Confessions of a Tax Collector (27 page)

She turned to Dee. “What do you think?”

“I haven’t done that many seizures…” Dee stammered. In fact, she had done
no
seizures.

“Rick, you’ve been seizing quite a bit lately. What are your thoughts?”

“I think what Allison was getting at is the compliance aspect of enforcement.”

Jenny Duncan folded her thin arms over her chest, leaned back in her chair, and said, “Explain.”

I remembered a story of Toby’s, I said, “In the old days, when a revenue officer was assigned a new zip code, he would hit three or four businesses, immediately seizing them, creating the biggest stir he could in the community. After a couple of months, TDA issuance in those zips would plummet.”

She nodded. “Maximum impact. Shutting down these businesses encourages others to comply in order to stay open.” She looked at Allison. “Fairness is a legitimate issue as well. Most small businesses struggle to stay in compliance—and there’s no way of knowing if this is out of a sense of duty or a sense of fear. Probably a little of both.”

She picked up a stack of printouts and flipped through them. The philosophical discussion was over. “I’ve analyzed your 795s
[29]
and frankly I’m a little concerned about the average number of cases worked.” She asked Dee, “How many appointments do you schedule in a day?”

“Two or three. Sometimes four.”

Jenny shook her head. “I don’t see why. It has no effect but to drive down the closures.”

Allison wrote in her calendar, “Don’t drive down closures.”

“Beginning immediately, I want you to schedule your appointments no more than thirty minutes apart. That’s fourteen appointments in an eight hour shift, taking breaks into account.”

“
Fourteen
?” Rachel asked incredulously.

“Do you see a problem with that, Caroline?”

“My name is Rachel. That’s Caroline.”

“Hi,” Caroline said.

“I don’t see a problem with that,” Allison said. “I was doing more than three or four anyway. Some days I was doing eight.” She had written the numeral 14 and circled it twice.

Jenny consulted another page of statistics.

“I’m also concerned about timely follow-up. Who knows how many days we have to follow-up when a taxpayer misses a deadline?”

“Ten,” Allison chirped.

“That’s right. Ten days. Based on the file reviews I’ve seen, we’re missing that mark by a mile. Also, you need to be more consistent with your enforcement. If you tell a taxpayer you’re going to seize, don’t send a levy to the bank—seize.”

“Sometimes that’s hard to coordinate,” Dee said. “And sometimes our approvals sit for over a week waiting for Gina’s signature.”

This sounded like tattling. Jenny Duncan was not pleased. She gave no indication she was displeased, which was a sure indication that she was.

“The manual says you have ten days to take enforcement on missed deadlines. Ten days means ten days. Ultimately, you are responsible for your inventory. In January, the Service will make its final decision regarding your employment. It’s crunch-time, people. Time to show us what you’re made of.”

She squared the stack of prints, smacking the edges smartly on the table-top, rose abruptly and left the room without another word.

We sat in stunned silence for a moment, and then Rachel said, “They’re trying to break us.”

“No duh,” Allison said. “Where the hell have you been?”

Tears welled in Rachel’s eyes. “I don’t know how much more I can take. I’ve gained twenty pounds since I took this job. I can’t sleep. My hair is falling out in clumps. My husband barely speaks to me. My kids come to me for help with their homework and I scream at them.”

“Well,” Allison said. “Being a revenue officer isn’t for everyone.”

“Your sympathy is touching,” Dee said. “I’m not sure being a revenue officer is for
anyone.
If it weren’t for the money…”

“I don’t give a shit about the money,” Rachel said. “No amount of money is worth this.”

“I can’t leave,” Caroline said quietly. “I need this job.”

“It’s not the same for the rest of us,” Rachel told Allison. “We’re not like you and Rick. Gina hates us.”

“I don’t think she hates me,” Caroline said.

“Believe me, she does. You should hear some of the things she says.

Caroline’s eyes went wide. “What does she say?”

“Look at us,” Rachel said. “Look at all of us. I’m fat; Rick’s wasted away to a stick; Dee looks like she hasn’t slept in a week.”

“I feel perfectly fine,” Caroline said.

“Have any of you ever stopped and asked yourself why the hell you re doing this? Why you’re
allowing
them to do this?”

“You can always quit,” Allison said.

“And so could you,” Rachel answered. “So could all of us. That’s what we should do, all of us. Just quit. That would teach them a lesson. That would send a message.”

“It would be lost on them,” Dee said.

“Why can’t we quit?” Rachel asked again. “Really, what have we got to lose? Would things be so different for any of us? Would we be worse off than we are right now?”

“I would,” Caroline said. “I need this job.”

“Rick.” Rachel turned to me. “You know what happens if you don’t quit. You stay on another couple of years and you won’t be able to. You’ll be afraid to.”

“I’m afraid now,” I said.

“That’s my point! We’ve been scared out of minds for the past eleven months. Is this how any of us wanted our lives to turn out? Dee, you were going to be a psychologist. Rick, you were going to be a playwright. Caroline, you were—well, I don’t know what you were going to be but surely it wasn’t this. Even you, Allison, you were going to be a CPA or even start your own business.
Why are we letting them tell us what we are?”

Her question hung in the air, unanswered because it was unanswerable. Allison finally said, “Well, I can understand now why you can’t sleep.”

Rachel stared at her. Then she slapped her calendar closed and sped from the room, slamming the door behind her. Allison did not watch her go; she was watching me. Dee stood up.

“I’ll make sure she’s all right. That was really nasty of you, Allison.”

“I hate this,” Caroline said. “I don’t understand why we’re at each other’s throats all the time. Aren’t we all in this together?”

She followed Dee from the room. Allison was smiling now. I was not.

“Funny, isn’t it?” she asked. “The one trainee among us who does the least amount of work.”

“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” I said. Are you going to quit, too?“

“This job mirrors my life, Allison: I’m just sticking around to see what happens next.”

* * *

Take one appointment every thirty minutes for eight hours, with one thirty-minute break for lunch. That’s fourteen taxpayers per office day. On the average field day you contact eight taxpayers. Three days in the office, two in the field, that’s fifty-eight cases per week out of seventy-five in total inventory. Gina:
A good RO turns over her entire inventory in forty-five days.
Gina, who is fond of writing pithy quotes on the office chalkboard, designed to provoke fear and inspiration.
Enjoy your career: Reduce your overage!
and
Do it right the first time
—
Carpe Diem!
Fifty-eight cases per week. When you touch a case, do everything possible to bring it toward closure. There are no quotas, but close the cases. Close the cases. We don’t track dollars collected, but collect the dollars, feed the beast. We don’t track returns secured or referred for fraud, but secure the returns and ferret out the fraud, close the cases, feed the beast.

This is a Sel Code 38 TDI: Underreporter, nonfiler with over $100,000 in income. Find out why. Only when you talk to them, don’t ask for the returns. Don’t make demand. Be casual. Say,
Hi, I’m with the IRS, and we were just wondering why you haven’t filed an income tax return for the past five years. Hey, nice Ferrari!
Remember, we want quality, don’t sacrifice the quality of your work, but close cases. You want to stay with us, close cases. This small-engine repair guy who works out of the shed behind his trailer owes for six years, $32,000, he can pay $25 per month. Sign right here, sir. No, the interest doesn’t stop. You’ll be paying $25 per month for the rest of your days and I’ll close my case.
Well, you bastards won’t get me. I got nothing to take and I’m forty bucks in the hole every month, so how’re you ever gonna get me?
We’ll file the lien.
Go ahead, file your damn lien. What do I care about your lien?
Maybe you don’t, but your children will. I understand your hatred for us, but what about your children?
Asshole… Where do I sign?

This isn’t a competition. Nobody’s keeping score. How many has Allison closed this week, or Rachel, or Dee? We sing out,
Another quality closure!
so many times it becomes an office joke.
Another quality closure!

They trudge through the door, laden with boxes and briefcases and overflowing cartons, sometimes empty-handed,
I didn’t keep no receipts, Mr. Yancey.
Doesn’t matter, we’ll file you anyway, with no deductions. It’ll increase your tax but you can always amend the return if you ever find the receipts.
That don’t matter anyway; I can’t pay you guys a dime.

Fourteen per day, fifty-eight per week, the car salesmen, insurance salesmen, realtors, drywallers, wallpaperers, carpet-layers, painters, doctors, lawyers. Remarkable, no matter the profession or trade, everyone is broke.
I’ve got no money to pay you, Mr. Yancey.
They are not to blame; it’s their husband’s/wife’s, ex-wife’s/ex-husband’s, partner’s/ex-partner’s fault. Sometimes it’s their children’s fault. Most of the time it’s our fault, or Congress’s fault, or the president’s fault. Somebody, somewhere, is definitely to blame.
I made absolutely no money those two years, Mr. Yancey. Not one blessed dime. I signed the return because my ex-husband told me to sign it.
But you lived with him at the time.
Not happily.
You enjoyed the benefits of his income. Under the law, you are equally liable for the entire debt.
But that isn’t fair! Why aren’t you going after him?
We may be.
Are you?
We can’t tell you.

Electricians, mechanics, roofers, restaurateurs. Housekeepers, delivery-men, sign-painters, window-washers. We need the name of your nearest relative not living with you. Just as a reference. We won’t contact them (unless you disappear on us, then we’ll need someone to lean on). How much do you make a month? What do you spend on food, utilities, clothes, insurance, car payments, house payments, rent, garbage collection? What is your landlord’s name? Are you current with your rent? Do you receive alimony? We’ll need to see the divorce decree. You’re claiming your child as a dependent on the financial statement but not on your last tax return. We can’t allow your mother’s medicine as an expense. We’re disallowing your claim for $500 per month for books. Your student loans are disallowed. Your credit card payments are disallowed. Your payment on the second car is disallowed. Private school tuition, disallowed. Tithing, this is a sensitive issue, disallowed. Disallowed. Disallowed. Disallowed. Why are you spending over $300 a month on food when there’s only two of you? Forty dollars per week for gas is too much; I’ll allow twenty.

Inventors, musicians, schoolteachers, firemen, offshore drillers, fishermen. Why didn’t you file the returns?
I lost my form…I forgot…My dog got sick
—
I was in a coma…Nobody showed me how
.

A nurse. A chiropractor. A masseuse.
I’m not a masseuse, goddamnit. I’m a massage therapist. Don’t put “masseuse” on that form.
Musty papers pulled from dank corners, from attics and garages and car trunks.
This is my first audit. I guess I’m a little nervous.
I’m not an auditor. I am a revenue officer.

Then shouldn’t I take the records to H&R Block?
Maybe you should have thought of that three years ago.

Yes, sir, Mr. Yancey. No, sir, Mr. Yancey. Can I have two more weeks, Mr. Yancey? Mr. Yancey, I’m begging you…
Pulling crumpled gas receipts from a shoebox, scrubbing a runny nose with a tissue from the box conveniently located on the table.
Hurricane Andrew killed me. I haven’t worked since…I have AIDS…She cleaned me out, took everything I have, and now you people want the rest…My credit is shot; I can’t borrow…If I sell my concrete mixer, how’m I’s‘posed to make a living?
Supplicants spilling out into the waiting room.
Have mercy on me, Mr. Yancey, have mercy.
One appointment every thirty minutes, with the average appointment lasting one hour. Drumming gnawed fingernails on fat folders. Tattered blue jeans. Stained T-shirts beneath ratty denim jackets. Scuffed shoes. Scraggly hair, bad skin, yellow-toothed. Here, the shore of human detritus. Look what the tide’s brought in.
I brung everything you asked for. Here’s my bank statements. Here’s my mortgage. Here’s my W-2. Here’s my electric bill and telephone and water. Here’s my divorce decree. Here’s my credit card statements, my payment books, my kid’s hospital bills; that one’s for the braces. You gonna seize the braces? Ha-ha!

Longshoremen, dental hygienists, dieticians, physical therapists, hairdressers.
Four dollars an hour. After I pay for the rent on my space and materials, I net about $1.50. A buck fifty, Mr. Yancey. You honestly think I’m gonna report all my tips? You’re damn right I do! Damn right!
Stale breath and rheumy eyes. Worn down, old at thirty. The oppression of debt. The yoke, the millstone, the cross.
That’s too much. There’s no way I can pay that, unless you don’t want me to eat. Unless you don’t want my kids to eat.

Make demand. Set a deadline. Schedule your follow-up. Fifty-eight taxpayers per week equals forty-some deadlines. Ten days to enforce once missed, and they are usually missed. Gynecologists, surgeons, used-car dealers, chain-link fence salesmen.
You put a lien on my house!
Actually, sir, the lien attaches to everything.
Everything? Even my underwear?
Well, technically, I suppose…
Why’d you do that?
Put a lien on your underwear?