Lass� story about the IRS reminds me of my brush with the FBI in college when I was investigated for mail fraud. (RS536-2000, do you remember this?)

I think it was my sophomore year, although I�m not certain. I had exams until the eleventh hour before spring break. I ran back from class, threw my dirty laundry in a couple of bags, and started sprinting to catch the airport shuttle. Alas, I didn�t get any farther than the bottom of the stairs in my dorm. I tripped and landed on top of the smaller of my two bags, which promptly exploded, ripping seams and handles and rendering it useless. I grabbed an old mail bag, one that had been sitting next to the trash can in the lobby for at least a couple of weeks. It was so dirty and full of holes that the mail carrier had ditched it, but it was still in better shape than my bag, so I shoved my stuff inside, pulled the drawstring shut, and just made the shuttle.

My vacation by the beach was lovely.

On the way home, I waited and waited at the airport for my bags to come off, but they never arrived. Neither of them. I was aggravated, but not surprised. I filed a missing baggage report and figured the luggage would show up within a day, as it usually did.

A week later and still no bags. Almost every item of clothing I owned was in those bags (this is what inevitably happened in college when I found myself staying somewhere with a washer and dryer). I received a small clothing allowance and the sincere apologies of the airline. I treated myself to a new pair of Chuck Taylors, a pair of jeans, and a college sweatshirt. Fortunately my clothing needs were minimal in those days. Two weeks later, still no bags, but I get a call from the FBI (I had another run-in with the FBI my junior year, but that�s another story). A bored sounding agent in Boston, MA leaves a message on my answering machine. I�m being investigated for mail fraud, would I mind giving him a call back �at my earliest convenience?� Mail fraud? Clearly they have the wrong number. I don�t call back [Lesson #1.: If the FBI calls you, call them back. It�s in your best interest. Trust me.]

The next day, the guy leaves two more messages on my machine while I�m in class. He sounds a little less bored now. Do I detect a threatening note? This time I do call him back, but he�s not there. I leave him a message. My job is done. He calls me back five minutes later and starts yelling at me, like he�s my mother or something, about stolen property. �Hold on,� I say, �what are you talking about?�

It turns out, the FBI has my luggage. I�m not sure why the airline didn�t tell me that in the first place, although I suppose it�s possible they didn�t know. Apparently using a mail bag, even one that has been abandoned in the trash by a mail carrier for months, for any purpose but carrying mail is a federal offense. This simply had never occurred to me. I pointed out to the FBI agent that if it were illegal to do anything with the bag other than carry mail that the error lay with the postal carrier who threw the bag out in the first place. He actually concurred on this point, although he insisted that unless I came down to Boston for an interview, I�d never see my luggage again. As I didn�t own a car and had no intention of paying for a bus ticket or skipping classes, I said this wasn�t going to work out for me. If it came to that, they could keep the bag, but please return my clothes. As far as I was concerned, they were the ones with stolen property. He said he�d have to check with his supervisor.

Three more nearly identical conversations took place with the same guy. I refused to go to Boston. He refused to return my luggage. I felt that I was the wronged party and I didn�t give in. He kept sounding more and more tired of talking to me. Then silence. No calls for two weeks. Then one day I came back from class and my luggage was sitting in the lobby, INCLUDING THE MAIL BAG. This was too much. I gave my friendly neighborhood FBI agent a call. �Thanks for the luggage. What�s with the bag?� He was so clearly not happy to hear from me. He told me to stick it in the nearest postbox and just get rid of it (although I�m pretty certain that he really wanted to tell me to stick it where the sun don�t shine). Despite the fact that the postbox was right across the street, I was irritated at being asked to do one more thing when I felt this whole thing was completely ridiculous. I stashed the bag in the attic of my dorm, where, as far as I know, it is still collecting dust.

By the way, lass, I�ll be sure to pass your story on to my brother-in-law the IRS agent. He�s a veritable font of information about stupid bureaucrats. Also, as someone else who has to deal with quarterly payments and hellacious self-employment paperwork, it�s really nice to know someone on the inside.

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