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Thank you for allowing me to enter your "LEGACIES" writing contest. I would like to tell my great-grandchildren (God willing) one of my many experiences while working for the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) over 25 years.

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When I began working for the IRS in the 60's, one of my first assignments as a Collection Officer was to attempt to collect "Erroneous Refunds". Sometimes a taxpayer filed his personal tax return and asked for a refund of monies that he may have over-paid during the year. Occasionally, the IRS would send back to the taxpayer the wrong amount. It was my assignment to collect these erroneous amounts sent to taxpayers ONLY if the amount returned was MORE than the amount due. The IRS couldn't be bothered with underpayments. One day I received a "bill" on a single gentleman named Hector Fernandez I think, at least it was a Spanish surname. He lived at 814 1/2 Crescent Lane in SantaAna. What caught my eye was the "1/2"; in those days, anyone who lived at an address with "1/2" in its' number, usually was poor because it was behind a house with a "whole" number. Anyway, Mr. Fernandez asked for a refund of $200. and received a check from the IRS for $25,200 approximately 18 months before. It was my job to collect the erroneous $25,000. Mr. Fernandez could keep any interest he may have gained from the extra monies since it was our mistake; just return the over-payment of $25,000. That morning I went to 814 1/2 Crescent Lane and as I figured, it was a "run-down" shack behind a fairly decent home. I noticed the roof, made of brittle shingles,hanging loosely. The front door appeared to be a little off its hinges and may not be able to withstand my knock. I tapped hesitantly. After a few moments, the door opened slightly and without seeing the person inside, I asked; "Mr. Fernandez?" Noisily, the door opened outwardly. Hector Fernandez was a thin man, about 75 years old, needing a shave and in a wheelchair. Looking down at him I said, "I'm Stan Cohen from the
Internal Revenue Service. May I come in?" Nervously, I fumbled with my credentials and business card, placing both on his lap. "Yes, please do" he said, returning my identification, wheeling smartly around. "I've been expecting you." The door creaked closed behind me. I was in a one-room home with an oil cloth (ask your grandma about oil cloth) covered kitchen table with numerous pictures of an older woman and a younger family that took up most of the space on the table. In this one room, there was a small, dirty stove and sink and an old Army cot, apparently where Mr. Fernandez slept. I saw no toilet. Next to the cot, I saw a small suitcase, possibly packed. "Before you do what you have to do, I would like to tell you a little story. Would you join me in a cup of tea?" he asked in a very heavy and difficult to understand accent. "If you have coffee...instant would be fine," I answered. What a dumb thing to ask. He quickly prepared the drinks and began his story. I said nothing. "About a year and a half ago, I sent in my Income Tax Return asking for a refund of $200. My wife of 42 years died 12 years ago and left me some ATT stock. That's a picture of her." He pointed to the picture of the older woman on our table. "...ATT withholds some of my dividends for tax payments and that year they told me they sent you people too much. I asked for $200 back." I sipped my luke-warm, instant coffee that was much too strong. Mr. Fernandez continued. "...after a few months, I received this check in the mail from the IRS. I didn't look at the amount thinking it was my refund check for $200. I took it to my bank on the corner, filled out a deposit slip for $200 and went to the teller. When she looked at the check and the deposit slip she told me that the check was for $25,200 not just $200 as I wrote. Somebody had made a terrible mistake. I only thought I was getting $200 back and now I had all this money. I wheeled over to my friend, the bank manager." I couldn't take much more of my coffee. I put down the cup. "The bank manager told me he had heard about the IRS sending too much money back, and if I deposited all the money in my account, I could keep any money it made me and just pay back the original amount you sent me in your mistake. Was he right?" I broke my silence. "He was absolutely right. All we want,...", he interrupted. He had gotten new confidence. "I didn't think that I should take all that money. I took the check home and mailed it back to the return address on the envelope. About a month later the same check for $25,200 came back with no explanation. I called the phone number I saw listed in the newspaper and spoke to a woman. She said to put a note with the check with my name, address and Social Security Number in another envelope and mail it to her and she would take care of it. I did that and in another month a new check came in the mail for $25,200, the same amount." I fidgeted in my chair; the coffee made me need to go to the bathroom. "I called my daughter, that's her family there, who said I should deposit the money in the bank and wait until I received another letter. I did that; you are the first I've heard from the IRS since then." I broke my silence. "Fine," I said. "All you need do is write me a check for $25,000 and I'll be on my way." "But there's more to the story" he said. Oh, oh, here it comes; I said under my breath. I was quiet again.
"After I deposited the money in the bank, the monthly bank statements began coming in; first $25,950, then $26,425, then $26,005 and so on. Here was all this money just sitting there, not doing nothing. I thought much about that money. I called my daughter, who agreed with me." "I am 77 years old, in a wheelchair, not feeling well; I could not spend too much time in jail before I died. I decided to spend the money!!!" He said it as if he were very proud of himself. He went on. "All my life I wanted to see the world; see those places I've just read about. Travel the world, that's what I did with your money. I got a ticket, first class, to go
around the world on the Queen Elizabeth II for 65 days. We went to Hawaii, Tahiti, Fiji, Tokyo, Bangkok, Indonesia, Calcutta, Israel, Egypt, France, England, New York, Florida, through the Panama Canal and then back here to Los Angeles." He rattled off the names. He spoke much quicker and louder. "They all treated me like a King. I went first class, you remember. A steward was assigned just to me to take me and show me all the new places. I saw that lady's palace in India, the Pope on a balcony in Rome (he crossed himself), those guards at the Queen's home in London. It was like a fairy tale come true." He stopped; there was a far-away look in his eyes. He paused, his voice was lower again, the heavy accent returned. He wheeled over to the packed suitcase, put it on his lap, wheeled back to the table, and opened the suitcase. It was full with all the paraphernalia for a 'round-the-world' trip. Besides all those colorful pictures, there were a few clothes and some toilet articles in the suitcase. "Here are all the pamphlets, brochures and receipts for the money I spent." "Here is the last statement I received last week from the bank. It shows only $7,892.14 remain. I'm ready, Mr. Cohen. Take me to jail." Mr. Fernandez, head down, put his two wrists together in front of him and wept. It was difficult looking at him through glazed eyes. I thought for, what seemed like, a very long time. I still had to go to the toilet. After a few minutes I said, "Mr. Fernandez, give me back my business card." He fumbled with all the papers in front of him. "I don't understand", he said. "Give me back my card," I repeated. "If anyone should ask, you never saw me or heard from the IRS. Do you understand?" "Yes," he said, "But what are you going to do?" I rose, "Thank you for the coffee," I said and left his room. Those were the last words I ever spoke to or heard from Mr. Fernandez. After a trip to the bathroom, I returned to my office and wrote my report.

"Hector Fernandez, 814 1/2 Crescent Avenue, Santa Ana, CA 92701, SSN 567-22-1034,

UTL - Unable to Locate"