Chapter 27 #2
Brian tossed the binder onto the glass conference table and laid it all out for me.
‘For years, Reese maintained studs here in Tennessee and out on the Texas Panhandle. Buying stallions at auction to breed elite racing thoroughbreds,’ he explained, flipping open the fraud summary.
‘His massive operation expanded on a fifty-million-dollar agricultural bank loan and an additional one hundred and twenty mill from private investors. The Saudi investment group bidding for the company assumed the Nashville businessman was a gold-standard success story.’
Jude, who was in the meeting with me, leaned forward, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
‘So what’s the catch, Brian?’
‘He’s been hiding an enormous secret,’ Brian stated, tapping a red line on the ledger.
‘Most of his prize stallions were imaginary. The documents exposed how a corrupt operator built a house-of-cards horse breeding empire that burned through two hundred and sixty million dollars. Turns out Reese is a high roller, and a few years ago he lost almost 100 million dollars in Macau and Hong Kong, money siphoned from his business and investors. He’s been trying to catch up on his debts since, selling a few thoroughbreds while pretending he still has a great stable by running a Ponzi scheme, using new investors cash to pay those he owes. ’
I cursed under my breath at the magnitude of Reese’s subterfuge.
Brian raised a chin at Jude and me.
‘Now that you’ve got all the evidence, what would you have us do?’
Jude glanced over at me to set the play.
‘The snake blackmailed my family and our band,’ I growled. ‘He deserves no mercy. Leak the entire evidence file to the Saudis and the local, even national press.’
Reese was exposed within two weeks.
The news of his downfall broke one midday, as I sat at home, the television screen glowing as the rest of the Six Sinners gathered in my living room.
I whistled at the live feed of federal agents marching Reese out of his downtown headquarters in handcuffs.
Reese threw a massive tantrum on the concrete steps leading to his office, his face turning purple as he fought the restraints.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he yelled into the cameras, spitting threats at the arresting officers. ‘You’ll all be shining shoes when my lawyers destroy your careers!’
‘Look at that clown,’ Bishop muttered, throwing popcorn at the screen. ‘Still trying to flex while in cuffs.’
‘Pure entitlement,’ Deacon rasped, shaking his head. ‘The man believed he was untouchable. He fuckin’ finally got what he deserved.’
The media fallout exploded across every major network as the judge ordered Reese held without bail.
The news anchors dubbed him the Bernie Madoff of Horses, flashing his arrogant mugshot beside graphs of his bankrupt assets.
His angry investors were apparently threatening to file massive lawsuits against him and the three primary banks, accusing the financial institutions of enabling a multi-million-dollar Ponzi scheme.
The broadcast switched to a snippet of Elsa slipping into a dark tinted car belonging to Ed, her brother, pausing to drop a swift statement.
‘I was not aware of my husband’s dealings and his businesses,’ she declared, her face pale, her lips pursed before the sedan door slammed shut.
I turned off the TV and slumped with a sigh into my armchair.
‘Where’s Evangeline in all this?’ Reign asked, leaning back into his seat with a toothpick in his teeth.
‘She’s probably in some rehab,’ I growled, my arms crossed tight over my chest. ‘Don’t know, don’t care.’
Deacon narrowed his eyes, studying my face. ‘How about Roxy?’
I took an inhale, rubbing a hand over my face.
‘Amos is still working on hunting her down. Elsa swears she’s safe, but I need to see her and confirm it myself.’
Reese’s downfall seemed hollow and anticlimactic.
I experienced no joy, only a profound sadness at the sheer number of lives he destroyed with his greed.
His arrest fractured his leverage over me, releasing my parents, my band, and my own name from his corporate threats.
His ruin also freed me from my marriage if I wanted to leave.
However, I made no move to file any papers.
Thinking of her, longing for her smile, yearning for her voice was how I survived each grueling day.
I refused to let go of Roxy.
I just needed to find my wife.
Roxy still wasn’t taking my calls, and Amos hit brick walls for weeks; he couldn’t find her anywhere.
The Six Sinners were right in the middle of a seven-city US Stadium Tour, but I struggled to stay focused on each show, worrying about my wife.
My relief came when Amos called one evening to tell me he’d managed to access her credit statements.
‘I’ve a friend in the Sheriff’s department who owes me.’
‘I’ll ask Roxy for forgiveness when I find her,’ I rasped. ‘What do you have for me?’
‘She used her Visa card several times at a 7-Eleven gas station close to Leiper’s Fork. I cross-referenced the vicinity with old deeds under her maternal family tree and found an acreage in her and her mother’s name.’
My soul leaped.
‘Damn. Where is it?’
He texted me with the location pin.
‘I cased the place and found her at the property,’ he added, attaching photos of the farm and images of Roxy on the vast estate.
My heart rate kicked up a notch when I gazed at her image for the first time in weeks.
The shots were distant, and I couldn’t make out details, but I still made out her beautiful grace and silhouette, exhaling in relief.
I was keen to get to her, but it’d take me finding someone to step in for me to release me from my current obligations.
I phoned my friend Ramm, a tall, dark-haired soulful guitarist and killer musician, to take my Six Sinner’s position temporarily.
He agreed to fill the slot.
I then called a meeting with Mason and my band brothers in our boardroom.
‘I need your OK to please bow out of this tour for a few weeks,’ I told them. ‘I need to go spend time with Roxy and fix shit between us. You all know Ramm; he can take point for me.’
‘Ramm is ace brother, but he ain’t you,’ Jude growled.
‘He’s over all of our discography, he’ll do just fine.’
‘We’ve got your back, mate,’ Deacon said, swapping a glance with Jude, who conceded, raising his hands in surrender.
After one final Nashville show that night, I packed a small bag at home.
I jumped into my truck, driving through a blinding, midnight rainstorm to get to Roxy.
I navigated the slick back country roads, arriving at her secluded farmhouse at two in the morning.
The driveway had no gate, and I swept in, my headlights flashing over her silver-and-black Lexus RZ parked in the portico.
Relief hit, and I sighed.
I killed the engine, cut the wipers, catching my reflection in the rearview mirror.
The immaculate, polished rock star was dead and gone.
In place was a sleep-deprived, haggard soul yearning for his wife.
Regardless, I was here, so I climbed out and sprinted to the front door.
My jeans and sneakers got soaked through and mud-splattered as I raced through the downpour.
‘Please be inside,’ I muttered, my wet shoes squeaking over the porch steps.
I pounded my fist against the cedar paneling as cold rain streamed down my neck.
I gave zero fucks about the elements or the sludge thrown up on my clothes; I just needed to see my woman and talk things out.