Model Taxpayer
Texas, Austin. IRS Southern District Office.
It was an eight-story building with a gray concrete exterior and checkerboard windows set into its face.
An old American flag flapped over the entrance, and weeds had run wild in the flower beds out front.
Probably because the budget for hiring a groundskeeper had been cut again.
Swish—
The moment I pushed through the revolving door, a marketplace roar slammed into my eardrums.
Phones rang without pause, and somewhere nearby a ticket machine kept chattering out slips of paper.
The rustle of documents and the low murmur of dozens of voices blended into a mess of noise.
A television hanging from the ceiling was broadcasting a news anchor’s voice.
After Macy's filed for bankruptcy protection, the unemployment rate announced this morning has now topped 7.8 percent. That is the highest level since 1984...
The people packed into the lobby weren’t listening to the news. They were staring fixedly at the numbered slips in their hands.
A man with frayed suit elbows, an old woman in work clothes stained with grease, a woman wearing heels with the backs worn down through to the sole... The air was thick with the smell of stale paper and sweat.
A shout burst from the counter.
“No, I’m telling you, the store’s gone under and we had to close! We’ve got no income, so what the hell tax are you telling me to pay?”
A middle-aged man in work clothes screamed himself hoarse, veins standing out in his neck.
The clerk answered in a machine-like voice.
“Sir, please calm down. Under the regulations, an extension for collection on delinquent taxes is...”
“Regulations? My employees are about to get thrown out because I can’t even make payroll. What good are regulations going to do me? I’m begging you—just don’t slap on the seizure notice, please, I’m begging you!”
In the end, the man burst into tears and slammed his fist against the glass at the counter.
The IRS employee on the other side of the window looked every bit as burdened, with embarrassment and exhaustion pasted across her face.
This was America in 1992, stripped bare.
The heat of victory in the Gulf War had long since cooled.
With the fallout from the savings and loan crisis, small and midsize businesses were collapsing in waves and the unemployed were spilling into the streets.
The man crying at the counter, the people waiting dazed for their turn—they were all caught in the same current, unable to escape it.
“...”
I watched the scene for a moment, then straightened my clothes.
On the way across that crowd of despair toward the information desk, the footsteps of my lawyer, Victor, and my accountant, Søren, followed close behind me.
After I handed over my ID and the summons to the desk clerk, she checked the documents, picked up the receiver, and called someone.
The instant she set the phone down, a security guard with a baton at his hip came over.
“This way. The Special Investigation Team is on the fifth floor.”
Victor, Søren, and I followed behind him through the security gate.
Buzz—
As the elevator doors closed, the roar of the lobby cut off all at once.
When we reached the fifth floor, a completely different world unfolded before us.
The carpet was a deep navy with not a speck of dust on it, and the corridor lay under a suffocating silence.
Steel doors lined both sides, shut tight, each one carrying a nameplate that gave off its own heavy pressure.
Anti-Money Laundering Team
Foreign Asset Tracking Team
Corporate Audit Team 3
.
.
Special Investigation Team.
This was not where people came to beg for tax relief.
It was the department that handled corporations suspected of tax evasion and major delinquent taxpayers.
I glanced at Søren and Victor in turn, then gave a slight nod.
The guard stopped at the end of the corridor, before the most imposing door by far.
Special Investigation Team 1 Lead Office - Alfie Solomons
Special Investigation Team 1 was a division even multinational corporations in the United States feared.
That was because it gathered the IRS’s top performers, the real aces.
The guard knocked once and opened the door.
“Come in.”
A low, thick voice drifted through the gap in the door.
I stepped inside at once.
The room was saturated with the smell of paper and stale coffee.
Beyond mountains of documents stacked like fortifications, a man rose to his feet.
That man was the team leader, Alfie Solomons.
He had to be well over six feet tall, with a body so gaunt it looked as if the flesh had been torn clean off him by vultures, leaving only the bones behind.
His face had sharp cheekbones and hollow-set eyes.
Dark circles had settled beneath them in a bruised blue, and fatigue clung to the deep grooves in his face.
And yet those eyes themselves shone fiercely under the fluorescent lights.
Alfie Solomons worked his way around the pile of files and extended a hand.
“Welcome, Mr. Lee. And your attorney and accountant as well. I requested this in writing, but I never expected you to come in person.”
He bowed his head with immaculate courtesy.
There was none of the domineering posture or intimidation tactic glare that tax auditors usually wore like a second skin.
“Please, sit. Would you like coffee? It was just brewed.”
He even pulled out our chairs himself and guided us to the table.
On one side sat a coffee pot still steaming and three clean mugs, waiting in advance.
This had been prepared for us.
I drew out my chair and sat down, fixing my eyes on Alfie across the table.
Victor and Søren took their seats on either side.
Alfie Solomons poured the coffee himself and set the mugs in front of us before taking his own seat.
His fingers drummed absently on the folder resting on the desk.
A label on it read Lee Energy.
I took a sip of coffee and spoke first.
“Team Leader, let’s skip the wasted time and get straight to the point. The explanation materials we need to submit...”
“Ah! No need to be so stiff, Mr. Lee.”
Alfie Solomons waved a hand with a warm, almost genial smile.
“In times like these, a man like you is a rare guest for us—no, a VIP.”
He tapped a newspaper clipping sitting on one corner of the desk.
The headline read: Texas corporate bankruptcies up 40% from last year.
“As you can see, the world outside is hell. The companies we’re supposed to collect taxes from are folding left and right, and people asking for unemployment benefits are lined up all the way outside the building. The treasury’s running dry, but there’s no way to fill it.”
He wiped his face and let out a sigh.
“We know. In a recession like this, you shouldn’t squeeze a company that’s paying major taxes voluntarily. That’s like slitting the belly of a goose laying golden eggs.”
“Then why send us this request?”
“Procedure. And...”
Alfie propped his chin on interlaced fingers.
The smile had vanished from his face, leaving it dry and unreadable.
“Reasonable suspicion from above.”
Lee Energy. A newborn legal entity that had been established less than a month ago had used cash to acquire four bankrupt drilling companies.
Cleanly. Without assuming their debt.
“Is that illegal?”
“No.”
He held up a finger.
“The problem is that the source of the funds is far too opaque. You reported it as income from antique sales, but twelve million dollars in such a short time? That’s a scale that’s hard to make sense of in the real world.”
He stopped for a moment and looked me straight in the eye.
“If drugs or illicit money laundering are involved, then we’ll have to gut the goose to find out what’s inside. That’s my job.”
Behind that affable exterior lurked a knife sharp enough to draw blood.
I couldn’t afford to be fooled by Alfie’s gentle manner.
I glanced at Søren beside me.
As if he had been waiting for that cue, Søren lifted the massive leather bag at his feet and set it down on the desk.
Thud.
As the heavy bag hit the table, the coffee cups rattled.
Søren unzipped it and pulled out five binder volumes as thick as encyclopedias, sliding them toward Alfie Solomons.
“Here. This is the ‘convincing’ you wanted, Team Leader.”
“...Oh. That is a great deal for us to review.”
“The initial capital of twelve million dollars for Lee Energy came entirely from stock investments and legal revenue from Sanha's Antique Shop.”
Søren opened the first binder.
“Volume One. It contains the complete documentation related to the sale of a 1965 Shelby Cobra 427 S/C. It includes the handwritten certificate of assurance from Rick Harrison, a certified appraiser with the Gold & Silver Pawn Shop in Las Vegas, the auction records from Barrett-Jackson, and the deposit records from First National Bank. Naturally, every related tax was paid in full.”
“...”
Alfie opened the binder.
Inside, page after page of receipts and certificates had been neatly clipped in.
A photo of the engine block with the chassis number clearly visible, the auction house’s confirmation of sale, the bank deposit statement—it all continued in a tidy chain.
“Hammer price: $5,000,000. After fees and taxes, the net proceeds of $4,625,000 were deposited on October 15, 1991. Not a single cent is off.”
Søren moved his hand to the second binder.
“Volumes Two and Three include the land registry copies for the 400-acre abandoned warehouse site in Wishville, the lien removal applications, and the documents stamped with the Commonwealth of Massachusetts’s approval for title transfer.”
“...”
“The flow of funds is perfectly clear. First warehouse acquisition, discovery and sale of the Shelby Cobra, then using the proceeds to buy the remaining 400 acres of warehouse property, followed by large-scale antique excavation and sales.”
The five binders stacked on the desk were overwhelming in sheer volume.
From property registrations for each warehouse to lists of thousands of antiques, even the delivery logs for the transport trucks.
There was even a condition report attached for a single old record album found in a warehouse corner.
“Every dollar generated through this process was properly handled as corporate income tax. As you can see, not a single cent of drug money or any other black cash is mixed in.”
Victor joined in as well, offering him a sheet of paper.
“There are no legal defects whatsoever. I personally handled the lien enforcement and title transfer registration in Wishville. We also secured all the approval seals from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
The document he held out bore the seal of Massachusetts and the notary’s signature, both stamped in crisp, unmistakable ink.
Alfie Solomons skimmed through the mountain of papers at speed.
His fingers grew faster and faster as they turned the pages.
The crease between his brows slowly smoothed out.
“...”
Alfie finally looked away from the documents and back at me.
“These files are almost suspiciously perfect. As if you already knew what we were going to ask.”
“Of course I knew in advance. When money is made, taxes must be paid—that’s the law. We have no intention whatsoever of evading taxes.”
At my answer, Alfie nodded.
“I’ll need to review the details, but... with material like this, I ought to give you a certificate for a model taxpayer. Of course, only after the review is complete.”
Alfie leaned back deeply in his chair.
What he called “the review” was probably a tax audit of Sanha’s Antique Shop.
I studied his expression.
He looked calm, but in truth his mind had to be full of calculations.
Antiques were notoriously difficult when it came to tracing and proving cash flow.
If someone wanted to pursue a targeted investigation with enough persistence and malice, it could be done—but that would take too much manpower.
In other words, Alfie suspected me, but he was weighing whether I was worth pouring enormous resources into stripping bare.
In a case like this, if I simply stayed quiet, a deferral or postponement would probably come through on its own... but I decided to take the safer road.
That road was called “a deal.”
I pulled several document envelopes from beneath my chair and set them on the table.
“The truth is, I came to see you today for more than just the audit. I had a proposal I wanted to put before you.”
“A proposal?”
Alfie narrowed his eyes, as if he had heard something unexpected.
I went on.
“As you can see, I pay my taxes very well and very transparently. But from the IRS’s perspective, there must still be something that seems a little off. A second-generation Asian son from an immigrant family starting a company and making a large sum in a short period of time—that alone naturally draws a lot of attention. I understand that.”
“Now hold on. I know racism is bad. I’m not that kind of man.”
“I’m not saying you are. I’m talking about the atmosphere in society as a whole. In any case, I want to cooperate faithfully with every request from the IRS, but as someone running a company, the truth is that’s not easy. We’re short on time and short on staff. One audit, and every pipeline grinds to a halt.”
“That’s true enough. But an audit is something even honest people can’t always dodge, so we’re sorry as well. Lee Energy is so clean on the books that I do wonder whether we even need to audit it at all... but procedure is procedure.”
“Which is why I’m asking whether you might be able to rearrange the order of that procedure a little.”
“The order of the procedure?”
Alfie tilted his head.
I answered.
“If you do come out for an audit, I’ll of course cooperate fully. But I’d like it delayed just a little. If we get audited while the company is still in the middle of expanding and growing, it’s hard not to feel the atmosphere tighten up. I’d like to organize the company internally first, if I may put it that way, and then face the audit. Of course, if we find any accounting problems before then, we’ll file a voluntary disclosure.”
“Hmm. So you need time. But our team has a schedule too. The order of the cases is decided internally, so I’m afraid I can’t grant that request. And from the standpoint of a third party, even a company’s voluntary disclosure is hard to trust, to be honest.”
“Of course. It would be difficult if there were no event, no justification, nothing that could alter that schedule.”
“Meaning...?”
Interest flickered in Alfie Solomons’s eyes.
I pointed at the document envelopes laid out before him.
“These are gifts from me to the IRS. If you open them, I think the manpower and time involved will push our audit to the back of the line by quite a distance. That wouldn’t be a favor to any one company—just a natural consequence, of course.”
“Hmm. I’m curious what kind of gift it is. Don’t be shocked when you hear this, but I didn’t cry once all last year, and surprisingly, Santa didn’t bring me a single present at Christmas.”
“I hope this comforts you.”
“Haha—same here, I hope.”
Alfie opened the envelopes I had offered and read through the papers inside at a measured pace.
And then.
“...!?”
His narrow eyes, slit as they had been until now, widened into perfect circles.
Crash!
The chair behind him scraped violently backward and toppled over.
Alfie Solomons sprang to his feet, unable to contain his shock, and stared at me in disbelief.
“Mr. Lee, is, is, is this really true?”