An Inspector Calls by Bill Kay

"Good morning, I'm from the Internal Revenue Service. My I speak with you for a moment?"
I had answered the late-morning door bell thinking it was the usual peddler of a road to heaven, either religious or pharmaceutical. Instead I was confronted by a little bald man in a striped formal shirt, no tie, holding over his head a garish red-and-white golf umbrella. That was the easiest bit to understand: it was raining, after all.
After those opening words he showed his badge, which I didn't ask to inspect but looked genuine, so I invited him in and sat him on the sofa. I sat opposite and prepared to savour one of the more bizarre encounters I have experienced since moving to the US nearly two and a half years ago.
He began by handing me a piece of paper setting out my rights as a taxpayer. I didn't read it there, because I had decided I was going to let this meeting proceed as painlessly as possible. The paper says nothing about surprise visits, but it does say I can have someone accompany me at an interview, at which I can make a sound recording provided I give the IRS 10 days' notice - maybe so they can dust down their tape recorder too. If I believe I have not been treated in a professional, fair and courteous manner, the paper advises me to tell the employee's supervisor - not exactly designed to get the most easy-going deal.
But the fellow was polite enough and, after these preliminaries, he told me he was calling about Pasadena Media, the little business my partner Lynne and I have set up to give us access to a group health insurance scheme. I thought it best not to pass on that detail.
No, the problem was that we had not been making quarterly payroll returns. I explained that Lynne and I were the firm's only employees as well as its only shareholders, and our accountant had advised us not to bother filing returns because we pay our tax at the year-end instead. The inspector seemed content with this explanation but said he would like to talk to our accountant, which may or may not be significant.
He said: "I usually deal with people who owe $500,000 or $1 million, but this is a very simple case." And off he went, taking his umbrella with him.
It seems a very odd way of chasing what appears to be little more than a minor discrepancy in the paperwork. We hadn't ignored any letters or phone calls, even though he left a letter saying "you should already be aware of this from our previous contacts with you."
My suspicion that, as we are relatively new taxpayers, and our company as a taxpaying entity is even newer, the IRS just wanted an excuse to eyeball us and make sure we weren't employing a factory full of illegal immigrants and failing to declare tax on their income. Instead, they found a decent-sized but decidedly non-industrial cottage containing two rather bemused Legal Permanent Residents.


* For anyone who didn't spot it, my heading is the title of an excellent mystery play by the British author, J.B. Priestley.