Retirement Heist

AFTER FORTY-TWO YEARS working in a coal mine, Elmer Daugherty could barely breathe. Doctors told him he had pneumoconiosis, commonly called black lung disease, a disabling, incurable ailment that has killed ten thousand miners over the past decade. His employer, Constellation Energy, provides disability and workers’ compensation for those injured or sickened on the job. It also provides black lung disease coverage, a benefit mandated by Congress.

Daugherty applied for black lung benefits in 2001, but the company denied his claim. Over the next three years, Daugherty was examined by nine different pulmonologists, underwent a battery of painful tests, and had more than thirty X-rays. Even though most of the doctors agreed he had black lung caused by his years in a coal mine, the company continued to deny his claim. He died in 2005.

Daugherty’s struggle to be awarded black lung benefits wasn’t unusual. Industry-wide, only fifteen claims in one hundred are paid. Providing benefits wouldn’t have put a dent in Constellation’s finances: Black lung is such a common outcome of working in coal mines that the federal government requires coal companies to pay into a central fund, run by the Labor Department, to finance the benefits.

But black lung coverage has something else is common with pensions: it’s a “postretirement obligation,” and under accounting rules is treated like other retiree liabilities, including retiree health care, long term disability, executive supplemental pensions, and deferred compensation. Coal producers must estimate the amounts they will likely pay over their afflicted miner’s lives, as short as they may be, and record that obligation on their financial statements.

These accounting rules, which reward employers for cutting retiree benefits, also provide them with an incentive to prevent workers and retirees from collecting benefits in the first place. Denying claims doesn’t just save coal companies money, it also helps the bottom line.

Consider the black lung obligations at Console Energy, one of the largest coal producers in the country. The $185 million “coal workers’ pneumoconiosis” obligation is calculated using assumptions including the incidence of disability, medical costs, mortality, death benefits, and interest rates.

But because the company has been so successful in denying claims, it has a pool of actuarial gains to draw on each year to offset the expense of its black lung obligation. As the company puts it in its financial disclosures: The gains are the result of “lower approval rates for filed claims than our assumptions originally reflected.” In 2010, Console recognized $21.6 million in gains; as far as accounting rules go, gains from denying benefits to dying miners are no different from profits from selling coal and methane gas.

In an effort to get the coal industry to shoulder more of the costs for its afflicted workers, the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act of 2010 created new rules to make it harder for coal companies to deny claims. For one thing, the new law established the legal presumption that miners suffering from totally disabling black lung disease who have worked at least fifteen years in coal mines, have, in fact, contracted the disease on the job, not from smoking, living with a smoker, or some other means. And rather than a miner’s having to prove he contracted the disease by breathing coal dust, under the new law, a coal company that wants to deny benefits has to prove that a miner doesn’t have black lung disease or didn’t contract it from breathing coal dust. Coal companies are also required to continue paying benefits to dependent survivors, even if the miners with black lung disease die from something else, such as lung cancer.

Console Energy estimated that the impact of the new law increased its black lung liability by $45.7 million. But thanks to the flexibility built into benefits accounting, this didn’t hurt earnings. As the company explains, somewhat obliquely, in its financial disclosures, “In conjunction with the law change, Console Energy conducted an extensive experience study regarding the rate of claim incidence. Based on historical company data and industry data, with emphasis on recent history, certain assumptions were revised,” it says. “Most notably, the expected number of claims, prior to the law change, was reduced to more appropriately reflect Console Energy’s historical experience… This resulted in a decrease in the liability of $47.7 million.”

In other words, the company retrofitted its assumptions, which not only kept its black lung obligation from increasing but actually reduced it by $2 million. Combined with gains it took from denying benefits to dying miners in the past, the company reported income of $3.5 million for its black lung benefits program in 2010.

Only in the alternative universe of postretirement benefits accounting can a company profit from its black lung benefits plan. And Console Energy will likely continue to do so. The company disclosure is basically telling the world that while the company may be required to pay benefits to more old-timers, it will find ways to more aggressively deny them to everyone else.

Massey Energy, another giant coal producer, didn’t go through the same actuarial acrobatics. It reported a $98 million obligation for “traumatic workers’ compensation” benefits, which is what the company estimates it will pay for black lung, crushed limbs, and other traumatic injuries one might expect to find in mines that have racked up thousands of safety violations.

As for its black lung benefits, it estimated that the new law would increase its obligation by only $11.3 million, pushing its total black lung obligation to $77 million. “We do not believe the impact of these changes will significantly impact our financial position,” its filings said. The total amount Massey Energy paid out to miners for their black lung benefits in 2010 was just $2.4 million.

To put this into perspective, compare it with what the company spent for a single Massey retiree, chief executive Don Blankenship, who stepped down in December 2010. During his eighteen years as CEO, Blankenship aggressively promoted “mountaintop removal,” the practice of blowing off the tops of mountains to uncover seams of coal, and was at the helm when one of the company’s slurry ponds spilled 300 million gallons of toxic sludge into nearby streams, an event the EPA calls the worst man-made environmental catastrophe in the Southeast.

Though healthy for shareholders, the company’s practices haven’t been healthy for miners—or their families and neighbors, who have complained that poisoned groundwater has caused a litany of illnesses. Fatal mine accidents have been common, including the worst mining accident in forty years: the explosion at the Upper Big Branch mine in 2010, which killed twenty-nine miners. After the tragedy, shareholders sued Blankenship and the board of directors for mismanagement, and the Justice Department launched a criminal investigation into the Big Branch disaster.

In the wake of all this, Blankenship decided to retire, a decision for which the board awarded him $12 million in cash. He’ll also collect a pension worth at least $5.6 million, and $27.2 million in deferred compensation, which was on top of $10.4 million in pay. He can remain, rent-free, in a company-owned home in Sprigg, West Virginia, a property well protected by steel fences and security cameras. He’ll retain his company office, plus a full-time secretary. And he gets to keep a 1965 blue Chevrolet truck.

Blankenship will likely be healthier than most of his neighbors. Rolling Stone reported that Massey Energy constructed a pipeline to bring potable water from Matewan to Blankenship’s home. Corporate filings show that should he get sick, the company will pay 100 percent of the health coverage for him and his family.

The total payout for all this in 2010? More than $55 million.

The total the company paid its retired coal miners in 2010 for black lung, traumatic workers’ compensation, and other retiree benefits: $37 million.

HOLDING THE LINE

Profits may motivate many employers to hold the line on awarding pensions, retiree health care, or disability. Pension law helps them tackle retirees who push back.

Victor Washington, a former San Francisco 49ers running back, spent most of his life fighting the NFL for disability benefits. His battle illustrates how federal benefits law, ERISA, though intended to protect workers, has become a legal shield for employers, enabling them to deny benefits with no penalty—and even finance their legal defense using pension assets.

Football was Washington’s ticket out of the rougher towns of northern New Jersey, where he’d spent part of his teen years in an orphanage in Elizabeth. A college scholarship eventually led to the 49ers, who picked him in the 1970 NFL draft. He was the team’s rookie of the year in 1971–72 and went to the Pro Bowl at the end of the season. The fivefoot-eleven, 195-pound Washington later played for the Houston Oilers and Buffalo Bills. Playing as a running back, defensive back, and wide receiver, he took the field against the likes of Joe Namath, Terry Bradshaw, and O.J. Simpson. At his peak, he was earning about $50,000 a year. When he racked up injuries to a shoulder (in 1973), back (1974), and elbow (1976), he says teams gave him painkillers and Valium so he could keep playing. “I took every play like it was my last play—that’s the only way to play,” Washington says.

Washington left the game the same way most players do: He was too injured to play. Knee trouble sidelined him for good in 1976. He’d lasted longer than most: Players on average leave after 3.2 years, often after multiple injuries. Players from the 1960s to the 1980s are a particularly busted-up bunch, having played on artificial turf that was little more than a carpet over poured concrete, in flimsy helmets and protective gear that provided little protection to someone who was rammed in the head by opposing players using the kinds of maneuvers that have since been banned. Concussions were regarded as badges of honor and, to keep players in the game, doctors doped them up with amphetamines and painkillers and looked the other way when players bulked up on steroids, oblivious to the long-term effects.

When Washington left pro football, he was thirty years old and had no other marketable skills. His marriage unraveled, and he moved in with his grandmother in New Jersey. He enrolled in business courses at a community college, but, in pain and depressed, he couldn’t concentrate or sit still. It would take more than two decades for the league to acknowledge that concussions cause brain damage. Seven years after leaving the game, Washington, who didn’t have health coverage and couldn’t afford physical therapy, applied for football disability benefits and went through the gauntlet of doctors the league hires to evaluate players’ claims. Orthopedists hired by the NFL plan enumerated his ailments, which included arthritis, degenerative joint disease, and an inability to fully extend one knee. A Rutgers University professor of psychiatry hired by the NFL concluded that depression and difficulty with concentration, “combined with his physical injury and significant pain (both knee and back) indeed render him disabled by his football related injuries.”

One would think that awarding the benefits would be a simple call. But league officials, though agreeing that Washington had a disability, deemed that it wasn’t football-related, so his benefit would be $750 a month instead of $4,000.[18] Washington appealed, and after more medical reviews, league doctors again concluded that Washington was disabled totally by football injuries. The determination went to the trustees for a vote, and they deadlocked: Three trustees representing players agreed his disability was caused by football; team-owner trustees said that Washington’s problems were the result of a crummy childhood, a failed marriage, and money troubles. It was all in his head—but not the result of a concussion. In 1986, three years after Washington first applied for benefits, the decision went to an arbitrator, who noted that the plan defined a football-related disability as being the result of “a football injury.” Focusing on the word “a,” the arbitrator said this meant a former player had to have a single injury to be eligible for football-related disability benefits. Because Washington had several injuries, he was out of luck.

TIME OUT

Based on this creative interpretation, the NFL plan denied the claims of many other former players that were pending at the time. If Washington’s claim had been brought before a state court, it would have come under state insurance laws regarding unfair claims denials, where a judge may have concluded that the arbitrator’s decision was “arbitrary and capricious,” a legal standard referring to a decision that has no reasonable basis.

But employees benefits cases fall under ERISA, which “preempts,” or overrides, state laws, including insurance laws about fairness. Where does that leave plaintiffs? In a black hole.

When Congress created ERISA in 1974, it assumed that the law would apply to pension plans, so it granted trustees of a pension plan broad “discretion” to make decisions, such as how to invest money and how to determine who is eligible for benefits. When it comes to pensions, this can be a straightforward decision: If the rules say that a person who works five years is eligible for a pension, then he’s eligible.

But in 1987, the Supreme Court ruled that ERISA covers not only pensions but other benefits, such as medical and disability plans. Suddenly, trustees were deciding what constitutes a disability. But few players have disabilities as clear-cut as those of wide receiver Darryl Stingley, who was paralyzed during a preseason game in 1978. The more common injuries cited in disability claims—cervical-spine injuries, osteoarthritis, and knee, hip, and other joint injuries—can’t be as easily measured. Debilitating problems may not show up for years and can be exacerbated by the use of painkillers and steroids, along with substance abuse.

And when it comes to depression or head injuries, determinations can be especially subjective. For years, the NFL steadfastly maintained that there was little credible research linking football with developing health problems, such as arthritis, heart disease, or cognitive impairment, in later life. This was like the tobacco industry insisting that smoking doesn’t cause lung damage.

Though Congress didn’t intend trustees to have so much power to decide who gets benefits, employers have blocked and tackled every effort to create rules similar to those existing in state courts. The wellpublicized medical-claims denial cases in the 1990s weren’t really about rogue behavior by HMOs; rather, they were merely examples of what employers and insurers could do when unfettered by state insurance laws. Benefits provided in the workplace are all shielded by ERISA, which is why the employer-plan market has been so lucrative for insurers. Disability, long-term care, life insurance—if it’s provided in the workplace, even if the employee pays 100 percent of the cost, it falls under ERISA, and has no state-law protections for unfair denials or for compensatory or punitive damages.

Ironically, the very people who decided that benefits would fall under ERISA are themselves exempt from that federal law: Congress. All government employees are exempt from ERISA, which means that judges, lawmakers, police, and municipal meter readers have access to state courts to ensure their benefits, while their neighbors who are employed by private businesses do not.[19]

Vic Washington could have created a league of his own out of all the players the NFL denied paying disability to. Scores of other players from the 1960s to the 1980s faced similar long fights with the league over disability. Although most NFL players suffer injuries of one sort or another during their careers, only ninety of the more than seven thousand former pro players covered by the NFL disability plan were receiving football disability benefits at the time Washington was pursuing his claim in the courts.[20] And the total amount the league was paying in disability benefits was a mere $1.2 million a month, or just $14.5 million for the year. Of that, about $8 million came from the league’s more than $5.2 billion in annual revenue, and the rest was paid from the players’ pension plan, the Bert Bell/Pete Rozelle NFL Player Retirement Plan.

The NFL has maintained that the generosity of the benefits attracts unqualified applicants, which is why it has to aggressively hold the line to protect the plan. “The trustees have to make some tough calls,” said a key league attorney, Douglas Ell. He maintained that many former players are too quick to blame football for causing their problems and that the league wants to avoid awarding benefits to someone “sitting in his den drinking beer and feeling sad and thinking football made him crazy. The trustees are fiduciaries, and can’t just say, ‘This guy was in the Hall of Fame’… and pay him extra money he doesn’t qualify for.”

Certainly, players from the 1970s and 1980s didn’t have the gargantuan pay packages that today’s stars negotiate and have therefore had an incentive to apply for football disability benefits, but that doesn’t mean they’re all mooches. “Injuries may not put you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life, but you still have injuries,” said Randy Beisler, who was a guard and defensive end with the Philadelphia Eagles, San Francisco 49ers, and Kansas City Chiefs until a broken neck put him out of the game in 1978. Although NFL doctors concluded in the 1990s that he was 80 percent disabled, he gave up seeking benefits after his claim dragged on for five years.

NO FOUL, NO PENALTY

Another hurdle for employees and retirees: ERISA doesn’t say anything about punitive damages; there are no damages for wrongful death, financial loss, or pain and suffering. With no penalties for egregious conduct, employers have little disincentive to aggressively deny claims. The worst that can happen is that the plans can later be ordered to provide the benefit.

Basically, under federal benefits law, if you mug an old man and steal his wallet, the worst that can happen is that you’ll have to give the wallet back. If the old guy dies from his injuries, you won’t have to do even that.

Mike Webster had been a center on the offensive line for the Pittsburgh Steelers from 1974 to 1988, then played two more seasons for the Kansas City Chiefs. He played 177 consecutive games—the fifth highest in league history—and the games took a toll. Webster suffered multiple concussions in his career, and when he retired in 1991 he was so cognitively impaired that he was unable to hold a job. According to court papers, he earned $10,000 in 1992, and $1,000 in 1993, from signing football cards and making appearances. In the 1994–95 season, the Chiefs hired him as a “conditioning coach,” mostly because team officials felt sorry for him. Webster had been homeless at various points in the 1990s and slept in his car, train stations, and the Chiefs’ equipment room.

In 1998, Webster applied for disability benefits, and a series of doctors, including a neurologist, a psychiatrist, and a psychologist, concluded that he was totally and permanently disabled; one noted that he suffered from a “traumatic or punch drunk encephalopathy, caused by multiple head blows received while playing in the NFL.” And they all concluded that his disability arose when he was an active player, in 1991.

The NFL plan trustees, however, pointed to a medical report by a neurologist Webster had visited in 1996, who made no mention of a head injury. On this basis, the trustees concluded that there was doubt about the onset of Webster’s disability, and awarded him “degenerative” benefits rather than “active” benefits, making him ineligible for payments retroactive to 1991.

Webster appealed. His case dragged on. He died in 2002, at age fifty, while his appeal was pending. In 2003, the plan denied his appeal. The administrator of Webster’s estate then sued the NFL plan. In March 2005, a federal court said the plan had “abused its discretion,” because even if the trustees had found a “scintilla” of evidence to support their contention that Webster wasn’t disabled until 1996, that wasn’t enough to ignore the mountain of evidence presented by its own doctors. The court awarded Webster’s estate the value of the benefits he should have been paid.

RESUME PLAY

Vic Washington thought he had one more chance to qualify for disability benefits when the NFL and the players’ union adopted a new disability plan with more flexible rules in 1993. But the NFL trustees denied his claim, providing no explanation. When Washington appealed again, the league plan hired private investigators to question his neighbors, friends, minister, and ex-wife, seeking evidence that his injuries were exaggerated and that he’d held a paid job. It scrutinized his income tax returns for evidence he’d held a job. He had not.

Washington had moved to Phoenix, where he’d played once in a college game, against Arizona State University; his mother was in a nearby nursing home. He joined the local Black Republican group and was a volunteer minister in a local Baptist church.

Finally, in 1998, the NFL plan offered Washington $400,000 to settle his longstanding disability dispute, and he accepted it, taking advice from a former player turned attorney, who was unfamiliar with ERISA law and didn’t know that the NFL had just lost a critical Court of Appeals case in the Eighth Circuit in Minneapolis. A judge had ruled in favor of an ex-player who, like Washington, was denied football disability benefits because he had more than a single injury. “To require that a disability result from a single, identifiable football injury when the relevant plan language speaks of ‘a football injury while an active player’ is to place undue and inappropriate emphasis on the word ‘a.’ ” The judge concluded that the NFL’s decision to deny benefits was “arbitrary and capricious.”

When Washington later learned of the earlier case, he felt like he’d been duped into taking the settlement, and sued the league, asking a court to set aside his settlement on the ground that the NFL had breached a fiduciary duty by not telling him of the other decision five years earlier.

A STRONG DEFENSE

Washington was up against a tough team. To tackle players who file disability claims, the NFL has long relied on Groom Law Group, a Washington, D.C., law firm whose ranks include former officials from the Labor Department, the Treasury, and other agencies.

Groom’s star player in these football disputes is Douglas Ell, who has handled—and won—most of the NFL’s disability suits since 1994. Like other lawyers who defend plans, he said the trustees are only doing what the plan required to protect resources for everyone. “A lot of people say, ‘The evil NFL denies disability benefits,’ but that’s not the issue,” said Ell. “It’s whether the person met the terms of the plan.” There’s a reason the law gives the trustees the power to overrule the league’s own doctors. Without the legal protections ERISA provides employers, he said, they’d have to lower the benefits they pay, because they’d be paying ineligible claims. “The people running the plans shouldn’t be secondguessed by judges. We want to pay the player, not the lawyers.”

With Ell heading the NFL’s defense, the league has enjoyed an impressive winning streak in the courtroom. Of more than twenty lawsuits filed by retired players in the decade before Washington filed his suit, all but four were initially decided in favor of the NFL plan, and of those four, two were reversed on appeal.

Taking on the NFL, Washington faced a well-funded foe, as do most employees or retirees who challenge a pension decision: ERISA allows plan administrators to use pension assets to pay for fees associated with running the plans; these include fees to record keepers, investment managers, consultants, and… lawyers. Thus, the defense pockets are very deep. The NFL paid Groom Law Group $2.9 million from its pension assets in 2008, and roughly $25 million over the prior decade, though not all of that was for defense work. Former players, who may have little or no income other than Social Security disability benefits, usually crash into a wall when they try to find an attorney to represent them.

Like most people who initially flail about looking for legal help with their pensions, the players contact lawyers they pull from the Yellow Pages or Internet ads, oftentimes personal injury lawyers unfamiliar with the boggling quirks of the federal law—as evidenced by the fact that they often file the claims in state court, where they have a brief life.

Most people can’t afford hourly fees for an attorney, so they seek out lawyers who take cases on a contingency-fee basis. But few attorneys represent employees and retirees in ERISA cases because the most a plaintiff can recover is the benefit, not other damages that can finance the case. Yet another quirk of ERISA: The attorneys, if successful, are awarded fees only at the court’s discretion. Plaintiffs face a financial risk as well: If they lose, they could be required to pay the other side’s costs. Delvin Williams, a former 49ers and Miami Dolphins running back, successfully sued the NFL for seven years’ worth of back benefits, but the NFL appealed, and the Ninth Circuit not only reversed his victory but also ordered him to reimburse the NFL plan $75,000 for legal fees. The league’s plan deducts $625 a month from his disability checks. His debt will be paid off in 2012.

Washington had been fortunate enough to find an attorney willing to take his case on a contingency basis, and initially, it seemed as though he would prevail. In March 2005, a federal judge in Phoenix ruled that the NFL plan had breached a duty to Washington by not disclosing relevant facts. The judge ordered the NFL plan to reconsider Washington’s claim for football-related disability payments.

The league stalled, at one point saying they were suspending processing his claim until Washington sent twenty years’ worth of income tax returns. The league then appealed, and in 2007 the U.S. Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals reversed the lower court’s ruling and handed a victory to the NFL. Victor Washington’s long game in the courts was finally over.

Washington refused to believe it. He continued to mail copies of his records and appeals to lawmakers, the media, and anyone he thought would listen. He died of heart and renal failure in a Pennsylvania hospice on New Year’s Eve 2008. He was sixty-two. Elapsed time: twenty-eight years.

PENSION PARTISAN

Another quirk in ERISA ensures that most employees and retirees who dispute a benefits decision are knocked off the field before the game even starts. Before they can take a case to court, they must follow a lengthy claims-and-appeals procedure that can take months or years, trying to obtain critical documents and attempting to meet tricky deadlines.

And they must deal with the benefits clerks. Anyone who has waited on hold to talk to a benefits plan administrator at a call center in Bangalore knows what a Kafkaesque process this can be.

If anyone was up for the challenge, it was Fred Loewy. He had worked in a lab at Motorola Inc. near Phoenix, Arizona, for more than thirty-five years, analyzing systems failures in guided missiles and nuclear power plants. As a teenager in France, he had joined the partisans and fought the Nazis. So Loewy was not daunted by complex calculations or uneven battles.

But he had never tried to fight a benefits administrator. His battle began the day after he retired in 1998. Loewy (pronounced Low-ey) noticed that his pension had been calculated incorrectly. It wasn’t a big deal—under $100 a month, reducing his pension to $1,100.

Loewy wrote a polite letter to the pension administrator, asking the staff to review their math and recalculate his pension. Instead of an answer, the next month the administrator sent him a check for $111, with no explanation. Loewy wrote again. A month later he received a check for $222, again with no explanation. This was just the beginning of a long, unhappy relationship. But before Loewy could pursue the matter further, his wife died unexpectedly, and he put aside his pension dispute while he dealt with family matters and medical claims.

He resumed his pension pursuit in December 2001, when he mailed a certified letter to the pension administrator asking it to explain how it was calculating his pension and to send copies of the pension documents they used, which are rights under ERISA.

After a month went by with no response, Loewy phoned the administrative offices and was told his letter hadn’t arrived. He sent a certified letter a second time, and again got no answer. In February 2002, he called again, and was again told that his letter hadn’t arrived. In March, not having heard back, he sent his letter a fourth time, and, in April, a fifth time. Finally, an administrator wrote back saying they had received his letter. In May, the administrator sent Loewy a copy of the pension-plan rules from 1998, the year Loewy retired, but didn’t include an explanation of how it calculated his pension.

Loewy already had a copy of the pension rules booklet from 1998. What he really wanted was an explanation of how his benefit was being calculated. So in June he wrote to Motorola’s Appeals Center, complaining that his requests for a review of his pension calculation had been “consistently ignored.” They ignored him.

After five more months of phone calls and letters, Motorola mailed Loewy a copy of the 1998 plan rules, which it had already sent in June. Loewy persisted. In January 2003, he began addressing his monthly letters to Noemi Lopez, an administrator in the Scottsdale office with whom he had been corresponding. His letter was returned, unclaimed, after three delivery attempts.

In March, after another round of unanswered letters and phone calls, Loewy reached Lopez on the phone. She said she hadn’t received his letter. He re-sent it. At the end of March, when he called again, Lopez said she had received his letter, and would write back regarding his pension calculation. She didn’t.

A month later, at the end of April, Lopez called Loewy and said she’d received an actuary’s report regarding his benefits calculation and would write him within three or four days. She never wrote back.

Plan participants have a legal right to review pension documents at the company’s offices, a point noted in a booklet Motorola had distributed to employees. Inspired by this, the diminutive Loewy, clad in a three-piece, drove twenty miles from his Glendale home to Motorola’s offices in Scottsdale and asked to see the pension documents and speak to Lopez. The receptionist told him he couldn’t see any documents, and that Lopez was leaving the building for a meeting.

Loewy’s efforts were not completely in vain. The company finally responded. Shortly after his visit to the Scottsdale office, he got a letter from Frederic Singerman, a lawyer at Seyfarth Shaw, a large law firm in Washington, D.C., which represented Motorola, saying it was too late for Loewy to file a claim. Loewy had never seen a reference to a statute of limitations, so he wrote back, asking the lawyer to provide more details about the time frame for filing an appeal.

Two weeks later, Singerman replied, stating that the appeal period had expired in 1998 after Loewy first contacted the company. He added that Loewy was free to sue, but that it was too late. “Legal action on your part is no longer timely.”

The letter added that Lopez would send the plan documents for 1995 to 1998, but that Loewy’s continued efforts would be in vain. “If you are aware of other documents relevant to your claim, you will need to specify them. However, we cannot permit you to use the Plan’s offices to browse Plan records without limit in hopes of finding something ‘useful,’ and we are not aware of additional documentation that would serve to perfect your claim.”

The letter stated that Lopez “has been very cooperative and patient in explaining how your benefits were calculated and why the calculation amount was correct.” That month, Lopez was promoted to project manager and second vice president at Hewitt Associates, an outside administrator based in Lincolnshire, Illinois, to whom Motorola had outsourced the pension administration earlier in the year.

By this point, most retirees would have given up. But Loewy was tougher than he looked. His father, Elias, had run a radio shop in Alsace, France, until 1940, when his family was interned. An old business partner of his father’s, who was in charge of the local police, helped them obtain false identity papers, and the family fled to the mountains in the south, near Montpelier. A teacher whose fiancé had been killed in the First World War taught them how to pass as Catholics. Fred, then sixteen, used his chemistry skills to make shoe polish and soap, which he traded for tobacco that he swapped for food. He also helped his father harvest chestnuts and fix radios and sewing machines. In May 1943, Fred and his older brother, Max, joined an underground partisan group, Saint-Germain-de-Calberte. Fred repaired the ragtag weapons the unit cobbled together and fought in numerous skirmishes against the Germans. In August 1944, Max was killed.

After the war, Fred, his sister, and his parents resettled in the United States. Elias’s health was shattered, so they looked for someplace warm. They knew little about Phoenix, but they’d heard it needed a radio repair shop. Loewy worked in the family business until 1962, when he got a job at Motorola. He enjoyed his job as senior staff reliability engineer so much that he delayed retiring until he was almost seventy-three.

LEGAL AID

Although Motorola’s lawyer said it was futile to sue, Loewy hired a lawyer anyway. He found a good ally. There are relatively few experts on pension law who represent plaintiffs; most represent employers. One of those who did happened to practice in Phoenix. Susan Martin is not only willing to take on boggling, protracted cases against deep-pocketed adversaries, but she has a soft spot for long-shot cases involving little guys being shoved around by large Washington law firms. And she’d never had a client as organized as Loewy, who showed up with every document, letter, records of phone calls, post office receipts, and Post-it notes going back to 1998, organized chronologically.

Martin is a tenacious fighter in her own right. And having raised three teenagers, she has little patience for companies that flout the rules. Martin ascertained that the pertinent pension plan rules were contained in a 1978 pension document and asked Motorola to produce it. No response. She requested it again. No response. Martin filed a motion to compel the company to produce the document. Motorola finally complied—a year after she’d requested it. An actuary who then reviewed the pension rules determined that Motorola had failed to pay Loewy the correct amount for eight years. It owed him a total of $181,500.

Motorola didn’t agree with that conclusion. So Loewy, having “exhausted all his administrative remedies,” as they say in ERISA, was finally free to sue. The complaint, filed in federal court in Phoenix, was a class action because, as it turned out, Motorola had miscalculated the benefits of roughly five hundred other retirees who, like Loewy, had worked past age sixty-five.

In court, Motorola maintained that it had calculated Loewy’s pension correctly. Its reasoning: Just because the method it used wasn’t in the rule book, the plan didn’t actually have language forbidding the method, and thus it was allowed.

It also said it had cooperated exhaustively with Loewy, and that its benefits administrator, Hewitt, had spent 196 hours responding to Loewy’s lawyer’s document requests. In a sworn affidavit, Lopez said she had “repeatedly explained the benefits calculation and gave him plan documents.”

As his claim wended through the court, Loewy spent his time organizing and translating his records from the war years, including a eulogy that a Protestant clergyman gave in 1944 at his brother’s funeral: “Max found death in this uneven battle,” the cleric said. He fell against an adversary that had outclassed him “in number and strength of weapons.”

Sifting through old photographs of his days with the partisans, he came to a picture of Max in his school uniform before the war, and he shook his head. “I’m eighty. My days are numbered. I only hope to live long enough to see this suit completed.”

He got his wish. The judge didn’t buy Motorola’s arguments, and the company agreed to settle. If Motorola had recalculated Loewy’s pension in the first place, when he had asked for it, it would have been out a total of about $9,300. Having picked a fight with the wrong guy, Motorola now had to pay more than $11 million to more than one thousand retirees. The payments went out in 2006. Loewy died a few months later.