The IRS's "Coffee"

As evening fell, in the parking lot of a large transshipment warehouse of NLG Logistics on the outskirts of Seattle, the air still carried the lingering smells of diesel exhaust and burnt rubber tires rubbing against the ground.

The massive warehouse building cast heavy shadows under the darkening sky. A few late-night trucks were working in the loading area, their engines humming softly. Most of the day shift employees had already left, walking in twos and threes toward the slightly worn cars or pickup trucks in the parking lot.

Zhao Zhiyong was one of them. He was wearing NLG's uniform navy blue work jacket, a faded gray T-shirt underneath, dark work pants, and work boots with a few oil stains on his feet.

He looked to be around fifty years old, with a stocky build and rough, dark skin from years of working outdoors. His hair was shaved very short, revealing gray stubble. His face was ordinary, even somewhat dull, the kind of person who would disappear into a crowd in an instant.

He was carrying an eco-friendly bag with the supermarket logo on it, which probably contained a lunchbox and a water bottle. With his head down, he walked steadily toward a Nissan Altima parked in the corner, a car that was at least ten years old.

Just as he took out his Key to unlock the car door, two figures appeared silently on his left and right sides. Their movements were not swift, even carrying a certain bureaucratic rigidity, but they blocked all his paths.

"Mr. Zhao Zhiyong?" The one who spoke was the man on the left, a white man in his forties wearing a dark jacket and khaki pants, with a serious face and sharp eyes. He showed a black leather wallet containing a badge and identification. "IRS, Criminal Investigation. I'm Agent Karl Miller. This is my colleague, Agent Sarah Mendoza."

Sarah Mendoza on the right also showed her identification, nodded to Zhao Zhiyong, her face expressionless, but her gaze was like a scanner, quickly looking him up and down.

Zhao Zhiyong stopped, his hand holding the Key hovering in mid-air. A fleeting look of typical tension and confusion—the kind of look one gets when suddenly stopped by a government official—flew across his face. He glanced at Miller, then at Mendoza, his throat bobbing, and asked in broken English with a noticeable accent:

"Tax... tax bureau? I... what's wrong with me? I file my taxes on time every year..." His voice was a little dry, his eyes were evasive, and his body was slightly tense, perfectly matching the reaction of a low-level immigrant worker who had been suddenly approached by "authority".

"Relax, Mr. Zhao, it's just a routine inquiry to help us understand some things." Miller's tone was relatively calm, but carried an undeniable businesslike quality. "It's not convenient to talk here. Could you please come back to our office with us? We can have a coffee and chat briefly. It won't take up too much of your time."

This wasn't a discussion; it was a notification. Although the wording was "please," the imposing presence of the two agents and the aura unique to federal law enforcement clearly conveyed the message that "cooperation is mandatory."

Zhao Zhiyong's face showed struggle and unease. He looked at his beat-up car, then at the two detectives, and finally, as if resigned, his shoulders slumped, and he said in a low voice, "Okay... alright. Do I need to... tell my family?"

"Not for now, it'll be quick," Sarah Mendoza said, her voice colder than Miller's. "Please get in, Mr. Zhao."

Instead of a flashing police car, they drove an unassuming dark gray Ford Explorer. Zhao Zhiyong was ushered into the back seat, while Miller and Mendoza sat on either side of him in the front. The car pulled out of the parking lot, merged into the evening traffic, and headed towards the IRS office building in the city center. The car was unusually quiet the entire way, with only the low hum of the news broadcast from the radio. Zhao Zhiyong sat stiffly in the back seat, his hands on his knees, his eyes fixed on the rapidly receding street scene outside the window, his lips tightly pressed together, saying nothing.

The air here seemed heavier than elsewhere in the IRS Seattle office building, on the Criminal Investigation floor. Zhao Zhiyong was led into a small interrogation room. The room was simply furnished with a table, three chairs, one side of a one-way window, and a stark fluorescent light overhead. There were no windows, and once the door was closed, the sounds of the outside world were completely shut out.

"Sit down, Mr. Zhao." Miller gestured to a chair across the table, and he and Mendoza sat down opposite each other. Sarah Mendoza went out for a while and returned with three steaming cups of black coffee in paper cups, placing one in front of each person. The strong, bitter aroma filled the room.

"Thank you," Zhao Zhiyong said softly, but didn't touch the coffee. He clasped his hands together on the table, his knuckles turning slightly white from the pressure, and kept his head down, not daring to look directly at the detective opposite him.

Richard Cohen didn't appear immediately. This was part of the strategy, giving the person being questioned some time to face the confined space and pressure alone. Miller and Mendoza didn't rush to speak either, just sitting quietly, occasionally taking a sip of coffee, but their eyes never left Zhao Zhiyong. The silence was spreading, each second stretched out, and the oppressive feeling rose slowly like an invisible tide.

About ten minutes later, the door to the interrogation room opened, and Richard Cohen walked in. He had changed out of his daytime suit, wearing a shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled up, and a look on his face that was a mixture of fatigue and shrewdness. He was holding a thin folder in his hand.

"Mr. Zhao, hello. I'm Richard Cohen, the person in charge here." Cohen sat down in the seat Miller had vacated, placed the folder on the table, and spoke in a more "gentle" tone than Miller and the others, even with a hint of "understanding." "I'm sorry to have asked you to come so late. I hope I haven't disturbed your departure too much."

Zhao Zhiyong quickly shook his head, his voice even lower. "No... it's alright."

Cohen opened the folder, which contained several printed documents. He slowly flipped through them, as if checking something. Then, he looked up, a casual smile spreading across his face.

"Mr. Zhao, how long have you been working at NLG?"

"Ten... twelve years," Zhao Zhiyong replied.

"Oh, you're a long-time employee. You drive a forklift?"

"Yes."

"The work is tough, but it should be relatively stable, right? How's the income? Is it enough to cover household expenses?"

Zhao Zhiyong answered these seemingly mundane questions somewhat awkwardly, describing his meager salary, the need to support his wife and child who was attending community college, and his tight monthly expenses. His narrative was trivial and realistic, fitting the image of a blue-collar worker struggling to make ends meet.

Cohen listened patiently, nodding occasionally to show his understanding. Then, he changed the subject, his tone still calm, but the questions began to become sharp.

"Mr. Zhao, I've noticed that besides your salary, you seem to have some... extra 'income'? Or rather, 'assets' at NLG?"

Zhao Zhiyong's body stiffened.

Cohen pulled a sheet of paper from the folder and pushed it in front of him. It was a photocopy of a property record, the address of which was a relatively secluded residence near Eagle Creek Ranch, the very safe house Lin Feng currently frequented. The property owner's name was clearly written as "Zhao, Zhiyong".

"This property is worth around $1.5 million on the market. It's registered in your name, purchased at the end of last year, in full." Cohen pointed to the address, his gaze fixed intently on Zhao Zhiyong. "Given the income level you just described, I think even if you didn't eat or drink for twenty years, you couldn't save up for a down payment, let alone pay in full. Can you explain the source of this money?"

He then pulled out another document, an excerpt from NLG's shareholder register. In an inconspicuous position, there was a 0.5% stake, also held by "Zhao, Zhiyong".

"And these NLG shares, although a small percentage, are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars based on NLG's current valuation. Was this a 'gift from a relative'? Or 'winning the lottery'?"

Zhao Zhiyong's face began to pale, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He clenched his hands together, his knuckles turning white, and his lips trembled as he repeated the extremely thin "background story" he had prepared beforehand. "It's... it's a distant relative, thanking me for helping them in their early years... the house, it was from winning a small lottery, plus... plus my previous savings..."

"A distant relative? Who exactly? What's their name? Where do they live? What do they do?" Cohen pressed, his speech quickening.

"Win the lottery? Which lottery? When did you win? How much is the prize money? What about your tax records?" Sarah Mendoza interrupted coldly.

"And what about these shares? What about the gift agreement? What about the notarized documents? Why would a warehouse forklift driver suddenly become a shareholder of a large logistics company?" Miller also exerted pressure.

The questions came like a machine gun, each one targeting the weakest and most flimsy part of the "story." Zhao Zhiyong was rendered speechless, only able to lower his head and repeatedly mutter, "It's... it's like that... I'm not quite sure... the documents are all there..."

Cohen watched as his face grew increasingly flustered and pale under the pressure, and knew the time was right. He leaned forward slightly, placed his hands on the table, lowered his voice, and spoke with a tone of sincere humility mixed with an undeniable threat.

"Mr. Zhao, we all know this isn't true."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle completely.

"You're just a front man (Nominee). A shell pushed to the front to hold these assets for the real master— Lin Feng. The money is his, the shares are his, and the houses are just for him to use for his business. You're just a signing tool, a shield. Am I right?"

Zhao Zhiyong abruptly raised his head, his eyes filled with the terror of being exposed, but then he lowered his head again, shaking it violently. "No... no! It's mine! It's mine!"

Cohen smiled, a smile devoid of warmth, only the calm of a hunter seeing his prey fall into a trap.

"Listen, Zhao." He switched to a more intimate form of address, but his tone was even colder. "You're not the ringleader. You're just a small fry, used and pushed to the front to take the risks. Lin Feng gave you a little something, or threatened you, to make you do this. But do you know what the consequences will be? Tax fraud, false statements, conspiracy to launder money... these charges are enough to put you in federal prison for ten, twenty years! What about your wife? What about your children? They'll lose everything because of your momentary lapse of judgment, or that ridiculous 'loyalty,' and be the subject of everyone's gossip!"

He saw Zhao Zhiyong's body begin to tremble slightly, uncontrollably.

"But," Cohen's tone shifted, his voice now laced with temptation, "I can help you. If you're willing to cooperate, identify Lin Feng as the actual controller of these assets, provide evidence of financial transactions you know, and testify in court, I guarantee with my position that I can plead with the prosecutor to secure you immunity from prosecution, or at least the lightest possible sentence. And that's not all..."

He leaned closer and, in a voice only the two of them could hear, described paradise:

"We can activate a witness protection program. We'll give you and your family a completely new identity, a completely new life. A sum of money, enough for you to live comfortably for the rest of your lives in a sunny town in the Caribbean Sea or Europe. Forget everything here, forget Lin Feng, forget all this trouble. How about it? This deal is much better than you taking all the blame for him, isn't it?"

After speaking, Cohen leaned back in his chair, looking at Zhao Zhiyong with a relaxed expression. Miller and Mendoza also stopped applying pressure, and the only sounds in the room were the low hum of the air conditioner and Zhao Zhiyong's increasingly heavy, trembling breathing.