The Intimidation Game Read Online Free

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