Confessions of a Tax Collector (9 page)

Dee, with an undergraduate degree in psychology, diagnosed Sam as bipolar.“ She didn’t have enough training or experience, she said, to know it his disorder had anything to do with the accident.

Sam’s co-instructor was Larry Simon, Larry Simon was something called an Offer-in-Compromise Specialist. During Phase One, I was never entirely clear on exactly what Offer-In-Compromise Specialists did, except that they seemed to spend a lot of time inside people’s houses, pawing through their drawers.
Larry
liked to tell the story of finding a $50,000 check rolled up in a pair of socks, thus thwarting the taxpayer’s plan to put one over on the Service. On the first day of class, after Bryon Samuels’s speech, Larry played a homemade video for us starring Mister Bill from
Saturday Night Live.
Mister Bill was a taxpayer (the revenue officer was a voice-over part, played with strained ferocity by Larry Simon). The scenario was a seizure of Mister Bill’s car: “Oohhhh noooo, Mister Taxman, please don’t take my car. Ahhhhhhh!” Larry liked white short-sleeve shirts and wore colorful clip-on neckties. He punctuated his lectures by bouncing on the balls of his feet. “When we file a Notice of Federal Tax Lien
[bounce],
we have perfected
[bounce]
our lien interest
[bounce, bounce].
We have made our lien
choate [bounce, bounce, bounce].”
Behind his back, we called him Tigger. He was a fixture at the bars we haunted each night after class. His taste ran to the over-thirty set, which severely limited his chances, given the average age of our class was twenty-four. He liked Rachel, called her his “honey-pie,” but Rachel did not return his affections. “What a freak,” she said, watching him on the dance floor, still in his short-sleeve shirt and clip-on necktie, gyrating his widening hips across from Crystal, :he former Tampa Bay Bucs cheerleader.

“He’s creepy,” Dee agreed. She was sitting next to me, drinking a pina colada, slowly.

“Rick,” Rachel leaned over and whispered, “why don’t you dance with Dee?”

“Because I can’t dance,” I said.

“I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t like to dance. I never know what to do next.”

“Rachel,” Dee said, “Rick is engaged.”

“Rick is engaged in word only.”

“I won’t dance with my fiancee either.”

“Why not? Larry would.”

“
Larry
would dance with a corpse,” Dee said.

“Why won’t Pam come over and stay for a couple nights?” Rachel asked.

“She has a full-time job, Rachel.”

I had asked her to. Her reply: “Why would I want to party with those weirdos?”

Larry returned to our table, trailing Crystal. Crystal was a native of Tennessee and was fond of miniskirts and low-cut blouses that accentuated her perfect tan. Crystal frightened me. Tall, with angular, masculine features, her body was gym-hardened and constantly on display. In the coming year, she would be counseled repeatedly for showing up at work wearing what most people would consider more appropriate for a streetwalker.

“Whew!”
hurry
said. “This girl will wear you
out
.”

He winked at Rachel. “What about it, Rachel? You want a turn? The night is young.”

“But you’re not, Larry,” Rachel said. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack.”

“Bullshit! I feel great! I feel just great!” He drummed on the tabletop.
Tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap.
“I’m the kinda guy who can go all night.” With another wink at Rachel.

“Larry,” Dee said, “you’re the kind of guy who talks in bad song lyrics.”

I laughed. Dee turned to me, smiling. Our eyes met. She arched one thin eyebrow. I grabbed my drink and finished it in a single swallow. I was not attracted to her. She struck me as boyish, with her short haircut and freckly nose. Rachel whispered something to Dee, who did not respond.

“What’s the matter with Rick?” Larry asked. “All these lovely ladies and he hasn’t danced once.”

“Rick can’t dance,” Rachel said. “But Dee’s going to teach him how.”

“Oh, that isn’t dancing,” Larry said, jerking his head toward the dance floor. “That’s air-fucking.”

“You
are
desperate,” Rachel said.

* * *

Much of our time in class was devoted to the mechanics of filling out the dozens of forms the IRS relied on to keep millions of taxpayer accounts in order. Sam would remind us, though, that only three documents closed a case that we could not collect in full: Form 433-D, used to set up installment agreements; Form 3870, used to abate taxes and penalties; and Form 53, used to report taxes as currently not collectible. “But don’t get caught up in all these damn forms,” he admonished us. “It isn’t how you fill out forms. A Grade Three clerk can fill out a form. We’re paying you for your judgment, not how well you can fill out a form.”

Our training followed a student guide constructed by a team of upper-level analysts in Washington. Each lesson—or
module
—was illustrated by a case scenario, followed by a series of questions, such as “How would you close this case?”

“Which asset should have been addressed before closing the case as CNC?
[5]
”

“Should the NFTL be filed in this case? How does filing, or nonfiling, the lien affect the outcome?” Modules had titles such as “Initial Contact.”

“Lien Priorities,” and “Enforcement Tools.” Sam described the ideal taxpayer contact: introduce yourself, give Publication One, make demand, secure all the necessary financial information, set a deadline, enforce when the deadline was missed. It sounded simple. I stopped taking notes. Repeatedly Sam, Larry, and the material referred us to the Internal Revenue Manual, a thousand-page-plus document, the Bible of the IRS, derived from Title 26, the Internal Revenue Code.

“It’s all in the manual,” I whispered to Caroline one morning during our second week.

“What is?” She was eating a doughnut. The glaze shone on her sharp chin.

“How we do things.”

“What things?”

I gave up.

“Be careful how you explain CNC to a TP,” Sam said. “Make sure the taxpayer understands we aren’t writing off or forgiving the debt. The debt mains. The interest continues to run until the statute blows.” He was referring to the statute of limitations on collecting back taxes. Under the law, the IRS has ten years to collect on its assessments.

Sam enjoyed relieving the tedium by telling war stories from his years the trenches. Once a taxpayer had jabbed his finger in Sam’s face and snarled at him, “Next time you show up at my door, Mason, you better bring a fucking army with you.” So the next time he called, Sam brought some buddies from the National Guard, dressed in full uniform. “Hi!” he said. “I’m back, and I brought the fucking army with me.” He was full of helpful tips, too: “When no one answers the door I drop my card for them to call in at eight o’clock the next morning. When they don’t call, at eight-fifteen I’ve got the levy in the mail.”

By law, the IRS cannot levy assets without first giving the taxpayer a “final notice,” either delivered by hand or sent to the last known address by certified mail. It was common practice, though not mandated by any regulation or the Manual, for a revenue officer to issue final notice before even meeting with the taxpayer. “Because,” Sam explained, “we are paid to close cases. If you wait thirty days to make contact, then issue a thirty-day notice, you’ve wasted two whole months. Issue the final notice on initial receipt and you’ve shaved thirty days off the life of the case.” This reflected the Service’s obsession with “overage,” those cases that had been in the field more than twelve months. Revenue officers were under constant pressure to close cases and close them quickly. Those who quickly “rolled over” their inventories were promoted over those who anguished over each closure, as if their decision meant life or death for the taxpayer.

“But it does sometimes, doesn’t it?” Rachel asked.

“Doesn’t it what?” Sam asked.

“Life or death. I mean, is it about closing a case or doing the right thing for the taxpayer?”

“Doing the right thing for the taxpayer? Rachel, we don’t work for the taxpayer. One of the critical elements of your job is ‘protecting the government’s interest.’ You are a federal agent, not a public advocate.”

“But what if the government’s interest is wrong?”

“Our interest is never wrong or right. It just
is.
A defense attorney doesn’t question the guilt or innocence of his client—that’s irrelevant. The Service is paying you to be its zealous advocate.”

During a break, Rachel announced, “Sam can say what he wants. I can’t be a zealous advocate if it means hurting people.”

“They made their own bed, Rachel,” Allison said. “And it’s not fair. I pay my taxes.”

“I see my job as trying to help them get straight with Uncle Sam.” “Service,” Dee said. “It’s still in our name.”

Sam also supplied supplemental material to enrich our basic training experience. One little booklet was entitled
Assaults & Threats: A Guide for Your Personal Safety.
The title was printed in bright red ink. At the bottom of the cover was the disclaimer, common on many internal forms: CAUTION: THIS DOCUMENT IS FOR CONFIDENTIAL USE OF INTERNAL REVENUE SERVICE EMPLOYEES ONLY. As if we had been given Top Secret Clearance and to leak the information might be a breach of national security. The book contained helpful tidbits such as, “Upon entering the residence or business, be alert to your surroundings. Look for exits, windows, and potential weapons. In a rural setting, it may be perfectly normal to have a rifle, shotgun, or other weapon in the house. A weapon elsewhere should be a warning to you.” And, “Consider ending the interview if the taxpayer remains hostile.” And, “Remove objects such as ashtrays, staplers, and other taxpayer files from the room when interviewing a taxpayer in an IRS office. Sit near the exit so you can escape if trouble occurs.” The book proposed nine simple rules for not getting yourself killed:

TREAT ALL TAXPAYERS FAIRLY AND COURTEOUSLY

DO NOT PERSONALIZE COLLECTION EFFORTS

LISTEN CAREFULLY

DO NOT THREATEN, SCOLD, OR PATRONIZE

RECOGNIZE YOUR OWN ATTITUDES AND ELIMINATE THOSE THAT ARE COUNTERPRODUCTIVE

TREAT TAXPAYERS AS YOU WOULD WANT TO BE TREATED

KNOW WHERE THE EXITS ARE

AVOID GETTING TRAPPED

USE FORCE ONLY SUFFICIENT TO DISENGAGE

“These are, of course,” Sam concluded, “also the rules for marriage.”

Investigative Techniques. Potentially Dangerous Taxpayers. Effective Inventory Management. Disclosure. Superpriorities. Discharge & Subordination of the Federal Tax Lien. Seizure & Sale.
There were times in class when I was totally lost, repeating to myself, “It’s all in the manual. It’s all in the manual.” I spent some evenings in my hotel room, pouring over the lesson, working through the problems.
Establishing Equity. Securing the Financial Statement. Interview Techniques.
A test loomed at the end of the three weeks. It was never explicitly stated, but somehow understood that if you did not pass the test, you would not be returning to your post-of-duty. Sam: “During the first year you are considered a conditional employee. The Service can fire you whenever they like for whatever reason they like.” I was determined to pass the test. I had always prided myself on my academic skills; it was just in real life that I was averaging a C-.
Suit to Set Aside a Fraudulent Conveyance. Suit to Foreclose the Notice of Federal Tax Lien. Suit to Enforce a Notice of Levy. Nominee, Transferee & Alter Ego Doctrine.
That’s exactly what I needed to implement: an alter ego doctrine. Success would not ride on whether I could pretend to be someone I’m not; I must find the part of me that already
was
a revenue officer.

Foreclosure & Right of Redemption.
That was it. A right of redemption. That’s all I wanted. An opportunity to learn the dance.

March was unusually warm that year. One afternoon, the temperature hit eighty degrees. Over lunch, plans were laid to hit the hotel pool immediately after class.

“I didn’t bring my suit,” Allison said.

“You can wear one of mine,” Dee offered.

“Excuse me, but I don’t think it would fit,” Allison said.

“I didn’t bring a suit either,” I said. The thought of swimming with people who were practically strangers to me was abhorrent.

“I can’t swim,” Rachel said.

“Oh, Rachel, you can swim,” said Allison.

“No, I really can’t. I’m so fat I sink right to the bottom.”

Dee said, “Rachel just skinny-dips.”

“
Shhh
,” Rachel said. “Only Larry’s supposed to know.”

“I bet Larry has something you could wear, Rick,” Allison said.

“He probably has two or three extra pairs of Speedos lying around,” Dee said.

“Larry’s swimming trunks are clip-on, like his ties,” Rachel said. That broke everyone up. I felt a hand on my knee, a quick squeeze, and the hand was gone.

Dee.

I watched a movie in my room and ate Chinese takeout. I called home during a commercial and got the answering machine. I was dozing off, cartons piled around me on the bed, when the phone rang.

“Rick? Hi, this is Dee.”

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”

“No.”

“Oh, good. Hey listen, everybody’s meeting in my room for pizza, you wanna come?”

“Thanks, but I just ate.”

“Rachel’s bringing daiquiri mix and Caroline is bringing Twister.”

“I’m sorry, she’s bringing what?”

“Twister. You know, the game, Twister.”

“Why would Caroline bring Twister to training?”

“Come on, it’ll be fun. You know how important it is for us to bond.”

I tried calling Pam again. My own voice on the answering machine enraged me. I hung up the phone without leaving a message. I smoked a cigarette and walked about the room in the nude. I would never smoke inside Pam’s house—or walk around nude in it. I wondered why the Service spent so much money to bring everyone to Tampa for three weeks, paying our room and board and our transportation, when it would have been much easier—and cheaper—to train us in our individual PODs. When I lived in Chicago, the Moonies occupied a building at the end of my block, a kind of combination commune and recruiting center. One friendly Moonie stopped me regularly to gently ask if I wanted to watch a movie with them that night or share a hot meal. They wanted to draw me inside, cut me off from my friends and family, so
they
could become my friends and family. Already in class, we fell into the strange language of the Service, without realizing it.
Do we file the NFTL on every account we CNC? If the TP isn’t coded PDT, do we use a 4844 to input the TC?
Why did the Service use code words, when the real words would do just as well? Why did we say “MFT” when we meant “return”? Why did we say “NFTL” when we meant “tax lien”? Everything was encoded, encrypted, “for official, confidential use only.” Why was that? January 13, 1991, was not my starting date or my first day on the job; it was my
EOD,
my “Entrance-on-Date.” What the hell did “Entrance-on-Date” mean? We were learning a second language, the odd nomenclature of Byzantium, where even taxes we collected weren’t called “taxes” but “modules.” Where no one else could understand us and where anyone from the outside would be, by custom, language, and tradition, a foreigner.