Saul Goodman - Get Off the Grid! - Saul Goodman's Guide to Staying Off the Radar

The well-placed cover story that sets up an exit is worth considering, especially if you are simply bugging out of a situation that’s become toxic over time, but that does not present an escalating form of danger. It buys you some time to sweep away the footprints marking the trail you’re actually venturing out on.

Take Teddi, whose name has been changed to protect the innocent…

Teddi is thirty-five and married to Rex. Rex is what we like to call in the business—any business—an asshole. Rex works in medicine and has access to all the miraculous wonder-drugs the medical field has to offer. Teddi works hard. She has a higher-paying job than Rex, puts in a solid forty as a health-care administrator. Rex works nights so she’s often alone and that suits her, because Rex is paranoid, his moods change on a dime, he’s volatile. While they bonded over the wild world of pharmaceuticals originally, that very subject is now driving them apart.

One day, Teddi sees that a massive hospital is being built in Astana, the bustling capital of that hopping former Soviet satellite, Kazakhstan. She learns, to her delight, that the Kazakhs are keen to have American medical know-how.

Teddi surprises herself by coming up with a plan. She starts asking colleagues about Doctors Without Borders, and about medical field opportunities in other countries. She starts studying up on different languages, sees what sticks. She keeps up on current events and dives deep into world history. She memorizes maps and starts obsessively checking flight schedules of major airports near and far. She would crush Geography Jeopardy! if that were a thing.

One night when Rex is off work and seems more reasonably lucid than usual, she lays it out for him: her facility is losing money and she’ll have to search for new employment soon.

She goes on to explain that there might be foreign opportunities for someone with her skill set—opportunities that pay very well.

At this point, Teddi’s plan is indistinguishable from any other caring and responsible spouse’s effort to salvage home and hearth. We should all be so lucky as to find a Teddi someday, right? And from the moment Rex grumbles his agreement with the plan, she’s outwardly planning just as one would.

She studies Russian. She prepares to get her job and get out. She actually does so.

The foreign contract pays well, and Teddi starts socking away a nice chunk of each check. It’s reserved for taxes, she says.

Eventually, Teddi discovers her work visa is up and maybe her job is, too—but that money is still socked away. Her passport is still good. She’s befriended a Russian guy who is in tight with Putin’s regime, which means this dude has the hookup.

So Teddi turns tourist. She doesn’t ever bother booking that trip home. And then one day, she disappears.

This all takes some time, of course. Nothing is overnight. But Russia is a huge country and there is some dark and troubling stuff afoot there at any given time. It’s also the kind of place where a rich guy can pull a few strings. Soon, Teddi has a new Russian name and a birth certificate certifying she was born in St. Petersburg.

Meanwhile, Rex is tipping some Adderall into an Altoids tin when his newest girlfriend comes up behind him and says, “Freeze—DEA.”

He’s never sure where the tip about his shenanigans came from, but he has a good idea. Not that there will be much to do about it from prison, with the tipster three thousand miles and an ocean away, living as a Russian citizen with a peculiarly American-sounding accent.

So maybe a few rules were broken with Teddi’s tale, but she did some of the important things we’ve talked about: she developed a plan that fed her need for funds, came up with a very plausible reason to get the hell away, and lulled her abuser into thinking she was taking care of him in the bargain. Then once she was overseas and had a chance to start building her own life, she did so. Teddi did manage to cross the ocean and hold a job under her own name when she got there. She was also in a part of the world where changing times might make her goal of becoming a different person much easier than if she’d landed in a nation built with more bureaucratic bullshit.

If trying to take on a new identity in another country isn’t your cup of tea, let’s bring it back home and talk about Ron. This is the story of a guy much more like you or me.

Ron is the numero uno car salesman across the whole chain of dealerships in the Rust Belt. Everyone thinks he could easily manage his own flagship lot, be the big guy who sits at the fancy cocobolo desk at the back of the showroom, in full control of all the transactions around him. But that’s not Ron. Our guy loves the seduction of gently soft-shoeing you into the loving embrace of a beautiful new Lincoln Town Car!

Ron’s even been featured on flashy commercials for the dealership; the public loves him for his bright smile and colorful suits.

Ron has a problem, though. Even though he makes some pretty sweet money moving Cadillacs, Lincolns, and the like, he could always use more. So Ron does side work moving other automobiles that aren’t exactly shipped direct from the factory. With these side transactions, he makes a good deal more and it’s cold, hard cash that goes right into a bank account listed under his LLC (Limited Liability Company, a fairly easily established legal entity that can be used to open accounts and do business itself), which has been established under a name that wouldn’t quickly be linked to him.

Ron’s built up one hell of a nest egg!

One day Ron feels like a transaction with a new customer is a little, well, off. He can’t really put his finger on why, but his antenna goes up. Maybe it was the guy’s nice shoes, or maybe it was the way the dude called him “sir.” Whatever it was, Ron begins to suspect that his unorthodox side business and tax-free kitty may have drawn attention from the wrong people. Whether it’s the local cops, the feds or another outfit that fences stolen cars, he doesn’t really know.

Ron just knows that he can feel little beads of sweat rolling down his talcum-powdered thighs.

A few years ago, Ron’s younger brother Todd passed away. Don’t worry, Ron’s not some murderer; it was from natural causes. Ron was made executor of his estate. The whole memorial and cremation ceremony was very low-key and tasteful.

Ron had Todd taken to a funeral home run by a former love of Ron’s, Annie. He knew Annie would handle his brother’s remains in an honorable way. He also had a very special request. Knowing it’s usually the responsibility of the funeral director to report deaths to the Social Security Administration, Ron asked Annie if she could misplace the paperwork on that for a few months, maybe even a few years.

Annie, as responsible as she was kind, balked a bit at this. “It’s like this,” said Ron, “Our poor old mom relied on Todd’s disability payments”—from an injury, not cognitive or emotional disability—“and it sure would be nice if she could keep getting those for a while. Just until I’ve managed to save a little more to help her myself.”

Annie couldn’t resist good old smilin’ Ron’s charm and guess what? Todd’s death was never reported to the social security folks.

That left Ron with some interesting advantages. First of all, his mother truly was helped by her younger son’s government money, before she passed away herself. Secondly, Ron had access to the birth certificate, social security number, and various other information for someone who was not only just eighteen months younger, but also had the same last name as him.

At the time, Ron put Todd’s IDs in a lockbox, as he did with most important documents (not to mention the generous profits from his side business). He had a feeling it all might be useful later. He also—very wisely—maintained a companionable relationship with Annie. Just to make sure everything was smooth.