How Very Cooperative
I went down to my desk and picked up the envelope.
It was thin — a page or two of paperwork at most. A single business card was tucked inside.
I turned the card over. On the back, written in fountain pen:
"Before you say a single word to us, we wish to state our intent to submit the requested materials. Name a time convenient to you, and we will arrange our schedule around it."
...Of all things, they jabbed first.
I texted Margo Chen straight away.
I typed my answer.
The next reply was written and erased again and again before it finally arrived.
I slipped the card into my inside pocket and looked out the window. The face reflected in the glass was smiling.
Six years on — and, of all things, by their own hand — the prime contractor had opened the door for us.
At seven in the morning, I parked in the nursing home lot. It wasn't regular visiting hours, but the night-shift caregiver recognized my face and let me in through the back door. He told me that in the two years he'd worked there, I was the only person who ever came at this hour.
Mother was sitting in the chair by the window.
"Mom."
She turned her head. But her eyes slid across me and drifted back to the window.
"...Oh, it's you, Sung-oh. What brings you here?"
"What do you mean, what brings me? I came because I missed you."
It always took two or three beats for a gaze that had already passed over me to find its way back. I'd spent the last few years learning to endure those two or three beats — but learning the trick didn't make it hurt any less. Lately her dementia had been getting worse. On good days she was good, but today, apparently, was not one of them.
Smiling, I sat down beside her. Her expression stayed vacant; even with her son right there, she was adrift in thoughts of her own.
"Mom, I'm meeting someone kind of a big deal today."
"A big deal?"
"Yes. Someone who handles very big money at a very big company."
Mother stared at me, her focus a little blurred.
"Sung-oh."
"Yeah."
"You are eating properly, aren't you?"
"...Yes, I had a full breakfast before I came. Get some more rest now. I'll come again next time — when the sun's up."
I left the home early that day. Because my chest ached — and if I stayed like this, I wasn't sure I could carry out the revenge I owed my father, the one scheduled for today.
Castle Rock Construction Group's headquarters stood at the head of K Street — a fifteen-story tower of glass. The lobby floor was polished so mirror-smooth my soles nearly skated out from under me.
Framed photographs of the company's buildings lined the walls: a convention center, freight warehouses, hotels, hospitals... Beneath each frame, the completion year and total project cost were set in small gold lettering. Among them hung the Northeast logistics warehouse.
I stopped in front of it for a few seconds.
The place where my father had his accident... Looks like it got finished just fine.
Whoever took the photograph had framed the sky beautifully too. But nowhere in it was there any trace of the sixty-year-old worker who fell from the fourth-floor staircase. Obvious, I supposed — still, it left a bitter taste.
"Leo."
Team Leader Margo Chen stepped up beside me, contacts in place of her usual glasses today.
"What are you brooding about so hard? So even you get nervous?"
"Ah, don't mind me. I prepared thoroughly."
Behind us, Sarah shuffled along clutching her laptop bag to her chest.
"Team Leader, why did you even bring me? My business cards haven't come in yet. And someone this huge..."
"Less whining, more note-taking. Even a rookie investigator deserves room to grow. Don't miss a single word said in that room today."
The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. The moment the conference room doors opened, I drew a short breath — because what filled my view was a long table, and stacked across it, document boxes upon document boxes.
One, two, three... I gave up counting. Along the walls alone, the boxes numbered a good forty. Sorted by year, by site, by account — immaculate, the stacks level as if they'd been aligned with a ruler.
"...How cooperative."
"Sorry?"
"It means they're announcing they'll hand over everything we asked for — whatever it happens to be."
Behind me, Sarah let out a small groan, evidently missing the point.
At the head of the table, a man rose to his feet. Late forties, a gray three-piece. The gesture of extending his hand was effortless, and not a trace of strain sat on his smiling face — as though rooms like this were second nature to him.
"I'm Derek Bahn. I serve as Castle Rock's Chief Financial Officer."
"Leo Kim, IRS Collections."
We shook hands.
"Thank you for making the trip — you as well, Team Leader Chen. There are five of us today: myself, two of our counsel, and two accountants from Grant & Cole."
Five to three. Though one of our three was four months into the job. This would be a very entertaining fight.
"First, let me be clear — we attach no conditions whatsoever to today's document submission."
Derek Bahn gestured toward the boxes.
"Last fiscal year's complete general ledger, originals of all subcontract service agreements, labor settlement records for every site, payment vouchers. We prepared more than you requested. Roughly one hundred forty thousand pages, all told."
"One hundred forty thousand..." Sarah's voice cracked.
"If you'd like, we can put them on a truck for you today."
Sarah's and Margo's faces scrunched at the same instant. I knew exactly why.
This wasn't cooperation. It was drowning us.
Three investigators leafing through one hundred forty thousand pages would take months at the bare minimum. In the meantime, Castle Rock would wear the name tag of the "diligently cooperative taxpayer" while we became "the agency that took the materials and found nothing." And in a few months, no doubt, a few phone calls would come down from upstairs: enough — close it out.
Had every investigation before this one been smothered the same way?
A textbook play from a bad actor. No wonder my temples throbbed.
"Mr. Bahn."
"Yes, please go ahead."
"Thank you. I'm grateful for such thorough cooperation."
Derek Bahn smiled, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"We're the aggrieved party here, you understand."
"Aggrieved?"
"We've heard about Keller Staffing."
He slid a single sheet of paper to the center of the table.
"We only learned yesterday that Mr. Randall Keller had been embezzling. Frankly, the sense of betrayal runs deep. We paid that company the compensation it was owed. If, somewhere along the way, tax money never reached the treasury, then it was Mr. Keller who skimmed it off in the middle."
"We are victims here too, Investigator."
Polished. So polished it sounded like lines rehearsed in advance. For someone who had sent men to Keller's house to destroy the evidence, the gall was remarkable.
"Besides, strictly speaking, the prime contractor has no legal duty to supervise its subcontractor's tax compliance. That's the IRS's job, if anyone's."
"You're quite right."
At my answer, the attorney faltered for a beat.
"...You're conceding the point?"
"Well — it isn't wrong." I nodded. "Which is why I'd like to ask about something else."
From my bag I drew a thin folder — ten pages, held by two binder clips. Set against the forty boxes before me, the picture must have looked comical, because one of the accountants let out a snort.
I ignored him and opened the first page.
"Third quarter of last year, at the Northeast logistics warehouse. Castle Rock paid Keller Staffing one point nine million dollars. Is that correct?"
"That would be so."
"And that payment was calculated from a per-worker labor rate multiplied by headcount."
"That's standard practice."
"Then how many workers entered that site?"
Derek Bahn's finger tapped the table once.
"Uh... whatever the settlement states, presumably."
"It states twenty-seven."
"Then twenty-seven it is."
I turned the page.
"This is the safety-training completion roster for that same site. It's public material — your company won a regional safety commendation last year, and this list ran in the award booklet."
I slid the paper onto the table.
"Sixty-two workers completed the OSHA ten-hour course."
For half a beat, the air in the conference room stopped.
"Sixty-two men trained and entered that site — but the payment covered twenty-seven. Which raises the question: where did the other thirty-five go?"
"...Couldn't they have been personnel from other firms? As for that, we..."
"Then perhaps you could name those firms. Castle Rock ran overall management of the site — surely you'd know that much."
For the first time, Derek Bahn looked at me straight on. The smile stayed exactly where it was. Only the eyes had stopped smiling.
Holding that gaze, I thought: right — so this is where we stop wearing faces for each other.
And then — tap.
A red dot rose above the award booklet on the table.
...There it is.
The red dot stretched, lengthening into an arrow. The arrow skimmed over the booklet, slid leftward along the table, and stopped dead at a single box.
The label there read:
So that's where it was hiding.
My temple gave a throb. I lifted the teacup before me and took a slow sip.
"Mr. Bahn."
"Yes."
"Would you mind if we opened just one box right now? The papers in the third row."
Derek Bahn's gaze went there.
"...Which one, exactly."
"The box marked Workers' Comp Settlement."
"Investigator, we intended for you to review the documents in the order we present—"
"You said yourselves. No conditions."
Silence.
The counsel glanced at Derek Bahn. Derek Bahn went on looking at me.
"...Bring it over."
At his word, an accountant dragged the box across. I pulled the documents straight out.
Premiums are normally paid by applying a rate to total wages — which means more workers means a higher premium, and fewer means lower. That's the whole design.
I ran my eyes over the contents.
And it didn't take long to see it.
...Okay. There it is.
This ability of mine never lets me down. Just as I'd suspected — spread before my eyes was a figure that could never have existed if the numbers had been run on twenty-seven workers.
"Mr. Bahn."
"..."
"You paid out twenty-seven workers' worth — but your workers' comp premiums were filed on sixty-two."
Sarah's pen, which had been transcribing my every word, froze mid-stroke. Margo Chen's eyes went wide as saucers.
"I take it you assumed insurance was where a slip would ruin you? Fair enough — that side can cost you up to a life sentence. But taxes, you figured, were the soft target."
"...Investigator." At that, the counsel cut in.
"That is speculation."
"Then how about this?" I turned to him.
"If those thirty-five were workers with no connection to Castle Rock, as you claim, then Castle Rock should never have issued them the relevant reporting forms. So tell me — how many did you issue last year?"
The lawyer's mouth fell half open, then closed.
"...We would have to verify that."
"I've already verified it. You issued them for all sixty-two workers."
I closed the folder.
"Section 530 of the IRS's internal regulations contains something called a safe harbor. Even where workers have been misclassified, if a company had a reasonable basis, treated them consistently, and never once missed its annual information filings, the clause shields it from the taxes. It's the first shield any company with an accounting firm attached reaches for the moment 'misclassification' enters the room."
The Grant & Cole partner's face had gone rigid.
"Judging by the arrangement, that shield is exactly what you came here to raise. Except — I'm afraid it's no longer available to you."
"..."
"You failed the third requirement — scrupulous compliance in every other respect. The safe harbor opens only if every single condition is met. That isn't a rule I wrote; your own industry could recite it in its sleep."
One of the accountants leaned toward Derek Bahn and whispered something. Face contorting, Derek silenced him with a flick of the hand.
Under the table, Margo Chen nudged my elbow — the faintest touch. I learned later that it meant "you're doing great."
Rising from my seat, I spoke quietly.
"We'll accept today's materials with thanks. Those boxes, however, we won't be taking."
"Pardon?"
"Just give me the master list — enough to see the whole picture at a glance. When I need something, I'll point to it and request it."
The counsel looked up from the papers he was gathering.
"...Point to it and request it?"
"Yes. I haven't the time to read all one hundred forty thousand pages. And repacking all of this back where it came from — I imagine that will be quite the chore for you."
And with that, I left one last line behind.
"As for the misclassified workers we confirmed today, you'll have three days to come forward and self-report. If you don't, from that moment this stops being a conversation and goes straight to the zero-tolerance procedure."
When I turned to go, Sarah and Margo Chen rose to follow. Judging by her expression, Margo was utterly dumbfounded — which was fair. Her subordinate hadn't left her a single second to take point; no wonder she couldn't make sense of it.
Out in the corridor, Sarah sagged against the wall.
"Senior, my heart... No, wait — how did you zero in on that one thing out of all those boxes? From the label alone?"
"Kid, you need to hit the books. That was exactly the information the moment called for, wasn't it? And, well — I do count fast."
"There you go again! Dodging again!"
Margo Chen pressed the elevator button.
"Leo."
"Yes."
"You took him apart completely by the book. Derek's face was quite the spectacle."
"Having you in the room put my mind at ease."
"And your lies are by the book too, I see."
Just then, my phone rang in my pocket.
The name on the screen stopped me in my tracks.
...
Sam Oliver. The Commissioner of the IRS.
Over my shoulder, Sarah caught my fluster and stared at my phone — then let out a strangled croak and hurriedly cleared her throat.