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This story was co-published with WNYC.
On May 12, after a six-week delay caused by the pandemic, the U.S. Supreme Court will hear arguments in the epic battle by congressional committees and New York prosecutors to pry loose eight years of President Donald Trump’s tax returns.
Much about the case is without precedent. Oral arguments will be publicly broadcast on live audio. The nine justices and opposing lawyers will debate the issues remotely, from their offices and homes. And the central question is extraordinary: Is the president of the United States immune from congressional — and even criminal — investigation?
Next week’s arguments concern whether Trump’s accounting firm, Mazars USA, must hand over his tax returns and other records to a House committee and the Manhattan district attorney, which have separately subpoenaed them. (There will also be arguments on congressional subpoenas to two of Trump’s banks.) Trump, who promised while running for president to make his tax returns public, has sued to block the documents’ release. The questions apply beyond this case. Trump has repeatedly resisted congressional scrutiny, most recently by vowing to ignore oversight requirements included in the trillion-dollar pandemic-bailout legislation. “I’ll be the oversight,” he declared.
The president’s accounting firm has found itself at the center of this high-stakes fight. The American arm of a global firm, Mazars has portrayed itself as an innocent bystander in the war between Trump and his pursuers, dragged into the conflict merely for possessing the trove of subpoenaed records. It’s the firm’s first burst into the media glare apart from an unfortunate moment of tabloid coverage in 2016 after one of its New York partners stabbed his wife to death in the shower of their suburban home. (He pleaded guilty to manslaughter.) Mazars has said it will abide by whatever decision the court makes in the Trump matter.
But Trump’s accountants are far from bystanders in the matters under scrutiny — or in the rise of Trump. Over a span of decades, they have played two critical, but discordant, roles for Trump. One is common for an accounting firm: to help him pay the smallest amount of taxes possible. The second is not common at all: to help him appear to the world to be rich beyond imagining. That sometimes requires creating precisely the opposite impression of what’s in his tax filings.
Time and again, from press interviews in the 1980s to the launch of his 2016 campaign, Trump has trotted out evermore outsized claims of his wealth, frequently brandishing papers prepared by members of his accounting team, who have sometimes been called on to appear in person when they were presented, offering a sort of mute testimony in support of the findings. The accountants’ written disclaimers — that the calculations rely on Trump’s own numbers, rendering them essentially meaningless — are rarely mentioned.
Trump’s accountants have been crucial enablers in his remarkable rise. And like their marquee client, they have a surprisingly colorful and tangled story of their own. It’s dramatically at odds with the image Trump has presented of his accountants as “one of the most highly respected” big firms, solemnly confirming his numbers after months of careful scrutiny. For starters, it’s only technically true to say Trump’s accounting work is handled by a large firm.
In fact, Trump entrusts his taxes and planning to a tiny, secretive team of CPAs who have operated at various times from humble quarters in Queens and two Long Island office parks. That team, which has had two leaders with back-to-back multidecade terms, has been working for the Trumps since Fred Trump began using the firm back in the 1950s. It was eventually subsumed into Mazars USA, the American arm of a large international firm, through a series of mergers over decades.
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One theme has been consistent: partners and sometimes the firm itself have faced accusations of fraud, misconduct and malpractice on multiple occasions, an investigation by ProPublica and WNYC has found.
That pattern dates to the 30 years during which the Trump accounting team was led by Jack Mitnick, whose pugnaciousness was exceeded only by his aversion to his clients paying the IRS. He was the architect of the notorious schemes, revealed by The New York Times, to dodge more than $500 million in gift and inheritance taxes and funnel hundreds of millions from Fred Trump to his children, helping keep Donald Trump afloat through four of his business bankruptcies. Mitnick was known as an accounting star — at least until 1996, when his partners threw him out of the firm amid accusations of fraud and malpractice.
Years of turmoil followed. The firm operated without malpractice insurance for a period and was dogged by feuds — with current and former partners suing each other — and financial problems.
And it ran afoul of regulators. In January of 2004 — one week after “The Apprentice” premiered on NBC — the Securities and Exchange Commission formally censured the firm for willfully aiding and abetting misconduct. The SEC suspended one partner from practicing before it for four years for what the agency called “highly unreasonable” and “improper professional conduct.”
Since Trump’s accountants merged their practice into Mazars in 2010, they have been present for Trump’s scandals, too. Mazars accountants prepared the tax returns for the Donald J. Trump Foundation, forced to shut down and ordered to pay more than $2 million in damages after a New York attorney general’s investigation exposed a history of illegal self-dealing. And the Manhattan DA’s office, which is investigating whether the Trump Organization falsified its business records to cover up hush-money payments to adult film actress Stormy Daniels, subpoenaed not only Trump’s tax returns but also various internal records and assessments prepared by Mazars.
Today, the CEO of Mazars USA is the same partner who was suspended by the SEC for four years for improper conduct. (Mazars defends its CEO, saying he meets all ethical and professional standards, and asserts that the firm has encountered no more sanctions or litigation than other comparable firms.)
The choice of a formerly suspended accountant as CEO surprised former SEC Chief Accountant Lynn Turner, now a senior adviser at the Hemming Morse financial consulting firm. “In my opinion,” said Turner, “that speaks loudly with the respect to the confidence one would have in that firm — better yet, the total lack of confidence one would have in that firm. And it would certainly make me wonder about the culture of that firm and whether or not that firm acts with integrity.”
Whether by design, or perhaps just coincidence, Trump’s accountants have occasionally displayed the sort of audacity often associated with their client. Consider this example involving New York City taxes back in the 1980s. Mitnick claimed that Trump was exempt from paying tax on profit he made by flipping a Trump Tower condo. He had acquired the unit at cost, $634,648, ostensibly for providing “consulting services” to his development partnership, then sold it 19 days later for $3 million.
At an administrative court hearing, Mitnick defended deductions that he’d claimed offset any profits from Trump’s consulting business, even as he failed to provide any documentation or explanation for those expenses, according to the 15-page court opinion in the case. He went so far as to deny that he’d prepared the federal tax return for Trump that also claimed the deductions, even though his signature was on the document.
The accountant evidently protested vociferously in the New York case, leading the administrative law judge to scoff, “The problem at issue is not one of double taxation, but of no taxation.” The total amount at stake was relatively modest — $87,693.57, including penalties and interest — but Mitnick, on Trump’s behalf, contested it for more than a decade before a city appeals panel finally put an end to the case, ordering Trump to pay up.
Decades after he left the Trump account, Mitnick briefly surfaced in the press in 2016, after the Times reported that Trump’s 1995 tax return reported a $916 million loss. Mitnick, then 80, dismissed Trump’s boast that he was a tax genius for using the loss to avoid paying taxes for as much as a decade. “I did all the tax preparation,” the dour accountant told TV interviewers. “He never saw the product until it was presented to him for signature.” Mitnick added, with apparent pride: “Those returns were entirely created by us.”
When ProPublica first sought to speak with Mitnick late last year, he asked, “What’s in it for me?” and said he’d discuss Trump only if he were paid for his time. (In a longer second call, where he also asked to be paid, he eventually offered brief responses to some questions.)
An accountant and attorney, Mitnick first arrived at Spahr Lacher & Berk, the tiny firm later merged into Mazars, in 1963, at age 27. Mitnick soon took charge of the Trumps’ accounts. He would oversee them for the next 30 years.
In its early years, Spahr was located in Jamaica, Queens, and employed just a handful of CPAs. The firm had been working with the Trump family, whose five-bedroom Tudor home was in tonier Jamaica Estates, at least since 1951, when Fred Trump cemented the relationship by hiring a Spahr partner as controller for his growing real estate business.
Fred Trump was far and away Spahr’s biggest client. His cash-spewing rental apartment empire in Brooklyn and Queens required lots of accounting work, and Fred paid his bills in full and on time. By 1979, Spahr Lacher had moved into a nondescript suburban office park in Lake Success, Long Island, just beyond the Queens border and the reach of New York City taxes.
By then Donald Trump had begun pursuing his big, risky and expensive ambitions: glitzy towers and hotels in Manhattan; three over-the-top Atlantic City casinos; his own airline; a massive yacht and a professional football team. In 1987, as his father had done, Donald hired his company’s controller from the ranks of his accounting firm.
Trump’s accountants played a critical role in Donald’s survival through the 1980s and early ?90s, a period when many of his projects crashed and burned, requiring massive infusions of cash from his father. With Mitnick in charge, Spahr hatched the strategies that minimized both gift and estate taxes on the transfer of Fred’s wealth to Donald and his siblings.
A 2018 Times investigation found that Fred Trump had funneled at least $413 million in current dollars to his son and that the Trumps’ tax-avoidance tactics, all told, had slashed their tax bill by about $500 million. The article described some of the tax moves as “outright fraud.” (Trump’s lawyer called that conclusion “100% false” and said the relevant authorities “fully approved all of the tax filings.”)
A lynchpin of the strategy was the 1992 creation of a corporation, All County Building Supply & Maintenance, through which Fred Trump’s children charged their father’s business grossly inflated prices, then split the markup, allowing them to avoid gift taxes even as they reeled in millions from their father.
The strategy was viewed as a major success inside the accounting firm. “I wish I could take credit for it,” Mitchell Zachary, a former Spahr partner who worked on the Trumps’ accounts for more than a decade, told ProPublica and WNYC. “It was brilliant, but it wasn’t mine,” Zachary said. “It was a team of accountants, partners at Spahr.” Zachary defended the firm’s practices for the Trumps as “aggressive” but “within the letter of the law.”
Mitnick was viewed as “a tax god” inside the firm, said Zachary, who worked at Spahr Lacher from 1986 to 2002 and teamed with Mitnick on the Trumps’ accounts. The family “wouldn’t make a move” without checking with Mitnick, he said. Mitnick even made a cameo appearance (albeit with his name misspelled) in the first chapter of Trump’s 1987 book, “The Art of the Deal.”
Mitnick pressed for every advantage on Trump’s behalf, ever urging Zachary to be bolder. A fundamental Mitnick principle: “If you can’t find me where the law says you can’t do it, you can do it.” Said Zachary: “He always took these very aggressive positions and would never back down. Never. He always felt, ‘I’ll just keep appealing.’”
Mitnick’s team developed virtually all the Trumps’ tax-avoidance maneuvers, Zachary said. “I mean, it was all for their benefit in so many ways,” he said. “It’s not like they were going to question it.”
Donald Trump’s accounting work was much more complex than that of his father. His business operated scores of separate entities, each requiring its own tax filings. Just preparing his annual personal return took three to four months.
Diving into Trump’s personal finances, as Zachary did in the late 1980s, proved bewildering. Warned that his work for Trump was sure to face an audit, Zachary said he took special care to trace every asset, expense and receipt. When he finally finished, he was mystified. Zachary couldn’t find evidence that Trump, in fact, possessed any cash beyond a recent payment in a casino deal.
“I went to Jack Mitnick, and I said, ‘Look, I must be missing something: There’s nothing here!’… I thought for sure I screwed up. I thought for sure I missed something big.”
Zachary recalled Mitnick’s reply. “He just laughed and went: ‘Well, you just figured it out!’”
Spahr took unusual steps to safeguard the confidentiality of Donald Trump’s returns. No work papers or documents could be left on a CPA’s desk overnight; everything had to be carefully locked up.
The secrecy was imposed to hide the chasm between Trump’s public claims and reality, according to Zachary: “He bragged a lot. … More than any other individual that I’ve ever seen, he was very big at promoting that he’s this super-rich billionaire.”
Trump was a difficult client. He demanded discounts on fees and took forever to pay his bills. “Collecting from Trump was awful,” Zachary said. Eventually Spahr agreed to give Trump a 50% discount and allow him 12 months to pay. Zachary said: “Donald always made it clear: ‘You get the privilege of saying you’re Donald Trump’s accountants, so you have to pay the price.’”
Trump’s nearly $1 billion write-off for 1995 represented an aggregation of the enormous losses his business blunders had run up — and Spahr skillfully exploited them on Trump’s behalf. Trump paid no federal income tax in nine of the 11 years from 1984 through 1994, according to tax materials obtained by the Times and publicly released documents.
It is true that the Trumps’ aggressive tactics drew virtually nonstop scrutiny from tax authorities. Indeed, they spent so much time examining the Trumps’ books, Zachary said, that Spahr Lacher had a special room permanently set aside for the IRS’s Trump auditors. (Zachary also cites this scrutiny, and the relatively modest resulting adjustments, as evidence that Spahr’s tactics didn’t cross the line.)
Spahr’s focus on wealth-transfer strategies intensified in the early 1990s, after Fred Trump, a detail-minded workaholic, began suffering from poor health and dementia. One tactic was to divide legal ownership of Fred’s properties into separate family partnerships, so Fred lacked complete control. That helped justify lowball appraisals for tax purposes. “There was an appraiser out there that the IRS hated … because he was so aggressive. And that’s the guy we used,” Zachary said. That appraiser, he said, reduced the claimed values of Fred Trump’s properties by 35% to 40% — and occasionally dramatically more.
By the time Fred Trump died in 1999, Mitnick was gone from the firm. His departure followed a series of troubling lawsuits and other setbacks relating to work for non-Trump clients. In one case brought over Mitnick’s administration of a tax-shelter investment involving coal mine leases, a federal appeals court wrote in 1985: “The record amply demonstrates that he committed fraud.”
