I'm From The Government and I'm Here To Help

This story from the Omaha World-Herald has nothing to do with education, and it has nothing to do with Katrina-ravaged New Orleans and the help received then (or with Gustav now). This is just a prime example of why people dislike and distrust government.

Ordeal becomes test of man's will
BY MATTHEW HANSEN, WORLD-HERALD STAFF WRITER
Monday, September 1, 2008

Imagine the worst bureaucratic nightmare you've ever endured - a customer service rep that speaks robot, hours spent on the phone trying to fix the cable, an audit performed by the friendly folks at the Internal Revenue Service.

Sure, it's just $350, but Ted Johnson is now pressing his fight on principle. He has been making calls and filling out forms for six months, trying to recoup a $350 money order that was stolen.
Now, imagine this repeated every Tuesday for six months, an endless loop of frustrating phone calls and strongly worded letters set to a soundtrack of the jazzy music they pipe into your phone while you hold. And hold. And hold.

Welcome to Ted Johnson's life.

Every Tuesday, his day off, the Omaha man sets out to recover $350 he sent the federal government in February, money that never reached its intended recipient. Every Tuesday, he comes up $350 short.

At first, the 40-year-old maintenance man just wanted his money back. Then he decided he'd fight on out of principle.

And now it's an all-consuming quest whose players include the Department of Homeland Security, the U.S. Postal Service, the Federal Bureau of Investigation - pretty much everyone but the friendly folks down at the Internal Revenue Service.

Ted can't win. He also can't stop.

"They've been jabber-jawing and jacking me around every which way," Johnson said. "They cover each others' behinds like molasses."

Johnson's problems started, as many problems do, the day he fell in love.

Her name was Maria, and they met through friends and went on their first date just before Valentine's Day last year.

Ted couldn't believe how easy it was. They went to church together, grilled out all summer and rarely argued. Maria's 6-year-old son and Ted's 17-year-old son snapped snugly into the new family puzzle.

Only two problems. One, Ted doesn't like Mexican food. And two, Maria entered the country illegally 18 years ago and had never applied for U.S. citizenship.

Ted proposed anyway. Maria agreed.

And then, after they married, the newlyweds decided they should do the right thing.

On a freezing February day, they entered the Ralston Post Office and mailed off a $350 money order to start Maria's immigration process.

Maria made her new husband save the receipt, just in case. On the back of that receipt, there's a guarantee: If your mail order is lost or stolen, it says, you get your money back.

A month later, a letter arrived from the U.S. Bureau of Citizenship and Immigration Services. The office had received Maria Johnson's application, it said, but the Johnsons had failed to send the $350 check.

Ted stalked back into the post office.

"The money order must've been stolen," he said. "I want my money back."

Can't do that, the postal employee said. You need to prove the money order was stolen.

So Ted paid $5 to trace the money order.

The search turned up a name: Rick Nelson, who lives at 4800 S. 65th St. in Omaha. Except there is no 4800 S. 65th St. - that address is between a mobile home dealership and a car lot. There's no Rick Nelson, either.

But the search also turned up a bank account, and after a fair amount of sleuthing, Ted had another name and address, this one a real man living in Lincoln.

Turned out this guy had been busted for stealing other money orders from a government office - Marilu Cabrera, a spokesman for the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, confirmed that the mail processing employee had been fired, though not yet charged.

Ted and Maria Johnson's money order had been deposited in this man's account two days after they sent it at the Ralston Post Office, the trace of the mail order said. Ted called a postal inspector he'd been dealing with.

I figured out who did this, Ted told the inspector. I want my money back.

Can't do that, said the postal inspector on the other end of the line. You need to fill out some forms.

So Ted Johnson filled out the forms. A postal inspection office in Sioux Falls, S.D., sent them back.

He filled out the forms again. They returned to sender again with a note saying the information on the form was incomplete.

To Ted, it looked fully completed.

He filled out yet another form. He demanded his money back.

Can't do that, he was told - the criminal would pay restitution after he was charged and found guilty. Then, and only then, would Ted see his $350.

"It just didn't make any sense," Ted said.

Ted got desperate. He filed a case with the Omaha Police Department. It went nowhere. He filed a lawsuit seeking the only amount of money he could think of - $1,234.56. The suit was quickly dismissed.

He scribbled countless phone numbers for governmental offices onto the rejection letters and receipts he keeps inside a dirty Manila envelope. Nothing. He called the FBI .

"It got a little bit crazy," he admits.

At one point, Ted, who looks like he knows how to handle himself in a bar fight, decided to drive to Lincoln and find the guy who stole his money. His cooler head prevailed, he said, only after he realized he needed to fill his tank with gasoline to make it down Interstate 80.

On a recent Tuesday, the Johnsons at last did get some good news.

A local immigration official assured Ted that the six-month delay won't slow his new wife's immigration process.

And employees of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services have hinted to Ted that they might waive the government's demand that Ted and Maria repay the fee, though that isn't yet confirmed.

"I can't talk about specific cases, but I can tell you that we are closely looking at this particular case," said Cabrera, the spokeswoman for U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. "We will do everything possible to help them."

But Ted says he isn't done. He wants to make sure that $350 gets back into his wallet.

And he wants somebody, anybody, to apologize, to say they are sorry for the six months' worth of Tuesdays he's spent listening to jazzy elevator music while holding. And holding. And holding.

"I used to go fishing on Tuesdays," Ted says.

Now, on Tuesdays, "I just get angry."