The Professionalism of Bullet Comments

Lin An had two plans regarding those homeless people, but before starting them, he had to do a few things to ensure the plans could proceed smoothly without being interrupted by external factors.

When Darnell's phone rang, he was at a cafe not far from the 103rd Precinct, working his jaws furiously as he attacked a tomahawk steak with both hands.

This was the promise Lin An had made to Darnell this morning, and now he was fulfilling it.

As for the money, Lin An still had a bit left from scavenging corpses over the past two days; although this meal tonight would certainly drain the balance, he didn't care in the slightest.

Money was only a temporary issue, because New York was Lin An's wallet.

The old BlackBerry phone sitting on the edge of the table buzzed, its screen lighting up to display a number labeled "Bootlicking Cop."

Lin An, sitting at the other end of the table, put down his hot coffee and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"May I ask... is this Mr. Darnell?"

The voice on the other end of the line sounded a bit hesitant.

"I am Lin An. Is this Mr. O'Brien?"

"Oh, yes, yes, you..."

"Per our agreement at noon, I am currently at a cafe not far from the 103rd Precinct... excuse me, sir, what is the name of this cafe?"

"No need, sir, I know where the place is."

O'Brien on the other end of the line said anxiously.

"I'm off duty now, I'll be there soon."

When he said soon, O'Brien was indeed in a hurry; ten minutes later, the wind chimes hanging on the door jingled a few times.

Carrying a briefcase, O'Brien scanned the cafe before spotting Lin An sitting at a table against the wall in the back. He walked over quickly, his hurried footsteps and police uniform causing the guy with dreadlocks behind the counter and two women by the window to look over.

"Dr. Lin An!"

O'Brien stepped forward quickly. He extended both hands, then seemed to realize the gesture was too formal, pulled one back, and finally shook Lin An's hand in a somewhat unnatural posture.

"It is truly great that you are willing to help me. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Lin An said, his gaze sweeping over the briefcase in his hand.

"Did you bring the things?"

"Of course, I brought them... uh, I brought everything. I was originally supposed to be on shift tonight, but luckily Patrick covered for me."

When O'Brien sat down across from Lin An, the chair gave a slight creak.

He looked even more exhausted than when Lin An saw him last night; his eye bags were deeper, and his cheekbones seemed more prominent.

The 2008 financial crisis had an indirect impact on the New York Police Department... overtime pay was slashed, pension accounts shrank by a third, and the number of homeless people on the streets had nearly doubled since last winter.

None of this would appear in official statistics, but it showed honestly on the face of a middle-aged policeman.

As a Black man, the fear of police was almost innate. Darnell, still struggling with his tomahawk steak, quickly and tactfully picked up his plate and moved to an empty table nearby to continue his feast.

O'Brien felt less awkward then. He placed his hands on the table, interlaced his fingers, then released them, then interlaced them again.

"Mr. O'Brien, would you like something to drink?"

Lin An asked.

"Coffee? Tea? The coffee here is decent, though not as good as in Manhattan..."

"Water is fine."

O'Brien said.

"I've been drinking coffee all day, my mouth tastes bitter, and I really don't want to drink it after getting off work."

Lin An laughed along, then got straight to the point.

"Where are the documents I asked you to bring over the phone?"

O'Brien immediately stood up, opened the briefcase he had brought, took out all the paper documents inside, and spread them out on the table.

Lin An turned his gaze to the pile of documents.

"Which one is the letter from the Internal Revenue Service?"

O'Brien immediately fished a yellow envelope out of the pile. The envelope had already been torn open, and the edges were frayed from repeated folding.

He pulled out the letter and handed it to Lin An, his fingers trembling slightly.

"This is it."

He said.

"Letter number CP2000. It says I underreported some income on a 1099-K in 2008, but I don't understand what that is.

I had no other income in 2008; my W-2 states it very clearly..."

Lin An took the letter and spread it out, allowing the barrage floating before him to see it clearly.

[It's here, the Internal Revenue Service CP2000. I'm familiar with this thing; I received one when I was studying in the United States, and it scared me so much I couldn't sleep well for three days.]

[The CP2000 isn't an audit letter; it's a "we think you underreported your income, explain yourself" letter.]

[To put it bluntly, it's a scare tactic from the tax bureau.]

[1099-K? Was there a 1099-K in 2008??? Didn't this form only come out in 2011???]

[You must have time-traveled, the one above. The 1099-K was introduced after the 2008 financial crisis. 2011 was when it was officially implemented on a large scale, but it already existed in 2008.]

[No, no, no. The 1099-K only started requiring third-party payment processors to report in 2011. There wouldn't have been a 1099-K in 2008. This letter should be a CP2000, but for other income.]

[That's not the point. Host, ask that police officer if he sold things on Amazon last year.]

After reading the barrage, Lin An had a rough idea of the situation.

"Did you sell anything on the Amazon platform in 2008?"

O'Brien was stunned for a moment.

"I... yes, I sold some old things. My father passed away that year, and he left behind some tools and a few old guitars. I didn't know what to do with them, so I sold them on Amazon."

"How much did you sell them for?"

"About... two or three thousand dollars?"

[Flip it over, let me see the second page.]

Lin An flipped the letter to the second page.

[That's it, right here. This number is the key, host... seven thousand four hundred and thirty-one dollars??? What did he sell? Did he sell his soul?]

Lin An waited a moment before asking O'Brien.

"The Internal Revenue Service record on this letter shows that you received seven thousand four hundred and thirty-one dollars through PayPal. Is that true?"

O'Brien was stunned. He held his head and pondered for a long time before giving a negative reply.

"Impossible."

O'Brien was absolutely certain.

"Absolutely impossible. I know exactly how much money I had last year. My father didn't leave many valuable things. I sold the Gibson guitar for about twenty-two hundred, plus some tools. It wouldn't add up to more than thirty-five hundred in total..."

"Have you carefully checked your PayPal records?"

"I..."

O'Brien stopped. His eyes widened as if he had realized the crux of the problem.

"I'm not very good at looking at those things. Doesn't PayPal report taxes for you?"

[No.]

[PayPal only cares about sending you the money; reporting taxes is your own business.]

[And PayPal will report a 1099-K to the Internal Revenue Service that says, "This guy received ten thousand dollars," but the Internal Revenue Service doesn't know how much of that ten thousand is your cost.]

[That's the most treacherous part of the 1099-K. It only reports the gross flow, not the profit. I suspect the person who came up with this did it on purpose.]

[Wait a second, the difference between seventy-four hundred and thirty-five hundred is nearly four thousand. That can't be explained by shipping and handling fees.]

[Maybe his dad's account was also being used.]

[He sold more than just guitars and tools; there's something else he hasn't remembered.]

Lin An placed the letter on the table and tapped his finger lightly on the number "seven thousand four hundred and thirty-one."

"Mr. O'Brien, did your father sell things online while he was alive?"

O'Brien's brows furrowed, as if he were recalling something from a long time ago.

"He... yes. He couldn't sit still after he retired. He was always tinkering with old things in the garage, and he'd put them online to sell once he fixed them up. He had a shop, what was it called..."

"Did he use your PayPal account, or his own?"

"His own. He had his own bank account and credit card."

"And was the social security number linked to his PayPal account his own?"

"It should be, I'm not sure, but it should be his own."

[Then the question arises: why would the Internal Revenue Service attribute this money to O'Brien?]

[Unless his dad's PayPal account was linked to his bank account or credit card.]

[Or his dad's account was closed, and the money was transferred to his account.]

[There's another possibility: after his father passed away, he used his father's account to sell things, but the account information wasn't changed. In the Internal Revenue Service system, this money is still under his father's SSN, but because he used the same bank account to withdraw the cash, the bank's records attributed this money to him.]

[Data mismatches between the Internal Revenue Service and banks are very common.]

[I'll bet fifty cents that the problem lies with the bank account.]

Lin An thought for a moment and approached it from a different angle.

"Mr. O'Brien, after your father passed away, whose eBay account did you use when you were dealing with his old things?"

"His."

"And the PayPal account?"

"That's his too."

"Then when you withdrew the funds, which bank account did the money go to?"

Michael O'Brien opened his mouth, then slowly closed it.

"It went to my account. After he got sick, I helped him link his PayPal to my bank account to make it easier for him to withdraw money. He couldn't really remember his password by then, so I..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

[Case solved.]

[It's just that his dad's PayPal account was linked to his bank account. The Internal Revenue Service data didn't match up, so they lumped both sets of transactions onto him.]

[To be precise, the Internal Revenue Service system runs like this: SSN A has $7,400 in 1099-K forms, but the bank account linked to this 1099-K belongs to SSN B, so the Internal Revenue Service algorithm just hung all that money on SSN B.]

[Who wrote this algorithm? Take them out and shoot them for five minutes.]

[Who knows? Either way, the 2008 PayPal data reporting was a pile of crap.]

[Everyone was swimming in a pile of crap in 2008. After the subprime mortgage crisis, the Internal Revenue Service itself was a total mess.]

[So what O'Brien needs to do now is mail his father's death certificate to the Internal Revenue Service, then split the transaction records into two parts... what his dad sold while alive and what was sold after he died.]

[Right, the part sold while alive counts as an estate, and the part sold after death counts as his income, but you have to deduct the cost.]

[How do you calculate the cost of a Gibson guitar? There are no receipts.]

[Use the fair market value. The market price of that guitar on the day his father passed away is the cost basis.]

[That can be looked up. The market prices for Gibson guitars are recorded for every year.]

Lin An put down the letter, folded his hands on the table, and looked at Michael O'Brien across from him. The middle-aged police officer was supporting his forehead with his palm, the skin visible between his fingers a sickly, grayish-white.

"Mr. O'Brien, I think I know where the problem lies."

Michael O'Brien looked up.

"Before your father passed away, his PayPal account was linked to your bank account. The 1099-K the Internal Revenue Service received recorded his total transaction volume for the year...

Including both before and after he passed. But because your bank account and your Social Security number are linked in the Internal Revenue Service system, the algorithm attributed the entire volume to you."

He paused, letting the officer digest this.

"But in reality, only a portion of this money is yours... specifically, the items you sold using his account after he passed away.

The rest were sold while your father was still alive; they belong to his estate and do not count as your income."

Michael O'Brien's lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

"Furthermore."

Lin An continued.

"For the portion you sold, you still need to deduct the costs. When you sold the guitars, the cost basis wasn't how much your father paid for them back then, but the market price of those guitars on the day he passed away. In other words..."

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand anything you're saying. Just tell me what I should do."

He lowered his head, looking at the pile of scattered documents on the table for a long time.

"I finished high school, and my grades were actually quite good, but I don't understand a single one of those English words you're using..."

[Here it is. There's a huge difference between everyday English and professional English. The saying 'a trade is like a mountain' is very literal here.]

[The officer isn't stupid; it's just that these terms aren't things he would ever encounter in his daily life.]

[How could a high school graduate police officer possibly understand something like 'cost basis'? That's an accounting term.]

[And American high schools don't teach this at all. It means you can finish twelve years of schooling and still not know how to file taxes. This isn't a question of being smart or stupid.]

[That is the problem. American law requires citizens to file taxes, but the law doesn't require schools to teach them how.]

[And then when you make a mistake, the government fines you and collects interest.]

[When Michael O'Brien said his 'grades were actually quite good,' it sounded so heartbreaking.]

"Okay."

Lin An said, pulling the documents on the table toward himself.

"Then let me put it another way. You don't need to understand those words. You just need to tell me if you're willing to spend an hour letting me help you sort this out."

Michael O'Brien looked up.

"An hour is enough?"

"It's enough."

"Then... what do I need to do?"

Lin An took the handwritten notes out of his bag, flipped to a blank side, and picked up a pen.

"First thing: your father's name and the exact date of his passing."

"Michael O'Brien, October 14, 2008."

Lin An wrote the name and date down on the paper.

"Second thing, do you have a computer and a printer at home?"

"I do, my son's old laptop. It can connect to the internet, but I'm not very good at using it."

"That's fine."

Lin An said.

"I'll come over tomorrow afternoon. You just need to open the door for me, and I'll handle the computer."

O'Brien was stunned for a moment.

"You're coming to my house?"

"If that's convenient for you."

"It is."

O'Brien said, his voice a little faster than before.

"It's convenient. I'll take a day off tomorrow and be home all day."

Lin An wrote an address down on the paper... the one O'Brien had just pushed over, 108th Street, only four blocks away from Darnell's apartment.

"Third thing."

He said, pushing the paper across.

"Can you find the things on this list tonight?"

O'Brien looked down at the paper. Lin An's handwriting was neat and tidy, with every line clearly written out:

Your father's death certificate

Your W-2 form (2008)

The model and year of the guitar you sold (Gibson guitar, which specific model?)

Your father's eBay username and password (if you still remember them)

"Do you remember what model the guitar was?"

Lin An asked.

"A 1959 reissue Gibson guitar. My father bought it in 1998; he spent eighteen hundred dollars on it."

[1959 reissue???]

[Bought for 1800 in 1998, market value in 2008 was at least 3000 to 4000]

[If he sold it for 2200 in 2008, he actually sold it at a loss]

[The loss can be used to offset other income]

[Wait, this information is crucial. If his father bought the guitar for 1800 in 1998 and the market value was 3500 when he passed away in 2008, then the cost basis is 3500. O'Brien sold it for 2200, so he lost 1300]

[With a loss of 1300, plus tools and other things, not only does he not have to pay taxes, he might even get a significant refund]

Lin An glanced at the chat and ran these numbers through his mind.

"Mr. O'Brien."

He said.

"How much did you sell that guitar for?"

"Twenty-two hundred. I remember it very clearly because the buyer came from California and kept haggling with me."

"How much did your father spend when he bought it?"

"Eighteen hundred dollars. He told me it was the most expensive toy he'd ever bought in his life, and my mother even had a fight with him over it at the time."

Lin An nodded.

"OK, then not only do you not owe the IRS money, you're very likely to get a tax refund."

O'Brien's eyes widened.

"A refund?"

"Yes, because you lost money when you sold the guitar. Your father's cost was eighteen hundred, but based on the market value on the day he passed away, that guitar was worth over thirty-five hundred.

You sold it for twenty-two hundred, losing over a thousand. This loss can be used to offset your other income."

O'Brien's mouth opened and then closed, his expression incredibly complex.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure."

O'Brien stared at Lin An for a long time, then he reached across the table and gripped Lin An's hand tightly.

"Thank you..."

He spoke, his voice as raspy as sandpaper.

"Thank you, Dr. Lin An."

The United States is a capital corporation disguised as a country; it exploits everyone equally. Even civil servants receive no special treatment, and police officers are just as liable to be hounded for debts by the Internal Revenue Service.

O'Brien let go, took a deep breath, and gathered the stack of documents on the table back together, stuffing them into his briefcase. His movements were much more composed than before, and his hands no longer trembled.

[The streamer just saved this cop's life.]

[How so?]

[If the streamer hadn't helped him, this cop definitely wouldn't have been able to solve the problem on his own. Since he doesn't know anything about it, he would've had to hire a professional tax attorney to handle the work. After all that hassle, it would've cost him at least two thousand bucks.]

[Couldn't he just find a cheap accountant?]

[No way. A regular accountant couldn't handle this. It's just that there's strength in numbers in this livestream; we've seen everything. It's like this cop got help from at least ten professionals. Otherwise, a regular person would be scratching their head trying to figure out what was going on.]

[If he ignored it and let the IRS fine him, how much would the cop lose?]

[I used to work in debt collection in the States. I did a rough calculation... based on the 2009 U.S. tax rate of 25%, he owed about 1,858, plus a 20% penalty, and about a year's worth of interest. Adding all the miscellaneous costs together, that's a hard expense of at least twenty-three hundred dollars.]

[Holy crap, how much is this cop's annual income anyway? Wouldn't this unavoidable blow just finish him off?]

[Most likely it would ruin his whole family. His entire household would be slaughtered.]

[Damn, damn, damn. America is truly ruthless. This was clearly the tax bureau's mistake, yet they dump the consequences of that error onto the head of an ordinary person, crushing them to death.]