Frank Franklin

Frank Franklin, Esq. found his eyes blurring as he went over a commercial real estate contract.  Old mall dead, new condos rising.  But, aside from this being a way to earn a paycheck, did he give a damn?  No.  He wished he could come up with something he really wanted to do, something he was passionate about.  But that would probably be sitting in the second bedroom of his apartment, the one that overlooked a rather busy street, reading a novel, while at the same time keeping an eye on the happenings below.  However, no one would pay him for sitting, reading or observing.

In preparation for a brighter future, Frank kept a close eye on his finances.  Living in a modest and not especially well-located apartment, he was able to put a fourth of his salary away every month—so far. That was thanks to no medical emergencies and his very generous benefits package.  The money accruing in various investment plans would go toward what he really wanted to do with his life.  Yet, here he was, about to turn thirty and he had absolutely no idea whither he should wander.  At least his ex-wife Marni had the friendly skies, and his older sister Riley had her career track all planned out.  So what was wrong with him?

His former classmates with whom he kept in touch thought he had it made, working in a small firm, where he could gain realms of experience.  It was, he would concede, as good a fit as he was likely to get.  He had been in the top ten percent of his graduating class, but had no desire for the pressures that went with joining a large firm.  Nor did he want to be a single practitioner.  Or a civil servant.  So here he was at Reynolds & McCormick.  As far as experience, well, there was a division of labor.  There were lawyers handling estates, wills and trusts, two who dealt with personal injuries and traffic court.  He seemed to be consigned to real estate.  They started him on residential, where he got to meet a lot of women and dealt with many emotional crises during settlement.  It seemed something always went wrong.  All of a sudden, the buyer would notice something during the walk-through and demand financial concessions, which the seller wasn’t willing to give.  It was much better when buyer and seller were out of the picture and it was left to the two lawyers.  That first year had led him to appreciate the nightly cocktail that was now his custom.

He was happy when they moved him to commercial.  There was more money involved, but for some reason a lot less stress.  In the case he was dealing with now, he represented the corporation that owned the mall.  Their property was being acquired by Allgate Reality.

Allgate Reality.  Instead of flipping houses, Allgate flipped failing or abandoned malls, at least around this tri-state area.  These properties were ripe for residential developments, as they were definitely suburban and thus desirable for commuters.  True, many towns tried to fight redevelopment because of density concerns and the stress on the budgets.  But Allgate was stacked with attorneys, who usually won.

Frank was familiar with Allgate through his father.  Dr. Jerry Franklin had still been with his mother Bernice when Frank first got his job with Reynolds & McCormick.  His father sat him down for a heart-to-heart about money and making it work for you.

Frank assured his father he had the situation in hand and would be paying him back for law school, but his father shrugged that off, waved the offer away.  “My pleasure.  I like to see my kids achieve.  But I want you to do for your children, when you have them, what I was able to do for you.  You’re making big bucks for your age, you’ve got to learn how to husband your resources.  Stocks and bonds are all good, but consider something tangible.  Like real estate.  It’s the way to go, kiddo.  Look at all the moguls, you’ll find that’s where they’re putting their bets.  Something solid.”

Frank had joked.  “You see yourself as a mogul now?”

“We got this contact—“

“We?”

“Me and my partners.  This investment broker we’re dealing with has the magic touch when it comes to making money.”

“Like Midas?”

“Don’t knock this, Frank.  Some people have it and you gotta pay attention.  Anyway, our guy has an inside track with a property agent dealing with the end of the mall era. The company he’s connected with is buying up all that valuable land, turning it into condos, senior living establishments—“

“Prisons?”

“You’re not taking me seriously.  But let me tell you, ever since I invested with Allgate, my net worth has sky-rocketed.  I’m selling some of my worthless stocks and moving the money over.”

“Diversification, Dad,” Frank warned.

“Not when you’re getting the returns I am.”

“Bernie Madoff.”

But Dad pooh poohed him and said it was the lawyer in him, the new lawyer, being careful and he could respect that.  But still—something to consider.

Why didn’t Frank consider it?  He had to wonder after his father died because there was a hell of a lot of money there in his father’s estate, a lot of it to be realized from Allgate Reality.

Oh well.  He still believed in diversification, but perhaps his father had been right.  What was wrong with making a quick buck?  Meanwhile, he had to plow on with this deadly dull contract.

When everything was ready for the signing, Frank would turn his work in to Dulce Reynolds, a name partner, who mainly dealt with family issues but would glance through a junior’s work to be on the safe side.  She’d ask like twenty questions and then give him the go-ahead.

He did have a few ethical qualms about handling this contract, which he supposed he should have brought up to Dulce.  Like, his father’s investments in Allgate Reality had to be sold before he, Riley and Eden could get their twenty thousand.  But this wasn’t really a conflict of interest.  Was it?

Finishing his work, dusk settling on the building, he sent Dulce a text that he was done reviewing the contract and there were just a few niggling points both sides would have to consider.  Another job successfully completed by Frank Franklin, Esq.

That night he allowed himself a double scotch and had fallen asleep in his favorite chair, a copy of “Henry Esmond” slipping down his chest into his lap.  He might have stayed there well into the early hours if the cell phone hadn’t rung, jerking him awake.

“Hello,” he mumbled.

“Frank?”

“Dulce!”  That woke him.  His boss was a firm believer in a line between work and life.

“No one’s signature is on that contract you’ve been working on?”

“No.  There are still a few issues—“  Shouldn’t she be glad he was dragging out the billable hours?

“Forget it.  Forget the whole thing.”

“What?”

“The Treasury Department is looking into Allgate Reality.  Turns out it’s allegedly, remember that, allegedly a money-laundering operation.  Everything’s frozen.  Including their funds.”

After Dulce’s promise that they’d discuss this tomorrow, they both hung up, leaving Frank to wonder.  If the funds were frozen?  If there would be no money forthcoming whatsoever, what would happen to his father’s estate?  His father, who had bet on a sure thing.

What was that old cliche?  There was no such thing as a sure thing.  Wisdom for the ages.  He sighed and then thought well, he and Riley would be fine.  But Eden?  Let the whining begin.