Chapter 2 - David Mercer
David did not congratulate me.
That is why he had been my attorney for twenty seven years.
He asked:
“Are you injured?”
“Yes.”
“Police report?”
“Not yet.”
“Medical records?”
“Yes.”
“Witnesses?”
“Forty.”
“Good.”
Then:
“Now tell me whether this sale is revenge or business.”
I almost laughed.
“What difference?”
“A great deal.”
I told him everything.
The birthday.
The thirty hits.
Amber.
The watch.
Brandon telling me never to return.
David listened.
Then said:
“Redwood can sell the property.”
“Yes.”
“But Brandon and Amber have occupied it for five years.”
“I know.”
“You cannot simply change locks at noon and dump their clothes on sidewalk.”
“I know.”
“They have a written occupancy agreement, but the length and facts may create statutory obligations. We do this correctly.”
“Fine.”
“You want fastest legal route or maximum pain?”
I looked out the window of my small Galveston condominium.
“Legal.”
“Good answer.”
Redwood’s agreement contained a provision I had forgotten.
The occupants had a revocable residential license subject to thirty day termination after transfer of ownership unless the new owner agreed otherwise.
David said:
“We give proper notice.”
“They stay thirty days?”
“Likely. Maybe longer if they contest. That is the law.”
“Fine.”
I did not need them homeless by lunch.
I needed the house no longer serving as proof that they could treat me however they wanted.
David continued:
“Do you have buyer?”
“Yes.”
That surprised him.
“Who?”
“Calder Ridge Development.”
“They’ve wanted that lot for two years.”
“Yes.”
“They planned demolition.”
“I know.”
The mansion sat on 1.7 acres.
Calder Ridge wanted to combine it with an adjacent parcel for a high end redevelopment.
I had rejected two previous offers because Brandon loved the house.
That morning, I called their acquisition director.
They offered $4.1 million cash equivalent, subject to expedited title and occupancy conditions.
Not full market maximization.
Enough.
David said:
“Do not sign anything until title runs.”
“Why?”
“It’s clean.”
“You haven’t looked in two years.”
I did not like that sentence.
“What could Brandon do?”
“Hopefully nothing.”
David was right to check.
At 9:32, I filed a police report.
The detective asked why I had waited.
“I needed medical care.”
“Did you defend yourself?”
“No.”
“Any threats?”
“He told me I had nothing left.”
“Did he threaten to kill you?”
“No.”
“Amber strike you?”
“She kicked my hand.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
I provided guest names.
No exaggeration.
By ten, David had closing counsel reviewing title.
At 10:18, his assistant called.
“Mr. Reeves, David needs you on secure conference.”
I joined.
David’s face was tight.
“What?”
“There’s a deed of trust recorded against the mansion.”
I stopped.
“That’s impossible.”
“It appears Redwood Capital pledged the property eighteen months ago.”
“No.”
“Amount: two point eight million.”
I stood.
“To whom?”
“Lone Star Meridian Bank.”
“I never borrowed from them.”
“We know.”
“How?”
“The recorded document includes a manager resolution.”
“Signed by?”
“Franklin Reeves.”
I stared.
My signature.
Or something pretending to be.
David continued:
“Notarized.”
“By who?”
“A Texas notary named Amber Louise Reeves.”
My daughter in law.
The room went silent.
I had called to sell a house because my son beat me.
The title search had just revealed they may have tried to mortgage it without me.
“Did bank fund?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Call them.”
“Already doing it.”
“David.”
“Yes?”
“Do not tell Brandon we found it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
At 10:47, Calder Ridge paused the closing pending lien investigation.
So no dramatic noon sale.
Reality was slower.
And suddenly more dangerous.
At 11:03, my phone rang.
Brandon.
I answered.
“Dad.”
His voice sounded irritated, not afraid.
“What?”
“Amber says some title company called the house.”
I said nothing.
“Are you trying to sell?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then laughter.
“You can’t.”
“Why?”
Another silence.
Very small.
Then:
“Because it’s my home.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He hung up.
Two minutes later, David called.
“Franklin.”
“What?”
“Lone Star Meridian confirms the loan funded.”
My stomach dropped.
“How much?”
“Two point eight million.”
“Where did the money go?”
“They won’t tell us informally.”
“Did Redwood receive it?”
“No account I know.”
“Then someone stole two point eight million using my property.”
David paused.
“Franklin.”
“Yes?”
“The bank’s file says the borrowing entity was Redwood Capital.”
“Forged.”
“And the personal guarantor was Brandon Reeves.”
There.
May you like
My son had not only decided the mansion was his.
He had bet millions of dollars on it.
