’s in.”

“He’s not in. How about an associate? There’s about a billion of those around.”

“It has to be an officer.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I have this.”

Melissa held up her commission. The receptionist’s expression did not change, but she stopped smacking her gum.

“So tell me who’s in.”

“Mr. Paul is in court.”

“I asked who was in.”

“Mr. Paul handles the taxes. Would you like to make an appointment to see Mr. Paul?” She nipped through a calendar on the desk.

“No, I don’t want an appointment with Mr. Paul. I want to see an officer. I asked who was in, not who is out.”

“Who’s on first,” Rachel muttered. She was eyeing a recipe for chocolate truffles in the December issue
of Ladies’ Home Journal.

“Well, Mr. Newman is hardly ever here. He’s about ninety years old, you know, but of course they keep his name on the door.”

“What about Craig? Is Craig here?”

“Mr. Craig,” the receptionist said. “His last name is Craig.”

“I don’t care if his last name is George Bush,” Melissa said. “If he’s an officer and if he’s here, I need to see him. Right now.”

“Let me check.”

The receptionist picked up the phone. She pulled the wad of gum from her mouth and, presumably, dropped it into the trash can located somewhere underneath the desk. Melissa tapped the edge of her commission on the little ledge in front of her.

“Mr. Craig? Oh, you are in. There’s someone here to see you. No, they don’t have an appointment.” She lowered her voice slightly. “It’s the IRS.” She listened for a moment. “All right, I’ll tell them.” She hung up and smiled at Melissa. “He’ll be right out.”

“Thanks.”

Melissa had turned and taken one step toward the leather chairs when a door beside the receptionist’s office flew open and a man lunged into the room. He was tall, athletic, perfectly tanned. His blue eyes sparkled as he extended his hand in Melissa’s direction. Melissa raised the black leather-bound commission in her left hand while she accepted his hand in her right.

“Mr. Craig, I’m Revenue Officer Melissa Cavanaugh.”

“Please, call me Bernie.”

“I’m with the Internal Revenue Service.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Melissa.” He looked over her shoulder to us, still hovering around the coffee table.

“These are my associates,” she said.

“Oh, your associates. Of course.”

He took a step in our direction. Melissa said, “Is there someplace private we can talk?”

“Private? Sure. You mean, all of you?”

“Yes.”

“Um, okay. How about our conference room? Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine.”

Melissa followed him through the door and we followed Melissa. Since I was covering the rear, I closed the door behind us. The entire office complex was blessed, it appeared, with the soothing, yet contemporary, sounds of Muzak. We followed Bernie Craig down a couple of halls, turning left, then right, then cutting back left again. Heads turned, people stopped what they were doing and stared. I fought the urge to whisper to one, “Class action suit,” and thought that if I had not bolted from law school, this would be my milieu. I would be tan and fit and play golf three times a week and bill $75 per hour, just like Bernie Craig. Thus Bernie Craig was a cruel mockery of what I might have become. A Rolex glittered on his wrist; a plain gold ring shone on his left hand. His white shirt was pressed and starched and there was a diamond stud in his fourteen-carat tiepin and diamonds on his cufflinks. The ornamentation on my tie was a mustard stain about the size of a dime.

We filed into a large room dominated by a huge mahogany table. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves displayed the firm’s law library. The plush carpeting was dark blue. Bernie Craig waved us toward the table.

“Have a seat, have a seat,” he said. “Can I get anyone anything? We have soda, Perrier, coffee.”

Rachel started to answer, and Melissa cut her off.

“No thanks.”

“No? Nothing? All right then.”

We sank into the leather armchairs. Bernie Craig’s smile had not disappeared since he met us in the foyer. His teeth appeared to be capped and were brilliantly white.

“Jeez,” he said. “I didn’t know the IRS came with so much—force.”

Melissa pulled a file from her briefcase.

‘I mean,“ he said, eyes on Melissa. ”You guys are a just short of a battalion.“

Melissa opened the file and removed a computer printout. She studied it. Bernie Craig kept talking.

“I didn’t know you guys just showed up like this. I mean, I thought only Publishers Clearinghouse and the Jehovah’s Witnesses paid surprise visits. I don’t remember getting any notices or anything. Don’t you usually send a notice or something? I’ve gotten them in the past. But no one’s ever showed up at the door. Not even one guy from the IRS. Is there some kind of trouble?”

“That’s what you’re gonna have to tell me,” Melissa said.

“Maybe I should get Marie in here. She’s the office manager.”

He started to get up. Melissa said, “I don’t need to see Marie, unless Marie is an officer. Is Marie an officer?”

“No, Marie is not an officer.”

“I need to speak with an officer.”

“We seem to be doing a lot of that, but we’re not saying very much. Do you mind telling me why you’re here, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

Now he was getting down to it, though the dazzling smile remained fixed, masklike, and the blue eyes danced. He was accustomed to deposing hardened criminals and corporate big shots. He wasn’t about to let this skinny, big-haired pencil-pusher from the IRS get the best of him.

“I’m here because of the payroll taxes.”

“We’re all paid up, as far as I know.”

“We monitor your federal tax deposits, and our records indicate a significant drop in the fourth quarter.”

“The last quarter?”

“Yes, Mr. Craig. The fourth quarter of anything would be the last quarter.”

Point for Cavanaugh. Bernie Craig said, “Like I said, our office manager handles the tax deposits. Why are you monitoring our deposits?”

“We monitor everybody’s deposits.”

“Well, of course you do.”

“And when there is a change, we want to know why.”

“That’s very thorough.”

“We want to know why you’re not depositing the same amount.”

“Well, all I can say is our liability usually goes up in the fourth quarter. That’s the quarter we pay out bonuses.”

“Your deposits are twelve thousand dollars less than the third quarter.”

“For the fourth quarter?”

“Yes, Mr. Craig, for the fourth quarter—isn’t that the quarter we’ve been talking about?” She had removed a pen from her purse, but had made no notes. She slapped the pen down on the desk.

“I think you better bring your records in here.”

“What records?”

“Your payroll records.”

“Why, are you auditing me?”

“This isn’t an audit. I’m a revenue officer, not a tax examiner. I want to see your payroll records to verify you aren’t twelve thousand dollars in the hole for the fourth quarter.”

“If you’re a revenue officer, who are these people?” He waved a hand in our direction. “And why don’t they say anything? It’s really starting to give me the creeps, to tell you the truth.”

“Are you refusing to let me see your payroll records?”

“I don’t recall refusing to let you see anything.”

“Because if you are refusing, I can issue a summons to produce them. I have one right here in my briefcase.”

“Ms. Cavanaugh, I would be happy to show you the records. Can I have five minutes?”

“In a minute,” Melissa said. “I wanted to ask you about your personal taxes.”

“My personal taxes?”

“Your 1040 taxes.”

“I know what personal taxes are.”

“Are you current?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Have you filed and paid?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any year that you haven’t filed or paid?”

“Of course not.”

“What’s your Social Security number?”

“Why do you want my Social Security number?”

“To verify you’ve filed and paid your personal income taxes.”

“I thought you were here about the payroll taxes.”

‘We’re required to address
all
taxes with everyone we contact.“

“Even the mailman? Never mind. I’m just giving you a hard time. Fun, isn’t it? That was rhetorical.” He told her his Social Security number and left the room.

“You see his face when I asked for his SSN?” she asked us. “They all think they’re so fucking smart.”

“Who thinks they’re smart?” Caroline asked.

“Lawyers,” Melissa said. “We like to catch ‘em quick.”

“Lawyers?” Rachel asked.

“Taxpayers. Any collector will tell you the quicker you can get to ‘em, the more you’ll collect. So the Service tracks payroll tax deposits. If the deposits drop off suddenly, it issues an FTD Alert to the field for a revenue officer to take early intervention. If there’s a problem, we’re there at the beginning, not after all the assets are gone and there’s no hope of collecting.”

“So we’re like the shock troops,” Rachel said.

“I got no idea what that means,” Melissa said.

Bernie Craig reentered the room with a ledger book in his hands. He set it before Melissa and slipped back into his chair without saying a word. For the next twenty minutes she quizzed him about the size of the firm’s payroll, how the bonuses were recorded, who was responsible for getting the money deposited through the bank. She had removed a form from her briefcase and was asking him questions, fired like bullets toward his smooth brown forehead. Who were the officers? Did he know their Social Security numbers? Who signed the payroll checks? Were taxes ever discussed in meetings and, if they were, what was discussed? Did he have the authority to hire and fire employees? Who signed the tax returns? Who reviewed them? Who prepared them?