Companies report the death benefits as income, though they usually refer to them by opaque terms. The St. Louis–based Panera Bread Company calls them “mortality dividends” and refers to a death benefit as a “mortality income receivable” in its filings.
Banks have the largest obligations for executive pay and pensions, so it’s not surprising that they are also the biggest buyers of life insurance on workers, which they call “bank-owned life insurance,” or BOLI. Industry consultants estimate that over the coming decades, banks will receive more than $400 billion in death benefits as their retirees and former employees die. Financial filings occasionally disclose income triggered by deaths. Pacific State Bancorp, of Stockton, California, reported $2.6 million in income from a death benefit in 2008. A subsidiary of Conseco, Bankers Life and Casualty, bought life insurance on employees in 2006 and got an almost immediate payout of $2.7 million that year after an employee died.
Most families have no clue that their relatives are covered. Irma Johnson certainly didn’t. Her husband, Daniel, had been a credit-risk manager for Southwest Bank of Texas, which was a predecessor to Amegy Bank. He was diagnosed with two cancerous brain tumors in 1999 and underwent two surgeries and radiation treatment that initially impaired his speech and left him unable to walk. He eventually returned to work, but in 2000 the bank criticized his communication skills and job performance and demoted him.
Despite the demotion, in May 2001, a manager took Daniel aside and told him that the compensation committee of the board of directors had selected him to be eligible for supplemental life insurance of $150,000. All he had to do was sign an agreement to receive the coverage, and a consent form authorizing the bank to purchase an insurance policy on his life. Four months later, the bank fired him. When Daniel died in August 2008, his family received no life insurance death benefits, because the company had terminated the family’s policy when it fired him.
Irma Johnson says her husband didn’t have the “necessary capacity” to make financial decisions when he signed the agreement in 2001, and that the bank should have told him how much it would get when he died. She sued in state court in Houston in February 2009; under Texas law, material omissions can constitute a form of fraud. During the proceedings, Irma learned that the bank, which maintained that it had bought the policies to offset the cost of providing “employee benefits,” had received $4.7 million when her husband died. It settled the case in 2010 for an undisclosed sum.
DEATH AND TAXES
Initially, insurance agents touted the death benefits as the most appealing feature of their plans, and some employers were disappointed when employees didn’t die quickly enough to generate the anticipated “mortality dividends” for that year. In a confidential memo in 1991, an insurance agent wrote to Mutual Benefit Life Insurance Co. that American Electric Power (20,441 employees covered), American Greetings (4,000), R.R. Donnelley (15,624), and Procter & Gamble (14,987) were “acutely aware” that mortality was running at only 50 percent of projected rates.
The Procter & Gamble plan covered only white-collar employees, which might explain its poor death rate (34 percent of projected mortality), the memo noted. But the disappointing death rate at card maker American Greetings was a puzzle, since the plan covered only blue-collar employees, who are expected to have higher mortality rates. (The white-collar employees were covered by a separate policy with Provident.)
Diebold, the agent wrote, had been expecting $675,300 in death benefits since adopting the plan; so far, it was expecting only one “mortality dividend” of $98,000. “Do you think that a mortality dividend of that size relative to their current shortfall will give them comfort?” the memo said.
A company the agent called NCC had a better death rate, he noted: People were dying at 78 percent expected mortality. “However, this includes three suicides within the first year which is highly unusual”—NCC had not had one suicide in twenty-five years until 1990. “Without these suicides, NCC would be running at 33% expected mortality. This fact highly concerns me.”
To keep track of when employees and retirees die, employers regularly check the Social Security Administration’s database of deaths. That’s how CM Holdings monitored its dead former employees. Page after page of a 1990 document called a “Death Run” lays out the names, ages, and Social Security numbers of more than 1,400 who would be worth more dead than alive. Also included was the amount of money the company was to receive when each employee died, even if the death occurred long after he or she left the job. Older workers would bring the company about $120,000 to $200,000 each, while younger workers would generate $400,000 to almost $500,000 each, the document said. (Younger workers yield bigger payouts because, based on actuarial calculations, they are less likely to die soon, so the premium amount buys more coverage for them.)
One of these workers was Felipe M. Tillman. Born in 1963, Tillman was an unlikely source of revenue for CM Holdings. A music lover whose taste ran from opera to jazz and even country music, he played keyboards and drums, sang, and was choral director at his Tulsa, Oklahoma, church. To make ends meet, he took part-time jobs in record stores, including a brief stint at a Camelot Music outlet owned by CM Holdings. As a minimum-wage, part-time employee, he didn’t have health coverage or other benefits. But CM Holdings nonetheless took out a policy on his life. It didn’t have to wait long for a payoff. Tillman died in 1992, of complications from AIDS. He was twenty-nine years old.
CM Holdings used the $168,875 death benefit it received when Tillman died to pay for executive compensation, among other things. Company documents also show that $280 went to Star County Children’s Services to help cover child support payments owed by a nephew of Camelot Music’s founder, who was working at the company at the time.
Another name on the company’s “Death Run” was Margaret Reynolds, of Uniontown, Ohio, born in 1936. Margaret was an administrative assistant and buyer for CM Holdings, making $21,000 a year. In the 1990s, she began deteriorating from the effects of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. In her final years, her adult children, who took turns caring for her, begged the company to provide $5,000 to pay for a special wheelchair so they could take their mother to church. “They said it wasn’t covered,” her son John Reynolds recalled bitterly. His mother died in 1998 at age sixty-two. Her family received a $21,000 benefit from a life insurance policy provided to employees by the company; CM Holdings received a death benefit payout of $180,000.
AN INSURABLE INTEREST
Over time, life insurance began morphing from a tax shelter into a finance tool for executive pay. For decades, if an individual or company wanted to buy life insurance on someone, they had to have an “insurable interest in the person,” that is, the beneficiary of the policy would be directly affected by the insured’s death. This rule existed for obvious reasons: Without it, a person could buy life insurance on a stranger—say, a skydiver, race car driver, or coal miner—and profit from his demise. And if he didn’t die soon enough, the policyholder would have an incentive to push him over a cliff.
Initially, companies bought policies to protect them from the deaths of certain executives, or “key” employees. It made sense for partners in law and accounting firms to buy life insurance on each other. But, encouraged by insurance brokers, companies began buying it on broad swaths of their employees, because by insuring thousands of employees, not just “key men,” the companies can place greater sums in life insurance contracts.
Dow Chemical, the Midland, Michigan, company known for its manufacturing of napalm, breast implants, and Agent Orange, was initially skeptical. An internal memo noted that, except for top-paid executives, it was “doubtful that Dow has an insurable interest in any of its employees.” But it overcame its qualms and by 1992 had purchased life insurance policies on more than 20,000 employees.
Congress had no idea how widespread this practice had become until someone ratted on them. In 1995, a brown envelope was left on the desk of Ken Kies, chi
ef of staff at the Joint Tax Committee. The envelope contained a list of companies that had bought life insurance on employees—along with calculations showing that a company might take in $1.2 billion over ten years by insuring 50,000 of its employees. It also noted that from 1993 to 1995, Wal-Mart had taken out insurance on 350,000 workers.
Lawmakers did the math and were appalled. They weren’t concerned about whether Wal-Mart had an insurable interest in its stock clerks and store greeters, but they did care a lot about the loss of tax revenue. Companies were borrowing money from the policies and deducting the interest. The IRS deemed that the leveraged COLI taken out by seven hundred companies were sham transactions with no business purpose other than to score tax breaks. It filed a flurry of tax court cases, and companies subsequently took big charges for the disallowed deductions for interest on policy loans; among them were American Greetings, the Brooklyn, Ohio, maker of Tender Thoughts brand greeting cards and owner of Holly Hobbie and Care Bears licenses, and W.R. Grace, the Columbia, Maryland, manufacturer of building materials, which took out life insurance on its workers while defending thousands of asbestos-related lawsuits.
Within minutes of the interest-deduction phase-out, companies found a way around it. Instead of borrowing money from insurance companies, they simply borrowed it elsewhere. This was called “indirect leverage.” The practice was especially appealing to banks, which can borrow money cheaply. Banks bought fresh policies on employees and in 1997 were floating the idea that they could buy life insurance on depositors and credit card holders as well. Fannie Mae, the giant mortgage buyer, proposed to insure the lives of home-mortgage holders, but the plan didn’t go far. Congress nixed those ideas and tried to plug the indirect-leverage loophole in 1998. The Joint Tax Committee’s Ken Kies, in classic revolving-door fashion, had quit his government job and was now lobbying for the COLI industry, which led a campaign that blanketed Congress with more than 170,000 letters and faxes and ran radio and newspaper ads targeting lawmakers as anti-business. The effort to close the loophole failed. Former House Ways and Means chairman Bill Archer, who had criticized janitors insurance as a tax shelter in 1995, joined the board of Clark/Bardes, the most influential COLI provider, in 2001.
“RETIREE BENEFITS”
Congress remained suspicious that companies were buying insurance on workers as a tax dodge. Employers said absolutely not: They had a sound business purpose. “The main reason employers are buying life insurance is so that they can provide benefits, in particular retiree medical benefits,” maintained Jack Dolan, a spokesman for the American Council of Life Insurers.
Employers were betting, correctly, that the people making the decisions in Washington knew little about life insurance, taxes, accrual accounting, and retiree health plans. For one thing, the assets in the policies aren’t cash that companies can pull out and spend; they don’t get cash until the covered employees die, so there’s no way the companies can use the policies as a piggy bank to “pay” for health care premiums or prescription drugs. In any case, many companies that bought life insurance on their workers didn’t provide retiree health coverage, or if they did, few of the workers were eligible for it.
Not everyone was snowed. “We do not believe that the purpose of the [plan] was to fund employee benefits,” wrote Judge Robert P. Ruwe in a 1999 U.S. Tax Court ruling against Winn-Dixie. The Jacksonville, Florida, supermarket chain was tussling with the IRS over the legitimacy of deductions it had taken for loans from policies covering 56,000 workers. Judge Ruwe pointed out that staff turnover at Winn-Dixie was so high that few employees were ever eligible for retiree medical benefits, yet the company had continued to collect death benefits on those who left the company before retirement. The judge concluded that the executives “recognized that it was a tax shelter” and that ultimately, over the sixty-year life of the policies, the company hoped to save $2 billion in taxes. The tax court wasn’t taking aim at the company’s practice of insuring its checkout clerks and bag boys; it was going after the interest deduction. And it ultimately won. In 2001, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Eleventh Circuit in Atlanta upheld the tax court decision, and in 2008 the U.S. Supreme Court declined to hear Winn-Dixie’s appeal. The interest deduction was dead.
Though employers lost the interest deduction, they didn’t lose the desire to buy life insurance on workers, because they could still use policies as vehicles to generate tax-free income. In the early 2000s, the practice was proliferating. In 2002, Nestlé USA had policies covering 18,000 workers, Pitney Bowes Inc. had policies covering 23,000, and Procter & Gamble Co. had 15,000 covered workers. The companies all claimed they were using the policies to finance employee benefits. “We have not done this for financial gain,” Nestlé said. American Electric Power claimed that the death benefits were “dedicated to retiree benefits.” Hillenbrand Industries Inc., a coffin maker in Batesville, Indiana, said it bought the policies to beef up employee benefits.
MANAGERS INSURANCE
By the early 2000s, the days of companies buying policies on masses of low-level clerks and cashiers were largely over as more states, including California, Michigan, Ohio, Illinois, and Minnesota, required companies to secure employee consent to include them in coverage. Some companies had done this in the 1990s, including Walt Disney, which offered workers an incentive of a modest amount of life insurance without charge in exchange for giving the company permission to take out a policy on them.
This didn’t dampen sales, because companies figured they could take out larger amounts of death benefits if they bought new policies on higher-paid employees. Janitors insurance mutated into “managers insurance.”
Obtaining a manager’s consent wasn’t difficult. Bank of America appealed to their company spirit, telling managers that letting the bank buy coverage on their lives would help the company. The New York Times Co. offered a carrot: It told eligible executive-level employees they could participate in a deferred-compensation plan if they let the company make itself the beneficiary of insurance on their lives. Employers rarely tell employees how much they’re covered for, but the amounts can be substantial.
Focusing on middle managers has an additional advantage: It’s easier for employers to make the case that they use the insurance to finance employee benefits, since managers are almost always eligible for benefits, whereas store clerks usually are not. Under tax law, life insurance purchased by a corporation is supposed to have a business purpose. Illegal tax avoidance is not a sanctioned business purpose.
Initially, insurers figured this was a good move: Higher-income employees tend to have longer life expectancies, which meant the policies would eventually be worth more. But the strategy could backfire. They failed to consider that covering a group of people in one place carries additional mortality risk. After the September 11 terrorist attacks, Hartford Life Insurance reported an after-tax charge of $2 million related to the attacks. This didn’t mean that Hartford paid out only $2 million; this was how much Hartford lost on having written the policies. Companies like Aon, the giant risk manager and insurer that lost 176 employees in the World Trade Center, reaped tens of millions in death benefits.[12]
The mass death of heavily insured executives and other employees in the Trade Center attacks was a wake-up call to insurers about the amount of financial exposure they had when there was a high concentration of insureds in a single location. In 2003, at the annual Society of Actuaries meeting in Washington, D.C., a Towers Perrin group-pricing actuary noted that insurers had begun requiring employers to provide not only the ages and Social Security numbers of employees, but also their work addresses, so the employer could assess the potential financial risk of multiple casualties from mass shootings, terrorist attacks, building collapses, and other disasters.
WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE
Janitors insurance doesn’t kill people, but it strikes many people as unseemly, if not creepy, which may explain why the sellers and buyers of the insurance aren’t eager to talk about it. Such rel
uctance to discuss a practice that accounts for one-third of life insurance sales might make CFOs take pause. If they really thought the practice was appropriate, it would be highlighted in the annual report.
A string of lawsuits in Texas beginning in the 1990s, in which employers have been steadily on the losing end, shows that when the practice is put before a jury (a Texas jury, at least), companies have good reason to worry.
One of the earliest suits involved the death of William Smith, in 1991. The twenty-year-old was working at a Stop N Go convenience store in Pasadena, Texas, for extra Christmas money when a robber shot him dead. Angela Smith, his eighteen-year-old widow, who was still in high school, was touched when the company offered her and her one year-old son, Brandon, a payment of $60,000.
Normally, if a worker is killed on the job, his family receives death benefits from the state workers’ compensation system. But to save money, the store’s owner, Houston-based National Convenience Stores, didn’t participate in the program. Still, to protect itself from the cost of wrongful death or negligence lawsuits arising from workplace deaths, it took out life insurance on its clerks. The policy, from Lloyd’s of London, paid NCS $250,000 after William Smith died.
Angela Smith sued NCS in state court anyway, alleging violation of Texas’s insurable-interest rules and seeking payment of the COLI money to Smith’s estate. In 1999, the court awarded the estate $456,513, which included insurance, attorney fees, and interest. NCS appealed that judgment, and in 2002 agreed to settle with Smith for $390,000. Valero Energy Corp., in San Antonio, acquired NCS and its COLI policies in 2001, through its acquisition of Ultramar Diamond Shamrock Corp., which had earlier bought NCS.
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