The Intimidation Game Read online

  Her parents were Kennedy Democrats, and she herself stuck with the party for thirty-five years—until it moved so far left she couldn’t see it anymore. She struggled mentally with changing her registration to read Republican (The hard-ass party? Me?), and to this day isn’t overly comfortable with the label. Like so many Tea Party members, she calls herself a constitutional conservative; her first allegiance is to the Founders’ vision of limited government. She’ll dish against George W. Bush just as quickly as she will Nancy Pelosi. Her interest is in getting the country back on track, and she doesn’t much care what party does it, so long as it happens.

  Kenney spent the months following the Van Nuys rally wondering how to engage. Then she found herself having coffee with two friends, a young couple named Tad and Valerie Cronn. Tad had a simple answer: Just do something. A web designer and journalist, he offered to get Kenney an Internet presence, to start gathering people together. She got busy on her phone, ringing friends and neighbors. Would they like to meet up, talk about issues, figure out how to get involved? They would. Tell your friends and neighbors, said Kenney. They did.

  In the early evening of August 1, 2009, forty patriots crammed into a meeting room in a little neighborhood restaurant called Coco’s for the first official gathering of the San Fernando Valley Patriots. A lot had already happened. Kenney was now in regular e-mail contact with dozens of locals about political issues of interest—health care rallies, memorial events. She’d made ties with bigger grassroots groups—in particular the national group, the Tea Party Patriots—to keep informed, and gather ideas, and pass along information. Many in her core e-mail group (my peeps!) had jumped in, offering possible names for the group, potential meeting sites. Coco’s got the nod, in part because it offered a cut rate on food and drinks. (What’s better than a little civics and affordable food?)

  The first few meetings were gripe sessions—about overspending, Obama, an out-of-touch Congress. Kenney reminded folks that they were there to do, not just talk, and then the gatherings took on a rhythm. Attendees—old, young, the extroverted, the shy—would take turns telling the group about a local or federal problem: water issues, property rights, tax proposals, classroom concerns. Kenney’s rules: Each person had ten minutes to talk and was required to finish with a proposal for how the group might act—call this number; show up here; write this person. People started exchanging little cards with their names and numbers, making plans for rallies and e-mail campaigns. It reminded Kenney of those old colonial church halls—neighbors and strangers, brought briefly together to celebrate a shared calling.

  The left and the mainstream media to this day tag Tea Party groups as Republican stooges—“astroturf” controlled by bigger political forces, as opposed to grassroots. That claim was central to their push for the IRS to investigate the activities of “partisan” nonprofits. Kenney’s group is political, no question. It’s made up of motivated, devoted Americans who want to see dramatic change in government. But it isn’t partisan.

  One of the great ironies of the IRS targeting scandal is that the tax agency barely brushed up against those powerful political pro-Republican nonprofits that Democrats so feared. It mostly stuck it to the little people, folks who had scant or no interest in party politics.

  Groups like Kenney’s for the most part see the problem as “Washington”—singular. That leviathan—from a Democratic president, to a Republican Congress, to the anonymous bureaucrat—has forgotten for whom it works, and for what purpose. Kenney would years later begin her Washington testimony by zinging Republicans and Democrats alike: “You and I speak different languages in this Republic. You speak the language of power: the pen, purse, or gavel. I speak grassroots American, the language of liberty through providence, property, and civic virtue.”

  That was the animating impulse of the San Fernando Valley Patriots: to learn, to educate others, to be heard. Kenney started inviting in speakers to teach on a wide range of subjects—net neutrality, health care, California’s emissions regulations. Author Don Jans came in to talk about the threat of socialism in America. Egyptian-American human rights activist Nonie Darwish lectured on Islam and Sharia law. Larry Sand, who runs a labor watchdog group, regaled members with tales of union interference in the classroom. Kenney in a monthly flyer suggested things her members could read or watch in the lead-up to speakers, and reminded them of events they might attend or dates of elections and polling places.

  Kenney’s group started doing its own events, mostly on patriotic holidays or memorials, all with an eye to civic engagement and education. On the 2010 anniversary of 9/11 they staged a candelit vigil at a local firehouse. Kenney spent eight hours in her garage with a friend, cutting and pasting onto a fifty-foot mural the names of the three thousand Americans who had perished. An electrician by the name of Greg created a scaffold out of PVC pipe and wires to hold banners. A retired soundman, Aspen, volunteered his audio equipment and skills. Kenney arranged for SFV Patriots to read the voices of passengers on the hijacked planes. She stumped up a few dollars for a Scottish bagpiper and drums. She stumped up a few more to hire a vocalist. Many attendees were moved to tears.

  When the Kiwanis Club of Canoga Park didn’t have enough people to hold portraits honoring dead veterans on Memorial Day, SFVP sent twenty-five members to do the job. They adopted a charity, the West Valley Food Pantry, run by a local church (We do legitimate—nothing out of the back of a van), and held flash-mob food drives, at which people spontaneously appeared with bags of donations. They joined Fourth of July rallies, holding “Warrior Flags” to honor the military. They held movie nights featuring documentaries about history or the Constitution. They stood on sidewalks handing out Constitutions. They sat at malls, signing up people (anyone, of any party) to vote.

  SFVP attended some events that the media might cast as partisan, though members notably didn’t see it that way. When the chief operating officer of Chick-fil-A in June 2012 made public comments opposing same-sex marriage, inspiring protests and counterprotests at Chick-fil-A franchises across the country, the press cast it as a showdown between gays and antigays. When Kenney’s group showed up at a local Chick-fil-A, their interest was in backing the First Amendment, standing up for the right of corporate officers to have an opinion, and the right of chicken lovers to eat where they please.

  Membership grew so much in the 2010 election year that Coco’s became a tight squeeze. The group upped sticks to a local Denny’s, with a meeting room large enough that Kenney had to invest in speakers and a microphone so all ninety regulars could hear. (It was easier than watching half the audience try to turn up their hearing aids.) The growing pains were almost humorous. One of Kenney’s first stabs at an SFVP business card featured a glimpse of a flag. The banner was billowing, stirring—and also French. (Definitely patriotic. Definitely the wrong country.) They started advertising on a local radio station, running little thirty-second clips featuring tributes to important moments in history. Only after a time did it occur to the group that it might want to include its name and a contact number, so that people would know how to join or give support.

  Kenney and Cronn spent hours designing a website, one with a patriotic and historical theme, and getting the group on social media. They started a regular newsletter—the Patriots Almanac. Every issue features prominently a statement that is a point of pride with the group: “No elephants. No donkeys. Just patriots.” The publication always features little stories about history (Paul Revere’s ride; American Indians in the Revolution), recipes for patriotic holidays (a presidential ice cream; an apple cake), celebrations of institutions and history (Christmas in the White House). Most issues contain at least one political feature, though these tend toward the broad: “Americans work longer to pay taxes,” ran the title of one. “Big Government is enslaving us to debt,” ran another. Kenney was so wary of getting dragged into the partisan minefield that she resisted calls from some members to get the words “Tea Party” into the group’s official n
ame. (Didn’t need that nail in that cross!)

  It was in fact civics, as it happens, not politics, that inspired Kenney to turn to the IRS. The Tea Party had popped up overnight, and networked just as quickly. Tens of thousands of grassroots activists plugged into each other’s websites and joined weekly national conference calls. Kenney did, too, and in mid-2010 got word that an anonymous millionaire intended to dole out $1 million in grants to groups that worked to get out the vote.

  Kenney loved the concept, and had an inspired idea for a grant. She designed a dramatic poster featuring at its center a big, rippling U.S. flag. (Yeah, yeah, not French this time.) Above it, in old-fashioned, Constitution-looking type, ran the words “We the People.” Under the flag, in bold letters, was this simple plea: “Keep the promise. Vote.” At the bottom was SFVP’s name, its website, and its telephone number. The posters contained not a hint of party or partisan ideology, and Kenney’s idea was to blow them up to ad size and pay to have them hung in twenty bus shelters along a main thoroughfare of her voting district. Cost: $17,000. It was far, far more than her little group could contemplate, but a grant might make it happen.

  The hitch? Groups had to be “official” to apply. They needed to be incorporated and control a bank account. Kenney had up until this point operated SFVP as an informal club. Getting official meant getting into bed with the IRS.

  Most Americans would be surprised to discover that even the smallest of groups, if they take in or spend even the smallest of dollars, are required to go to the IRS. To avoid paying taxes on those dollars—and to be in a position to really fund-raise, or apply for grants—a group needs special IRS recognition. An entire section of the tax code exists to confer precisely such “nonprofit” recognition on Americans who want to engage in civic life. Eye-glazingly known as Section 501(c) of the U.S. tax code, it contains twenty-nine different categories of organizations that qualify to avoid most federal taxes. Each category gets its own little number: 501(c)(3) groups are charities and religious and educational outfits; 501(c)(5) groups are labor unions; 501(c)(6) groups are industry associations; 501(c)(13) groups are cemetery companies.

  SFVP fell under the catchall category of 501(c)(4)—a “social welfare” organization. By long-standing IRS language, the definition of such a group is any “that operates primarily to further the common good and general welfare of the people of the community.” That’s the catchall part. Since pretty much every Tom, Dick, or Harry has strong positions on what is “good” for a community, and since those ideas are entirely subjective, pretty much anybody can claim social-welfare recognition from the tax authority. If a group of ninety-year-old ladies claim that teaching four-year-olds to darn socks would benefit the country, the IRS would be hard pressed to deny them tax-exempt sock-darning status.

  Kenney knew that going through the hoopla of IRS recognition was overkill. The group’s fund-raising was skimpy. She thinks it insulting to ask an admission price to engage in democracy, so at each meeting she instead passes a hat, collecting $5 or $10 here or there. She holds a raffle at each event; six chances for $5. (People do it because they just want a chance to win! I love it. It’s just so American!) To fulfill her promise that prizes will always be worth two to three times the raffle tickets, Kenney is a catalog queen, hunting for deals on cookbooks, kitchen equipment, pet supplies, home tools. On her best raffle night ever, she pulled in a whole $150.

  She has a few high rollers. One retired couple gives $100 every three months. (This was a big deal for them!) Carmen, an elderly woman, regularly gives $20 to help pay for patriot movie nights. Most attendees just volunteer their time and skills, or supplies: Greg the electrician; Aspen the sound guy; Dee, a beauty consultant, who paid to print some posters for rallies; Karnig, an Eastern European immigrant, who made four pairs of handmade clogs for the raffle. (He does it in European sizes, so it is very confusing. We are now figuring out they run small.) A friend of Kenney’s, Carol, serves as the group’s treasurer and keeps track of the money. Todd does the social media. Some people show up to set up chairs. Some hand out literature.

  Not much comes in, so not much money goes out. She’s made a few “big” investments. The box amplifier and mikes for the meetings ran $900. Radio advertising cost about $1,000 for eight months of weekly ads. Their candlelit 9/11 memorial—their most expensive event ever—ran about $850. The rest is tiny, sporadic: $130 for a website domain; a one-day rental van to deliver the food donations; a table hire for an event. Some of the outgoing checks are token but grateful recognition of volunteer time. No one in SFVP draws a salary, though Kenney insists on paying Cronn a tiny stipend for serving as webmaster and to reimburse him for expenses. In response to a 2011 e-mail from Cronn about a few things he’d bought to create their first newsletter, Kenney replied, “I’ll send you a check for $150 to cover your expenses and an enormously ridiculous ‘bonus’ of $50 to purchase aspirin, butt cushions and Pepto-Bismol.”

  She’s (unsurprisingly) scrupulous about documenting every dollar in and out. (Do I sound OCD? Really, I’m not OCD! Well…maybe I’m a little OCD.) Kenney estimates that the group’s annual income averages about $3,300. And she acknowledges that over its five years she’s kicked in about $14,000 of her own money—money she doesn’t have to spare. By comparison, the largest liberal 501(c)(4), the League of Conservation Voters, spent $9.6 million on the 2012 election alone.

  SFVP was, in short, poorer than a Revolutionary-era church mouse. Asking the IRS to officially recognize that fact hardly seemed worth the effort. Then again, Kenney really wanted to inspire her neighbors to vote. And she figured on a further upside or two. Scoring IRS tax-exempt status would give SFVP some official ownership over its name. Owning a 501(c)(4) badge also tended to make people a little more comfortable about donating.

  Kenney knew nothing about the IRS application process, so she fired up her computer. The process was no small thing. She needed official officers—a secretary, a treasurer—so she recruited some SFVP regulars. And she needed articles of incorporation, so she wrote them. They rang true: “The specific purpose of this corporation is to promote the values of a Constitutionally limited government, fiscal responsibility and free-market enterprise under the rule of law through non-partisan, political action (i.e. rallies, e-mail campaigns) and public education (i.e. legislative information, meetings, distribution of literature on the Founders and founding documents of the United States, and voter registration).”

  Kenney didn’t have money for a lawyer, so she did the IRS application the new-fashioned, DIY-Internet way: LegalZoom. It was straightforward—at least for a group like Kenney’s. You give your basic data, names of officers, and your stated articles of incorporation. You describe past and planned activities, explain where you got your money, attach any literature you handed out. You fill out a little chart on your revenue and expenses. You ignore all the questions about capital stock, and classes of membership and assets, because you don’t have a pot to piss in. You hit send, mail a check, and assume you get your IRS letter in fewer than three months. Especially because you write a $400 check for expedited service. And even more especially because the IRS’s only real job in evaluating 501(c)(4) applications is to ensure that you’ve filled everything out the right way, and that you haven’t mistakenly misfiled as a cemetery company.

  Kenney hit send on October 23, 2010. She’d heard nothing by Christmas. Nothing by March. She dutifully filed her requisite tax forms with the federal and state authorities, and waited some more. She’d heard nothing by Easter. Nothing by the Fourth of July. Nothing by Halloween. Nothing a full year after filing.

  She wasn’t too worried. (It’s the government! It’s always backed up. And with the feds, no news is good news, right?) She’d been advised that she could operate as if SFVP were already a nonprofit, and that’s what she did. She carried on with the grant competition, making it through two rounds before getting cut. (I hate losing.) She kept on with the rallies, events, meetings. Christmas 2011 came an
d went. And then that fateful day in February, and the “oh shit” moment.

  The questionnaire Kenney opened that day was almost a perfect expression of Orwellian bureaucracy—a mix of boring officialdom and sinister intrusiveness. The entire first sheet contained a bewildering list of instructions and caveats. “Mail or fax your response to each of the items requested.…Fax to the name and fax number shown at the top of page 1 of this letter. If your response is greater than 20 pages do not fax. Do not fax and mail your response.…Each piece of correspondence submitted, whether fax or mail, must be processed, assigned and reviewed.…Do not fax your response multiple times.”

  What followed were six pages of close type, containing thirty-five broad questions and more than eighty subquestions. Some were redundant. Question 3 required Kenney to (re)submit her articles of incorporation. Some were straightforward: “How many members do you currently have? Provide details regarding all members’ fees and benefits.”

  Most, however, were insanely invasive (Ever had a proctology exam done through your nose? That’s how this felt.):

  Provide a printout of each of your website’s pages, including any pages with restricted access.

  Provide details regarding all of your activity on Facebook and Twitter. Also provide hard copies of all advertising you have conducted using social media outlets.

  Indicate if any of your current and former officers, directors, and key employees are related to each other (include family and business relationships) and describe the nature of the relationship.