by Diane Kelly
Nick jumped in now and, damn me, but I was grateful. “You’ve taken a number of extravagant vacations on the church’s dime, Pastor. Spent the church’s funds on a luxury mansion and limousine and servants. ‘For where your treasure is, there will be your heart also.’”
I wondered what flavor of jelly bean Nick had received for learning that verse.
Fischer blinked several times in quick succession. “None of these expenses are unusual or unreasonable for an operation with the size and resources of the Ark.”
“Well, now it’s we who must beg to differ,” Nick replied. “Most churches do not operate this way.”
It was true. Despite the rise in nonprofit fraud over recent years, the vast majority of tax-exempt religious organizations were legitimate and spent their funds on appropriate programs.
“How do you think the people in your congregation would feel if they knew how their hard-earned money was being spent?” Nick was offering my arguments now, playing the publicity card as I’d suggested.
The sound of birds chirping and a pig oinking came from the former AG’s phone. Looked like he’d finished his texts and moved on to playing Angry Birds. I surreptitiously tossed a glance in Daniel’s direction. He discreetly rolled his eyes, letting me know he agreed the AG’s presence was pointless.
Fischer leaned forward, glancing down the table at his extensive legal team before continuing. “The Ark is transparent. We review our financial statements in detail at our biannual business meetings. Not a single person has expressed concern about how the Ark chooses to allocate its funds.”
“And just how many people attend those meetings?” I asked, knowing full well that only a handful of parishioners bothered to show up. In this busy day and age, who had the time? Besides, most people avoided any discussion of numbers like the plague. Budgets, balance sheets, and profit-and-loss statements were indecipherable to most people. They trusted those in charge to do the right thing. In this case, however, their trust was misplaced. And the few who might have concerns about Fischer’s expenses were probably too intimidated to rock the boat. Questioning a beloved pastor, a purported man of God, could result in alienation or worse.
“You can’t deny that my salary is reasonable,” Pastor Fischer said, ignoring my question and going on the offensive now.
“True.” Nick dipped his head in agreement. “Problem is, the Ark is covering personal expenses you should be paying out of that salary.”
Nick noted that, in addition to paying for the extravagant vacations and covering the wages of the domestic staff, the Ark paid the utility, insurance, and repair bills for the Fischers’ residence. Because the Ark covered many of the Fischers’ personal expenses, the couple had been able to accumulate quite a nest egg. Not only had they made the maximum contributions to their retirement accounts, they’d amassed a portfolio of stocks and bonds with a market value in excess of two million dollars. According to the Bible, a camel would have an easier time passing through the eye of a needle than the Fischers would have getting into heaven.
Fischer gave Nick a patronizing smile. “Surely you can understand that having a household staff frees more time for Marissa and me to pursue God’s work. Besides, the parsonage is used for church purposes. It’s not only our home, Mr. Pratt, it’s an extension of the Ark’s facility.”
“Not buying it, Mr. Fischer,” Nick replied. “The documentation collected during the audit clearly showed that the vast majority of the Ark’s functions were held here in the church building. In fact, the only church-related events you’ve hosted at the parsonage were Christmas parties for the Ark’s major contributors.”
Three thousand dollars’ worth of Cristal champagne and two grand in caviar had been enjoyed last year alone, every ounce on the Ark’s tax-exempt dime. The events were essentially a taxpayer-subsidized cocktail hour for the wealthiest church members.
“Those contributors are critical to the Ark’s success,” Fischer admitted. “Without their funds, we wouldn’t have this beautiful facility for our congregants to worship in. I assume you saw the huge crowd we drew at yesterday’s service?”
“It was a boatload,” Nick said.
I tried not to groan at his lame pun.
“Then you saw the success the Ark is having,” Fischer said. “We’re giving people hope here, Agent Pratt. Hope helps them manage in what is otherwise a dark, scary world.”
The guy had a point. Disregarding the fact that Fischer had screwed the federal government out of half a million in tax revenue and was living high on the hog thanks to his parishioners, he had managed to draw a large number of people into his ministry. Though I didn’t necessarily agree with his methods, he made people feel good about the world, happy, optimistic.
“The Ark’s members have completed some very worthwhile projects,” Fischer continued. “The youth group has implemented an after-school peer tutoring program in several of the inner-city schools. The men’s club recently performed much-needed repairs at the downtown women’s shelter. A team of women from the Ark regularly serves meals at a facility for the homeless.” He raised his hands and eyes to the heavens. “To God go the glory.” His focus returned to us. “I’ve provided the leadership that made these things possible.”
According to the documentation I’d reviewed, Walters was the one who engaged in the hands-on ministerial work. He’d helped organize the volunteers, made arrangements with the schools and shelters. He was the one who deserved the credit. “Wasn’t it Associate Pastor Walters who led these projects?” I asked.
“Michael took care of some of the details, but he did so under my direction,” Fischer insisted.
Though Walters remained quiet, a subtle shadow seemed to cross his face.
Nick switched tactics, seeming to realize the current course of the conversation would lead only to further argument. “May I ask when and how were you saved, Mr. Fischer?”
I wasn’t expecting that question. Apparently neither was the pastor. He glanced at his attorneys, all four of whom exchanged glances and shrugged. Fischer seemed to mull the question over in his mind, realizing that refusing to answer the common question would be suspicious. However, he was clearly suspicious why the question had been asked.
Noah turned back to Nick, his expression wary. “I was saved when I was in my early twenties.”
“When you worked for the car dealership in Dubuque, right?”
“That’s correct.”
Nick shifted in his seat, leaning back and draping his right arm over the back of the chair next to him, giving the illusion he was relaxed and comfortable. But I knew better. His left hand was tucked into the pocket of his suit jacket, squeezing the bejeezus out of the stress ball hidden inside. “A minister came to the dealership and you washed his car, right?”
That tidbit came directly from Fischer’s file, from an interview printed a year ago in USA Today. I remembered reading it. But I wasn’t quite sure where Nick was going with this line of questioning.
Fischer nodded tentatively. “I come from humble beginnings. I wasn’t too proud to wash cars for a living, just as Jesus washed the feet of those he ministered to.”
Squeeze. Squeeze. “You didn’t just wash the cars, you detailed them, right?” Nick asked.
“That’s correct.”
“Wax included?”
Fischer nodded.
“Vacuum?”
Another nod.
Nick made a wiping motion with his right hand. “Wipe down the tires and interior with polish?”
“What the hell does any of this matter?” spat the attorney from B and B, who’d momentarily forgotten he was in a house of God, representing its minister.
“I’m happy to answer.” Fischer shot the attorney a warning look, then turned back to Nick with a smile. “Yes, sir. Tires and interior were included. I did a good job, too.”
Hmm. Did I detect a hint of pride there?
Nick continued his questions. “You attend church with your family bac
k then?”
“No. I’m sorry to say my parents weren’t religious.”
Squeeze. Squeeze. Nick pursed his lips and looked up as if grasping for straws but, again, I knew better. Whatever he was about to say, he’d thought out well in advance. “So you found out that a car you were detailing belonged to a minister and, just out of the blue, you asked him about God?”
“Yes. The Holy Spirit moved me.” Fischer looked upward now, raising his palms as if to acknowledge God before turning his attention back to Nick. “I’ll never forget that day as long as I live. The best day of my life was when I was born again. It was when my life truly began.”
Puh-lease. Even for a Holy Roller, the guy was laying it on a bit thick. Listening to him was like trying to swallow a mouthful of peanut butter.
“You’ll never forget that day, huh?” Nick cocked his head. “What was the minister’s name?”
“The Reverend Alton P. Rogers.”
“What church was he with?”
“First Methodist of Dubuque.”
Nick gave a whistle. “You weren’t kidding. You do have quite a memory.”
Noah offered a half smile. “God gives us all gifts of one kind or another.”
“That He does,” Nick agreed. “He hung me like a horse and for that I’ll be eternally grateful.”
Daniel barked an involuntary laugh, then tried unsuccessfully to mask it with a cough. His boss rebuked him with a stern look.
“First Methodist of Dubuque,” Nick repeated. “That was a big church, wasn’t it?”
“The largest in town.”
“Rogers was quite a successful man, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed I would. The Reverend Rogers saved thousands of souls before he retired.”
“Sounds like business was good.” Nick paused a moment before cocking his head. “So, Mr. Fischer, what kind of car was the successful Reverend Alton P. Rogers driving?”
Fischer’s face flared red, his hair looking far more white than blond in contrast to his pink skin. Clearly Nick had struck a nerve, backed Fischer into a corner. The man couldn’t pretend not to know what kind of car the minister owned after saying he’d never forget that day and had been bestowed by God himself with the gift of good memory.
Fischer shifted in his seat, crossed his arms on the table in front of him. “An Eldorado.”
“What color?”
“White.”
“Six or eight cylinder?”
Fisher exhaled slowly before replying. “Eight.”
“Fully loaded, I bet.”
Fischer offered no response. Then again, Nick hadn’t phrased his words in the form of a question. If this were Jeopardy! his response wouldn’t count.
Nick rephrased. “Was the car fully loaded?”
“Yes.”
Nick chuckled. “If I were a minimum-wage grunt washing cars and discovered I could get myself a big ol’ Cadillac by becoming a preacher, boy howdy, I reckon I’d see the light, too.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Eat, Pray, Love, Post Bail
Fischer’s face blazed but otherwise he maintained his composure.
I jumped in now. No sense letting Nick have all the fun. “So after you met the Reverend Rogers, you decided to go to college, correct?”
Fischer nodded.
I pulled his personal file out of my briefcase and riffled through the contents, pulling out a sheet of paper and pretending to peruse it. The paper had nothing to do with his college attendance, but he couldn’t tell that from his vantage point across the table. “Who paid your tuition and expenses?” I was operating on pure gut instinct now.
“I received a number of scholarships,” Fischer said.
“Based on your family’s income, I presume?” I said. “Given your lackluster academic performance in high school I can’t imagine you were a contender for merit scholarships.” It was more a statement than a question. A statement meant to bring the pompous ass down a peg or two.
He offered a smile. “You are correct, Miss Holloway.”
I glanced back down at the paper. “You received grants, too, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“Federal government grants, right?”
He nodded again.
“Free money, that you didn’t have to pay back?”
The smile remained on his face, but his eyes were aiming poison darts in my direction. “That’s correct.”
I was getting to him and, God forgive me, but I was enjoying giving the pastor a little hell. “You know where the federal government gets the money to fund those grants, don’t you, Mister Fischer?”
When he didn’t respond, I supplied the answer for him. “From honest taxpayers who pay their fair share. People like me and Senior Agent Pratt.” I looked down the table and gestured at the men seated there. “People like your accountants and attorneys and Pastor Walters.”
I’d dug into Walters’s tax filings, too. The guy was squeaky clean. He’d taken no extravagant vacations on the Ark’s dime nor financed any personal expenses from the church collection plates. Heck, the guy had even reported the six bucks he’d earned serving a day of jury duty.
Still Fischer said nothing.
“You owe the taxpayers and Uncle Sam a big ‘thank you.’” I left it there. I could’ve pointed out that his mother currently lived in a Medicare-subsidized nursing home, but if I pushed any harder, his attorneys might raise a stink.
“This is your last chance, Fischer.” Nick sat up straight in his chair. “You gonna pay up or not?”
Fischer’s eyes narrowed into little slits. “I am not.”
“All righty, then.” Nick stood. “Noah Fischer, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be held against you in a court of law.”
Wait. Nick had launched into the Miranda warnings. Nick was arresting him? Taking Fischer to jail had been the plan if he refused to cooperate, but I should be the one reading Fischer his rights, not Nick. This was my case, dang it! And if anyone would be reading Fischer his rights, it would be IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway.
I leaped to my feet, placed my palms on the table, and leaned forward. “You have the right to consult with an attorney.” Duh. He had a whole slew of them at the table, including the pinched-faced former AG who’d done nothing the entire time but send text messages and play games. The next warning also seemed nonsensical under the circumstances, but nevertheless we were legally required to state it. “If you cannot afford an attorney—”
“Just get your church to hire a whole team of lawyers for you.” Nick grinned at the legal team across the table.
I looked up at Nick and shot him a shut-up look. I turned back to Fischer. “If you cannot afford an attorney,” I repeated, “one will be appointed for you.”
Fischer slowly stood, his eyes burning with fury, his blue pupils virtually crackling with flames. Clearly he hadn’t anticipated being arrested. He’d probably thought his team of high-priced lawyers would scare us off as they’d successfully done with other government officials in the past.
Neener-neener.
Nick and I didn’t scare easily. We’d faced tax cheats far more formidable than Pastor Fischer in the past and lived to tell about it.
Nope, Fischer’s legal team hadn’t done jack crap for him today. But really, what could they do? No matter how good they were at lawyering, the IRS clearly had probable cause to arrest Fischer. We’d had it for years. The best they could hope for was to spring the pastor on bail and somehow convince a judge and jury that his personal vacations and living costs were valid church expenses.
Good luck on that one.
Then again, it wouldn’t entirely surprise me if a judge or jury let this guy off the hook, regardless of how many tax laws he’d violated. Fischer was a celebrity in local circles and if there was anyone America worshipped it was their celebrities. Seemed if you were famous enough and rich enough in America, you could buy your way to freedom no matter how guilty you might be, or at mos
t receive a slap on the wrist. Americans continued to buy Chris Brown CDs after he beat the crap out of Rihanna. When Charlie Sheen’s boozing put an end to his role on a hit TV show, they still paid a pretty penny for tickets to see the guy make an ass of himself on stage. Any lame excuse was acceptable. No one was held to account for their sins anymore.
Don’t get me wrong, I was all for second chances. But not at the price of justice.
Oh, well. No sense worrying about something that wouldn’t be my problem, right? Our job was essentially done now. When this case went to court, Nick and I would be mere witnesses, though critical witnesses. It would be up to the lawyers at the Department of Justice to see that Pastor Fischer received the sentence he deserved.
Walters stood. “Just a moment, please. Can’t we work out some kind of settlement here? Maybe pay the taxes out over time?”
Nick threw his hands in the air. “Hallelujah! Finally someone on your side of the table is showing some sense.”
“No!” The lawyer from Benson and Brubaker jumped from his seat. He shot a warning look at the associate pastor. “Sit down, Michael. And don’t you dare say another word!”
Sheez. They spoke to Walters like he was a disobedient child when, in fact, he was the smartest guy on that side of the table. If they’d let him speak, if they simply worked out a deal with us today to pay the taxes and straighten up their act, Fischer could avoid going to jail. We didn’t really want the hassle of sending anyone to the klink, especially someone who was sure to generate a backlash against us. We just wanted to collect what was owed and ensure they’d play fair in the future.
Once the associate pastor had taken his seat, the lawyer turned his attention back to Nick. “Walters doesn’t speak for the church.”
“Neither do you.” Nick quirked a brow at the lawyer from B and B. “You represent Pastor Fischer, remember?” He pointed to the other attorney. “He represents the church.” He pointed at Haddocks next. “And the former AG will let us know who he represents once he checks his bank statement.” Nick chuckled again.