The Taxman Cometh by Jim Greenfield (the lemonade war series .txt) 📕

Chapter 9

Through the Looking Glass

“He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our people and eat out their substance.”—Declaration of Independence

“‘Curiouser and curiouser!’ cried Alice.”—Lewis Carroll

Samson went to bed that night with a headache. He slept poorly and had restless dreams. He slept in the next morning and thought he’d go into work late. When he got out of bed, late in the morning, still half asleep, he looked in the mirror and saw his black eye, which had gotten blacker overnight. The vivid memory of the day before came rushing back. Even more disturbing than getting robbed and beaten up by IRS agents, was the sudden shock of discovering that Delilah was one of them. His conversation with Delilah over dinner on their first date now made sense on an entirely different level. Of course she likes rich men; it’s her job to take their money. But he couldn't afford to dwell on the depressing truth that he had lost his gorgeous new girlfriend, who was actually his worst enemy, sent in to destroy him. He was in survival mode now and had to focus on fighting the IRS and protecting his assets. Samson considered himself a savvy guy, and he thought he understood pretty well how the world worked. He knew life wasn’t fair, so as a general rule, he avoided whining about unfairness. But he was shocked by the crude brutality of what had happened to him.

He recalled the odd comment from Phil S. Stein that he was living in a dream world that would soon be over, and the warning that he wasn’t done with him. He made the connection—Phil S. Stein, Delilah, Elliott Mess—and figured it was no coincidence. This wasn’t his father’s America anymore, the America of the 1950s, of Joe Dimagio,, and Gary Cooper, and Marilyn Monroe, and Elvis, and Dinah Shore, and “See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet.” What had happened to him seemed more like the kind of nightmare you would expect in Soviet gulags, or North Korea, or Cuba. But the United States of America? Have we gone that far down the path to tyranny? He wondered how high and how deep this went. Was this just a couple of out-of-control rogue agents who had simply stolen his money? Or was this part of a bigger plan to terrorize ordinary citizens and take us down the final leg of the road to serfdom?

Samson considered his options. He could file a complaint with the local police that he’d been beaten and robbed. But how would it play out? He could tell the police, “I paid off a couple of IRS agents with $200,000 cash that I kept in the basement in a bag, but they got greedy and wanted more so they beat me up.” “Uh-huh,” he could hear the detective responding. “So you want me to arrest two IRS Special Agents for taking money you owed in taxes?” This obviously wouldn’t get him anywhere. Besides, he didn’t really want to bring assault charges just because he’d gotten the worst of it; it was against his ethic as a street fighter. He figured a time would come when he could even the score with Elliott Mess with respect to the black eye. And in the meantime, his focus would be on either getting his money back or getting something for his money, i.e a release for all back taxes owed, as had been agreed before Mess stole the receipt.

He decided to contact the IRS directly. But as it turned out, the IRS contacted him first; he found a letter in his mailbox. After reading the disturbing notice, he called the IRS regional office and scheduled an appointment for the next day.

The next day, Samson, who still had a black eye, entered the reception area of the regional office of the IRS, unpleasantly lighted with energy saving fluorescent bulbs. While waiting for his appointment he noticed on the wall an oversized and rather menacing portrait of Darth Vader, dressed all in black of course, except for a purple cape. What the hell is that about? he wondered. Must be a joke. He was surprised that the IRS apparently had a sense of humor.

His musings about the Darth Vader picture were interrupted by the receptionist calling him in for his appointment with the supervisor As he entered the supervisor’s office, he was surprised by how dimly lit it was. The supervisor sat at his desk with his back to a large window. The contrast of the light at his back, with the lack of light in the room, made it difficult to see his face All Samson could make out was the silhouette of a man in a trench coat and 1930s-style fedora, seated behind his desk in a large swivel chair. Samson wondered what was wrong with these people, that they all dressed like that. He had the fleeting thought that maybe the IRS had become some kind of cult.

He sat down in front of the desk, as the Supervisor took his file from a file cabinet. The supervisor had a lamp on his desk, turned onto Samson, in the style of the old police interrogations. Samson was not intimidated. He turned the lamp around and shined it instead in the supervisor’s face. The supervisor was dressed like Elliott Mess but he was older. Samson handed him the notice he’d received in the mail.

“I received this notice,” Samson said, putting the paper on the desk. “It says I owe two point four million dollars in back taxes and have to pay two hundred thousand dollars of it immediately.”

The supervisor turned the lamp back to shine in Samson’s face. “How soon can you pay it?” he asked.

“I already did pay it. I gave the agent $200,000 as payment in full.” As the Supervisor looked down at the file, Samson turned the lamp around to shine once again in the Supervisor’s face.

“We have no record of receiving it. Do you have a canceled check?” The Supervisor put the file down, and turned the lamp back toward Samson again, this time holding onto it so Samson couldn’t take control of it again.

Samson shielded his eyes from the light, in an exaggerated manner, mocking the crude interrogation tactic. “I paid in cash,” he said.

“Do you have a receipt?”

“Yeah, this black eye.”

“Huh?”

“No, I don’t have a receipt.”

“So what do you want?”

Samson noticed that the supervisor had inadvertently loosed his grip on the lamp. So he leaped up and quickly grabbed it. Stretching the chord to its full length, he held it in his lap turned toward the Supervisor.

“Well, you could give me my money back.”

The supervisor leaned down and unplugged the lamp from the wall. The light went out.

“We don’t give money back,” he said. Samson placed the darkened lamp on the floor, as the supervisor opened a drawer and picked up a humongous copy of the Internal Revenue Code, thumbing through the pages to find the one he was looking for. “When a taxpayer lacks a receipt or other documentation of payment of taxes,” the supervisor continued, “it’s covered by section 3602 of the Internal Revenue Code.” He perused the page with his finger.

“What does it say?” Samson asked.

“It says you’re shit outta luck.”

“What? Let me see that!” The supervisor slid the code across the desk to Samson. Samson turned it around, read it, then slammed it shut, and shoved it back across the desk. “It doesn’t say that!”

“It’s subject to interpretation in the light of catch twenty-three.”

“You mean catch twenty-two?”

“No, I mean catch twenty-three.”

“Catch twenty-three?”

The supervisor stood up, and walked over to the window, looking out, turning his back on Samson. “Catch twenty-three says all government regulations mean whatever we say they mean.”

“Can you show me where it says that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not permitted.”

“Not permitted by what?”

“By catch twenty-three.”

“Okay, so, in other words, catch twenty-three says it’s not permitted for anybody to see catch twenty-three.”

“Right.”

“So have you seen catch twenty-three?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well so then, if no one is permitted to see it, how come you were permitted to see it?”

“I’m a government official. Government officials are permitted to see it. Ordinary citizens are not permitted to see catch twenty-three.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight. Catch twenty-three says that all government regulations mean whatever you say they mean. And catch twenty-three is a government regulation that is subject to catch twenty-three. Therefore if you say that catch twenty-three means that ordinary citizens aren’t permitted to see catch twenty-three, then that’s what it means because that’s what you say it means.”

“Exactly.”

“So where does this catch twenty-three come from?”

“What do you mean where does it come from?”

“I mean—where does it come from?”

“I don’t understand that question. That’s a meaningless question.”

“Okay, how about this. Is it constitutional?”

“Is what constitutional?”

“Catch twenty-three. Is catch twenty-three constitutional?”

“Are you serious? Is that a serious question?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. It’s a serious question.”

“Look, the Constitution is an historical document.”

“Historical document? That’s all you think it is?”

“You think it’s any more than that anymore?”

“Some of us still believe in it.”

“Yeah, some of you still do. You can believe whatever you want.”

“Okay, so you don’t believe in the Constitution. You think you have the power to make up rules as you go along and that the law means whatever you say it means. You have a picture of Darth Vader in your office. Who the hell are you people?”

“I know you fancy yourself a rugged individualist, Mr. Samson, but you’re a dying breed.”

“I ain’t dead yet.”

“No, not yet.”

“Look, you didn’t answer my question,” Samson persisted. “Where does this catch twenty-three come from?”

“It doesn’t come from anywhere.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means it doesn’t come from anywhere.”

“That’s repetitious. You’re repeating yourself.”

“Your question is absurd. It’s an absurd question. It’s a non-sequitur.”

“How do you figure?”

“It’s one of those questions that cannot be answered, that has no answer. Questions like ‘Who is John Galt?’ or ‘Where does God come from?’”

“Look,” Samson responded, “I’m not in the habit of discussing metaphysics with government bureaucrats, okay. You’re laughing. But you’re the one who’s being absurd, speaking in riddles. I’m asking you a simple question. This catch twenty-three, is it a statute passed by Congress or what?”

“No, it’s not a statute passed by Congress. What is this—twenty questions?”

“If I Google it, what will it say?”

“Nothing, it will say nothing.”

“How can it be the law, if there’s no information about it, it hasn’t been passed by Congress, and it’s not authorized by the Constitution?”

The supervisor laughed again. “Catch twenty-three existed before the Constitution, and it still exists after the Constitution. It has always been, and it always will be. And that’s just the way it is. And I’ve told you too much already. I’m not going to say anything else. So unless there’s something else, I need to—”

“Yeah, there is something else. Call that agent in here.”

“What agent?”

“Elliott Mess.”

The supervisor called in Elliott Mess, who came in, and looked down at Samson. “How’s your black eye?” he smirked, and sat down.

“How are your balls?” Samson retorted. “Are they black too?”

“Mr. Samson,” the supervisor interjected. “That’s a violation of Section 9884 of the Internal Revenue Code.”

“What is?”

“Making a disparaging comment about an agent’s genitals.”

“Does that apply to special agents or just regular agents?”

“It applies to all agents.”

“Uh-huh. And, uh, is this provision of the code also subject to interpretation in the light of catch twenty-three?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I didn’t actually make a disparaging comment about Agent Mess’s genitals,” Samson said.

“That’s Special Agent Mess,” Special Agent Mess inserted.

“Right,” Samson continued, “I didn’t make a disparaging comment about Special Agent Mess’s genitals. I was only inquiring about the condition of his balls out of concern after the unfortunate injury he suffered during our conversation the other day.