Secession: The Storm (13 page)

“No.”

Abe’s response drew a frown, the two men on the porch glancing at each other. “We won’t take up much of your time, Mr. Hendricks. I think everyone would be more comfortable if we could sit and go through our questions.”

“Gentlemen, I don’t mean to be rude or uncooperative, but I learned a long time ago to exercise my right to remain silent. If you will hold on just a moment, I’ll get my attorney’s phone number and address. You’re welcome to ask him any questions concerning my taxes.”

The man in the back stepped forward, his voice projecting authority, “Why so uptight, Mr. Hendricks? You’re acting like a man who has something to hide. You do realize that your actions will just make the service dig deeper?”

Abe bristled at the threat. “Are you saying that by exercising my constitutional right, I’m inviting my government to treat me differently than any other citizen?”

The man shook his head, “Describe it however you like, Mr. Hendricks. The fact remains that in the vast majority of cases, any taxpayer who lawyers up is hiding something… something significant. It is a statistical reality that our enforcement personnel can’t ignore.”

“I’m hiding nothing, sir. Now let me retrieve my lawyer’s contact information.”

Abe closed the door, turning to find a troubled look on his wife’s face. “Are you sure we just shouldn’t invite them in and see what they want to know?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he responded, stalking off to retrieve a pencil and paper.

A minute later, Abe opened the front door, surprised to find only a single agent on his porch. A quick glance confirmed the nondescript government sedan sitting in the driveway was empty. “Where is your buddy?” Abe asked.

The agent didn’t answer, but Kara did. “Abe, one of those men is in our backyard.”

“Shit,” he barked, pointing a finger at the remaining agent on his porch. “Get the fuck off of my property, right now, young man. Here is my attorney’s name and number. Don’t come back here without a warrant.”

“Are you threatening a federal agent, sir?”

“I am warning a trespasser. I’m not going to ask nicely again.”

“We’ll be speaking very soon, Mr. Hendricks,” the agent replied with a menacing tone.

Abe watched the two men leave, a very panicky Kara under his arm.

It took a few hours before the Hendricks settled down, Abe reassuring Kara that he’d done the right thing and that their financial records were in order. “I pay our taxes,” he promised, “and I don’t play games with any of the rules. It’s just not worth losing any sleep over, especially for a guy who’s seen how punitive our beloved government can be.”

The entire incident was almost forgotten when Abe left for work the following morning, his 30-minute commute to his Woodlands office consisting mostly of a pleasant country drive.

Strolling through the mid-rise’s lobby, Abe rode the elevator up to the third floor and entered Hendricks Engineering, Incorporated just like any ordinary morning. He stopped mid-stride, finding a rather large gentleman pointing a gun in his face.

“Who are you?” the big man growled.

“I’m the owner,” Abe stuttered, finally noticing the embroidered initials “IRS” on the man’s jacket. “What do you want?”

His question was ignored. Instead, the man lowered his weapon and demanded, “Do you have any cell phones or weapons on your person?”

“What are you doing here?” What’s this all about?” Abe protested, his anger beginning to build.

“I asked you a fucking question!” the IRS man screamed at the top of his lungs, again raising his pistol.

“Yes, I have a cell phone. No, I don’t have a weapon. Now, I want to see your warrant.”

“Hand over your cell phone, sir, or I’ll arrest you for failure to cooperate with a federal officer.”

Abe shrugged, reaching into his pocket for the smartphone he carried there. Taking it from his hand, the IRS agent then motioned for Abe to follow.

He was led into the employee break room, finding all of his staff seated around the small tables stationed there. Everyone looked absolutely scared to death.

“I want to see the warrant,” Abe demanded again. “You have no right to intrude on my….”

Agent Hammond appeared, unfolding a three-page document and shoving it in front of Abe’s face. “Sit down and shut up, Mr. Hendricks. Here is our warrant. We are seizing all computer hardware, filing cabinets, and any records on the premises. While we are boxing these items up, all of you must remain in this room. Your private cell phones will be returned to you when we have finished.”

“I want to call my lawyer,” Abe snapped. “This is outrageous.”

“You are welcome to call your attorney as soon as we’ve finished gathering the evidence. That should only take a few more hours.”

In reality, it was actually two hours and thirty minutes before the IRS agents finished their task. Abe watched in horror as every computer, copy machine, telephone, and file was boxed and carted off.

He counted at least fifteen agents roaming through his offices, three times the number of people employed by his tiny firm.

While they waited, the IRS men entered the break room twice, once to ask if the bookkeeper was present, the second time to announce that they were leaving. Tina, the receptionist, wasn’t even allowed to go to the restroom during the entire ordeal.

And then they were gone, leaving behind a ransacked, hollow shell of what had been a bustling little enterprise.

Abe’s first call was to his lawyer, his second to Kara. Neither answered.

His next priority was his employees. Most of them seemed to be in a daze, ambling around the office without purpose, staring at what had once been their livelihood. Abe didn’t blame them.

“If I were in their shoes, my first priority would be worrying about my job,” he whispered. “I need to reassure them and then give them something to occupy their minds.”

After calling them all together, he pulled a company credit card from his wallet. “I want you all to hop in Tina’s minivan and head over to the computer store. Everybody’s wanted new laptops anyway, so we might as well seize this opportunity to upgrade. I’m going to call our telecom company and get a few phones over here right away. If we do this right, we’ll only lose a day or two of downtime and may come out the other end even stronger.”

His quick action seemed to dissipate some of the stress, the half-smiling employees dividing the assignments among themselves.

Abe, mind racing with thoughts of anger, revenge, and fear, half-heartedly went about tidying up the mess the government goons had made of his office. The ringtone of his cell phone brought more bad news. “The company credit card isn’t being accepted,” Tina informed him. “Do you think they’ve frozen all of the corporate bank accounts?”

“Damn, I never thought about that. Come on back over. I keep some cash at home, and we’ll use that in the morning. Tell everyone they can have the day off with pay,” he added before hanging up.

Now Abe was scared.

His attorney finally called back after Abe had driven halfway home. At least a dozen times the lawyer replied saying, “They did what?” and “They can’t do that,” while his client relayed the story of the IRS visit that morning.

“I’ll get on this first thing in the morning,” the lawyer promised.

“You’d better. I can’t do business without phones, computers, or bank accounts.”

“It’s Patriots Now, Abe,” the attorney replied. “I’m hearing all kinds of rumors about the feds getting nasty with Republican-leaning grassroots organizations. The IRS seems to be the enforcement agency of choice.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Abe replied. “Everybody would go nuts if the government started using the tax guys to leverage politics.”

“The next election is going to be close, my friend. Politicians have done worse things to stay in power. Remember a guy named Nixon and Watergate?”

It took Abe’s attorney six days to free up the company’s bank accounts. Hendricks Engineering was forced to put up a $50,000 bond before the federal judge would release the company’s funds.

“Mr. Hendricks is a flight risk,” the IRS representative had told the judge. “It will take the service several weeks to examine all of the seized records. However, by documents submitted to the IRS under Mr. Hendricks’s own signature, his firm has known business dealings with several international customers. We, therefore, request that he be considered a flight risk and ask that his passport be surrendered.”

It was another five weeks before a rather harried man wearing the uniform of a delivery service entered the firm’s reception area and announced that he had a truck full of boxes for delivery, courtesy of the Department of Treasury.

Abe’s legal bill consumed practically the entire $50,000 bond. In addition, the IRS found $137 in questionable expenses, which with penalties and interest amounted to a new tax bill of just over $200 dollars.

No sooner than the last box was unpacked, Abe received a call from one of his most active supporters at Patriots Now. The man was being audited.

Within a week, three more of the founding members received visits from the IRS, all of them near panic after hearing Abe’s story.

Patriots Now was disbanded 45 days before the November election, Abe convinced that his labors were all for naught.

Abe retreated into the dark recesses of depression. His business had been severely damaged, his bookkeeper recommending bankruptcy, or at least extreme measures of austerity. That meant letting employees go – people that had stuck with him during the lean times, folks whose entire families he knew by name, age and scout merit badge.

Kara tried her best, remaining upbeat and optimistic, pretending she didn’t notice the depth of his funk.

He was parked on the couch one night, watching an old movie, unable to sleep. Nothing was on but a spy flick with a mediocre plot and B-grade acting.

The protagonist stumbled upon a government secret and couldn’t resolve his conflict with the authorities. Instead, he spent the next hour and a half of the movie dodging hired assassins.