64. Is Everclear Too Much to Ask
IS EVERCLEAR TOO MUCH TO ASK
ELIAS
Of all the days to have an early meeting, today is the worst. The DA asked me to meet him here less than a week ago.
I walk up the steps of the Travis County courthouse, empty my pockets, and place my briefcase on the scanner’s belt, before stepping through the metal detector.
“Morning, Elias.”
“Good morning, Jon.” I extend a hand and grip his in a firm shake. “What can I do for you?’”
“This is a what-can-we-do-for-each-other situation.” He ushers me down the hall to his office. “You know I grew up with Exton Ranger?”
I do know that so I sit silently and nod for him to continue.
“We were hellions, and he’s still one of my most trusted friends.” Jon’s spinning up to something, and I wait. The lawyer in me knows I’ll get more details the less I speak.
“The Veramendi Conservancy next door to the Ranger Ranch… You know it?”
I’ve heard the story many times. Exton is Braxton’s younger brother, and Brax was my college roommate.
We don’t go back as far as Exton and Jon, but I’ve been more enmeshed in their family and on the ranch since we met in our freshmen years at A&M than Jon has been.
Exton leaving for the Army and then the FBI didn’t help that situation.
Braxton’s great-grandfather bought the land the ranch is on from an older gentleman who never had kids and didn’t want his land subdivided.
Mr. Veramendi sold the old Ranger a huge parcel happy it would be ranchlands and took the rest and made a deal with the local government that what remained would be set as preservation land.
Basically, it was deeded with a restrictive covenant.
They call it a conservation easement… at least, that’s how we refer to them now.
The Veramendi Conservancy is the huge plat of land north of the ranch that legally can never be developed.
It’s designed to preserve native trees and grasses, foster habitat for wild animals, and protect the environment.
“I do. I haven’t heard it mentioned in years though. Why?”
“A group of local developers is contesting the legal status of the covenant and plans to develop the land.”
“But it’s legally protected,” I say, not worrying about being overly precise in my words.
Jon leans back in his chair. “I thought so too, but they think it’s worth the fight.
That land has to be worth multiple millions to a developer.
If you consider how many quarter-acre or half-acre homesites could be built in that area.
Hell, even more so with zero-lot-line garden homes or townhouses.
It could become a multi-use area. Schools, neighborhood sports complexes, local shops, and restaurants residents could walk to. ”
“It’s too hot to walk anywhere in Texas seven months a year.”
“But if you’re from California or New England, you don’t know that.
We’re talking country chic. What they’re proposing is a city-changing, county-changing, life-changing project.
Multiple home builders, new schools, commercial contractors.
It could triple or quadruple the population of the city.
And that’s just in the next several years,” he continues.
“That would require infrastructure… new roads, bridges, drainage, sewers, possible new utility districts. We don’t have enough water as it is right now. How will we support that kind of increase to the population?”
“You’re thinking like a resident, Elias. Think like the county Commissioners or the city manager. All they see are dollar signs. Their ten-acre homesites won’t be impacted. Their cattle farms and peach groves won’t take a hit. They’ll be dead and gone before the negative challenges arise.”
“But the Ranger’s ranch—?”
“Constant noise of development for upwards of twenty years depending on how much of the land is contested and purchased. Plus construction traffic. There will be a direct impact from damming the stream on the conservancy side for a lazy river attraction.”
“That water is used for the Ranger’s horses before being sent downstream into the tourist communities. You’re talking about a complete change in how the Hill Country has lived for a hundred years or more.”
His nod is solemn. “The money is big. The kickbacks to the Commissioners and city council are not slight. The promised tax dollars are substantial.”
“Back up for me, Jon. The easement is legally protected. How will they get around that?”
“For now, they’re working on the grounds that the restrictive covenant was never legally established. That deal was a handshake with the then Mexican government. It continued as a handshake with the U.S. and the State of Texas after their respective establishments.”
I’m dumbfounded. “That’s how everything was done here at that time.”
He nods. “The back-up argument is that nationally it was voided, because after the restriction was established, Texas succeeded for a period and joined the confederacy, before rejoining the union. The thought being that the deed is a triad—a national, a state, and a regional jurisdiction, protected by all three governments. And that, should the national piece not be legally ‘registered,’ so to speak, because it’s part of a now-dissolved entity or with the national piece being territory of multiple nations since its inception, that it could be invalidated. ”
“So, you’re saying that locally they don’t have to honor what was never legally federally protected because that leg of the stool was never actually valid?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
“Where can I research the builder and the project?”
“Check out what they’re doing on the other side of the Edwards Aquifer. It’s the same builders and developers, with very similar planned communities. Take a trip to the old towns. You’ll see.”
“What else can we do?”
“Well, that’s where this gets interesting.”
We talk for another hour. Jon Barret walks me out to my car.
“Thanks, Jon. I can’t say how much I appreciate you’re cluing me in to this. How did you find out?”
“Because they’ve asked me to represent them.” He stares down the street before turning and holding my gaze firm. “And I’ve agreed.”
What the hell?
Brighton
Four days after Mom passed, on a bright, sunny morning, I stand with my brothers, Pop, and our community friends as we lay her to rest.
I’m numb.
That’s not wholly true. I’m numb to certain things, but other senses are heightened. My mind’s checked-out, but my emotions are on a low simmer, only a degree or two below a full boil. All of them fester under the surface leaving me more and more raw by the moment.
I’m sad.
I’m overwhelmed.
I’m fucking angry.
I’m even relieved.
That last one is a mindfuck, all on its own.
Relief.
Not for me, but for Mom, for her suffering being over. Guilt rears its ugly head, because I find myself wishing that it wasn’t over. What daughter wishes her mom more suffering just to have less for herself?
I have no idea what the pastor says. I’m sure it’s lovely and meaningful and kind. But I don’t care.
When the shiny casket starts to lower, I’m gone.
I mean no disrespect to my mother. I just can’t watch. Not her final act being so final.
I mean no disrespect to my brothers either or to Pop. The man sits in a covered chair, watching his very soul being mechanically lowered into the ground. Stoic. Stiff. And utterly silent.
I’ve made it several yards to my car when I feel an arm wrap around my shoulder, only to look up into Eli’s sad face.
He pulls me into a hug. “I’m sorry, Bright.
Everyone knows how tough you are. But sometimes they fail to remember how fiercely you love your family and that your strength is a facade. I know this hurts.”
He holds me tight, and I can’t escape, so I hug him back, forcing down my bubbling emotions so I don’t lose it a-fucking-gain. I sniffle against his lapel. “It’s not a facade.”
“Bullshit. Come on, let’s get you back to your family.” He turns me, an arm firm around my shoulder, sliding down to my lower back as we get back to my brothers.
They stand, milling about, almost as a receiving line for people as they meander back to their cars.
Pop stands on the far end, surrounded by family friends who speak words I can’t hear.
He nods and offers a shadow of his true smile, all the while allowing his gaze to dart back to the square hole in the ground just past his shoulder.
“Anybody up for drinking ourselves into oblivion?” I ask when we get back to them. Leave it to me to have my priorities straight.
My brothers meet my gaze. Braxton nods. Exton jerks his head once, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he does. Layton shrugs.
“Where to? Braxton’s? Home?” I try not to choke on the last word. Home will always be Mom and Pop’s, even if I have my own place outside of the ranch gates.
“My place,” Brax offers. “We can always stumble over to Pop’s or the barn. Eli, you in?”
“Let me take Ma home, and I’ll be there. Going to hit the liquor store on my way. What’re we drinking?”
“Vodka or gin,” Layton says.
“Beer for me. After whiskey,” Exton offers.
“I’ve got rum and tequila,” Brax states.
“Is Everclear too much to ask?”
Four sets of male eyes pin me, and as if it were orchestrated, in unison, the men nod. But it’s Pop’s voice that cuts through their silence. “Yes.”
“All right.” I nod to him before turning back to the bro crew. “All right. I’ll drink whatever. Don’t even care what it tastes like. Brax, do you have Cointreau?”
“Yep.”
“Limes, Elias, if you don’t mind.” I turn on my heel and walk away. I need to get home. To get out of this wretched black dress, to pull my long hair back in a ponytail. To throw on something comfy and snuggle my dog. “See y’all in a few.”
Someone’s going to say I was rude for not greeting and thanking our guests. They can suck it. I’m not being impolite. I’m not the hostess of an event. I appreciate them coming but don’t want them here. Hell, I don’t want to be here. None of us wants to be here.