“Fine, he freezes the assets,” Miles says. “Austin and I aren’t expecting a dime until next summer. But how the hell do we run this business—the ranch—if we can’t get at any money?”
“There’s overhead, Shankle,” Chance says. “Payroll. Running a ranch of this size isn’t cheap. Hell, you’re not sitting here for free, I’m sure.”
“I’ve got the top environmental partner at my firm looking into this,” Shankle replies, skimming over the fact that he’s probably clearing a pretty penny due to this new development. “Plus a guy with white-collar criminal experience. With my financial savvy, we can probably get the Feds to agree to keep funding available for day-to-day business operations of the ranch. Plus, nothing has happened yet.”
Yet. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t think yet might be coming soon.
“This is fucked.” I sit back down on the couch and turn to Miles. “You and I may as well go home. So much for our billions.”
“If you leave, you forfeit everything,” Shankle reminds us. “Nothing has been proven yet.”
“Except that Jonathan Bridger is officially an asshole,” I say.
“Truth, but Jesus Fucking Christ,” Miles mutters. “This is a mess.”
“Did you know anything about this, Shankle?” I demand.
He shakes his head. “I’m Bridger’s estate attorney and his general counsel with regard to the ranch. Once the year is up and you’ve met the requirements of the will, my service to your father is done. Regardless, I have nothing to do with his outside holdings, nor do I know who handles them. If the DOJ is involved, it’s got to be expansive.”
“So no attorney-client privilege, then.” From Miles. “Of course, he’s dead anyway.”
“Attorney-client privilege survives the death of the client,” Shankle clarifies. “But it doesn’t apply here for two reasons. First, this is all news to me, so there’s no privilege. And second, a client’s communication to his attorney isn’t privileged if he made it with the intention of committing or covering up a crime or fraud.”
Chance plunks his ass back down on his chair. “We are so fucked.”
“We?” Miles lifts his eyebrows. “He kept me and Austin out of his life completely.”
“Until now when he’s dead. Until this shit comes up,” Chance reminds us.
“Boys…” Shankle begins.
I stand again, this time lunging over the marble coffee table and pulling Shankle up by his bolo-tied collar. “I swear to God, if you call us boys one more time—”
“Easy.” Miles stands and jerks me backward. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the two of us.”
“Yes, it fucking does!” I release Shankle and throw him back down on the couch.
I spin, running my hand over the back of my neck.
“We can’t walk away from this cluster fuck,” I tell my brothers. “I need that money. I have a dying seaplane business and a sick mother. I have no choice but to stay and be sucked into this shit.”
I walk out of the living room, out of the damned house, knowing the problems will follow.