Free Death and Taxes by Susan Dunlap Page A

here, set for rational drivers.”
    Ignoring that jibe, he said, “So what the IRS does is pick at random a small number of unfortunates and audits them. Not the normal audit, nothing that easy. No, these poor suckers, who haven’t done a thing except have the wrong social security number, have to hunt up proof for every item on every line of their returns, down to birth certificates and marriage licenses.”
    “Why?”
    “So the agency can figure what the average legitimate deduction is for each item. So when you file, Jill, and you claim thirty-five hundred dollars for lost coats, the computer will see that’s twenty-four hundred dollars in excess.”
    “And bump me to Audit?”
    The light at Ashby and Martin Luther King was green. Two lanes of cars crossed toward us. A pickup signaled for a left turn. Facing it, Lamott cut left in front of a cement mixer with inches to spare and a blare of horn from the mixer.
    “How large a carpet do you see this car as?” I asked. With another driver, I would have been out of the car back at Haste, but there was something fun about cocky little Rick Lamott. I had the feeling he was used to pushing the limits but not crashing through them. It was a kick riding in the new red sports car with the top down and the windows up and the breeze catching the top of my hair. Just like high school. All options open, no doors closed, and thousands of miles of highway calling.
    He braked at Adeline. “You don’t go straight to Audit for one offense. The system’s cumulative. Computer gives you black marks for each excess. You get enough, it kicks you out.”
    “And then I get audited?”
    “Nope. Then classifiers for Ogden, Utah, send the batch of you to district offices. The group chief there divides the files between agents.” He hit the gas, but now the traffic was too heavy for anything more than normal tailgating. “Then the agents go over the records, and they choose the cases they think will generate revenue. They’re in the business to make money.” Lamott glared at the line of cars, then cut left in front of an AC Transit bus onto Hillegass—my street.
    Pereira had said the district IRS powers met in Fresno to set local figures. “And the figures are adjusted to reflect different spending in different areas, right?”
    “Right. If they had one national figure, they’d end up pulling files, spending hours on them, and then making a No Change. They hate that; wastes their time. They don’t care about yours.”
    We passed Howard’s house. As I’d expected, the azalea was once again centered in its hole. Howard was nowhere in sight, but the curtain nearest the newly planted azalea was pulled back.
    To Lamott I said, “So what are these area figures?”
    Lamott laughed. “Jill, they don’t make them public. That’s why there are guys like me, who can outwit them.” He pulled sharply around the corner and screeched to a stop. A cement barricade blocked the street. Traffic diverters—Berkeley’s big on them. City fathers see them as traffic erasers rather than driver annoyers.
    I expected Lamott to be one of the seriously annoyed, but he was already backing back into Hillegass before it occurred to me he hadn’t paid enough attention to be bothered. “See, Jill, it’s a game for them. It’s a game for me. Their weapon is the audit. Scares the pants off the average TP. But not me. Let them audit. I’ll go to their audits, eat up their time. I’ll take them to court. You know the system, you like the game, you can beat the bastards. And, Jill, I love it.” He hit the gas and raced forward.
    In your face barely did justice to this guy. The IRS must have hated him. “What about Philip Drem?”
    “God, I’m sorry the bastard bought it!”
    I almost gasped. “That’s one of the most heartfelt—”
    “Don’t think I liked the asshole. He was a first-class prick. The tightest, most niggling, goddamn line-by-line …” He shook his head. “It just won’t be the