Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

“You and I’ll have to talk about that.” Harry wants a pound of flesh from the politicians.

The accountant starts punching numbers. “OK, so we start with what we know. The government claims revenue of one point one billion dollars, of which eight hundred million comes from fines paid by the bank. The balance comes from about two thousand of the five thousand hiding funds offshore. Working backwards at ten percent, that gets you to the hundred and ten million dollars they originally offered him.

“However, as we know, the statute and the regs call for a sliding scale of between fifteen and thirty percent of the amount recovered by the government. Let’s start at the low end,” says Bruce. He’s working the keyboard. “Fifteen percent of one point one billion is one hundred and sixty-five million dollars. That’s your client’s payday, bottom line, minimum amount under the statute and the regs. That’s as low as it’s going to get for them.”

“You mean. .” says Harry.

“I mean unless there’s some extraordinary reason that none of us know about, either they pay that or they’ll be forced to pay by the tax court. They can delay, drag their feet, but ultimately you’ll collect.”

“That’s fifty-five million dollars more than they offered him,” says Harry. “That means. . that means five and a half million dollars.” Harry looks at him.

“Your fee, that’s correct,” says Bruce.

Harry is stunned.

“So that’s where they’ll start negotiating,” says Bruce.

“What do you mean start?” says Harry.

“That will be their opener, lowball offer,” says Bruce. “You on the other hand start at thirty percent. Make your best case. Without the assistance and the information from your client, what was the likely return and revenue to the government? Zero. You haggle. Where are you gonna end up? Somewhere in the middle,” he says. “Let’s just take a ballpark, split the difference, say around twenty-two and a half percent, give or take.” He punches some more numbers, moves the mouse, does it again, then says, “Let’s see, that’s two hundred and forty-seven million, five hundred thousand dollars. Not to put too fine a point on it.”

Harry, sitting across the table from me, has just turned white.

“Your fee,” says Bruce. He does a few more calculations. “If I figure correctly, should be somewhere in the neighborhood of thirteen million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Now that’s the stuff we know about, current claim,” he says. “That doesn’t include the other three thousand taxpayers they know about but are still working to tally up. If you extrapolate knowing what we know from the first two thousand,” he says. “Figure another four hundred million in revenue to the government, at twenty-two and a half percent that’s another ninety million for your client, nine million to you. So the total ballpark figure is, say. . let’s round it off, say three hundred and thirty-seven million dollars. That’s your client’s take. Your fee, thirty-three million, seven.” He looks up at us. “Now that’s the most you’re going to get. You can make it easy on yourself by getting in their faces and then backing off a little, take a little less. At some point they’ll cave and say ‘good.’ ”

“Did you just say thirty-three million, seven hundred thousand dollars?” says Harry.

“That’s what I said. And the good thing about all of this,” says Bruce, “is that the money to pay the back taxes and penalties is already in the bank. There’s no need for the IRS to discount any of it. So don’t let them tell you they did. Everybody’s getting a windfall here. You, them. This is money the government didn’t know existed. Everybody but the taxpayer.”

We sit there for a moment and catch our breath. “Bruce, I want to thank you for coming by.”

“You guys don’t look happy,” he says.

“We’re OK, I think it comes as a bit of a shock. I’ll have to talk to Betz, make sure he understands what he’s giving up. Check the statutes, make sure were not running afoul of anything. Assuming it’s OK, it’s gonna take a while to get used to the concept.”

“What concept is that?” says Bruce.

“Having money.” When it happens this suddenly it’s hard to get your head around it. Like winning the lottery.

He starts to collect his stuff, puts the computer in his bag, and gathers his papers.

“I’ll call you in a few days, as soon as we pull together a draft of the agreement. There’s a lot to think about.”

Bruce gets up, shakes my hand.

“Good to see you again.” Bruce looks at Harry, who is just sitting at the table, stunned.

“Yeah. Good to see you.” It’s the first time I have ever seen him speechless. He blinks a couple of times before finally collecting himself enough to turn and look at Bruce, who is almost out the door.

“Are you sure about this?” says Harry. “To me, I don’t know, but it sounds like a Ponzi scheme.”

“It depends how hard you want to push them,” says Bruce. “I wouldn’t get too hard-core unless you want to fend off audits for the rest of your life. On the other hand, you will have the money to pay me if that happens.” He smiles at us. “All I can say is, that’s the ballpark you’re playing in.”

“Somebody gimme some Cracker Jacks,” says Harry. Not even the slightest grin on his face. My partner, the ultimate contrarian, pessimist even among the doomsayers, may have just won the lottery. He has yet to see a dime, but the thought alone shatters everything he knows about the world and human nature.

Bruce laughs, heads out the door, and closes it behind him.

“Cheer up,” I tell Harry. “That’s the bad news. The good news is we probably won’t live long enough to see any of it.”

I’m hammering away on the computer in my office, working on the draft agreement for Betz, when Sally, our receptionist, raps on my door and opens it.

“What is it?”

“Package for you,” she says. “Courier service just delivered it.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see the FedEx letter pack.

“I would have given it to Mr. Hinds, but he’s gone.”

“Harry had to take care of something up near Mission Bay.” In point of fact, he is picking up Alex and Herman. He will deliver Ives to the Marine Station at Miramar and introduce him to Betz, then take Herman home, where he can get some sleep.

“What’s in the package?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to open it?”

“Please, if you don’t mind.” I’m in the middle of a thought on the agreement. I don’t want to lose the threads.

She pulls the perforated tab on the letter pack and opens it. “Looks like some kind of a list. ‘Defense Contractors Gala.’ There’s a note. ‘Dear Mr. Madriani. Sorry to be so tardy on this, but I called your office and left a message and no one called back.’ ”

“Who’s it from?”

“Let me see. A Mr. Rufus A. Becket.”

I stop typing, turn in my chair, and say, “Let me see it.”

She hands me the letter pack and the sheaf of papers with it. I drop the envelope on the desk. The note is neatly typed on stiff heavy stock stationery embossed at the top with the letters “RAB.” Behind the single page note is the guest list from the party at Becket’s house, the list I had asked for nearly a month ago when I first visited Becket at his house.

I read the note. He apologizes for being so late. The fact is, I never expected him to give me the list. But as I read the note I discover the reason why he did. His assistant, whose name is George, returned from vacation earlier in the week. George, it seems, remembers the events the night Alex passed out at the party.