Chapter 30: The Closing
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Michael woke up before the alarm went off. The day was bright and clear, but to him, it felt gray and heavy. It was August 25th.
It was the deadline. Day fourteen. The day Rick Doyle's paperwork was supposed to have gotten final approval from the judge.
He arrived at high school, but his mind was miles away. He walked into Algebra II class, which smelled of disinfectant and boredom. He sat in the back row, but this time he didn't fall asleep.
He was too stressed to sleep. His mind couldn't focus.
His only concern was the phone, hidden in his hoodie pocket. He felt every phantom vibration, thinking it was a missed call. He checked his phone every five minutes, not for 'crybaby' likes, but waiting for Rick's call.
10:15 AM. Nothing. 10:20 AM. Nothing.
His mental schedule was clear: Rick's lawyer, Harris, should have called as soon as the courthouse opened.
The anxiety made him nauseous. He imagined a thousand scenarios where everything went wrong. The judge changed his mind. The bureaucrat lost the papers.
He opened SoundCloud discretely under the desk. 'crybaby' was having an incredible reaction, generating hundreds of Impact Points. But Michael didn't care. What good were the points if he couldn't execute the real plan?
He closed SoundCloud and opened his notes app, looking at the line he had written: Buy Ghost (Autumn Valley '15 - $0.80).
The September window was approaching. Every day that passed, the price of Ethereum could start to rise. The clock was ticking.
Algebra class ended. Michael didn't even register the bell. He walked to his locker, his heart pounding in his chest.
'If he doesn't call today, we lose the sale. And if we lose the sale, we lose September. And if we lose September...'
The thought stopped there. It was too catastrophic to complete.
He was at school, surrounded by laughter and noise, but he felt like he was waiting for a life-or-death verdict in a silent desert.
The tension was building up. The fear was so cold and sharp he could barely feel his fingers. He leaned against his locker, head down.
'Come on, Rick. Call.'
Michael was in the cafeteria. Or rather, his body was there. He was sitting at the usual table with Leo, Sam, and Nate, but he didn't hear anything they were saying.
Sam was ranting about the latest Destiny update, and Leo was drawing a grotesque caricature of the school principal. Michael just stared at his food tray, an indecipherable beige mass, pushing it around with a plastic fork.
Every phantom vibration in his pocket made his heart skip a beat. Every time a door slammed shut, he looked up, waiting.
His phone vibrated. This time it was real.
He saw the caller ID: RICK DOYLE.
He stood up from the table so fast his chair screeched on the floor, drawing the attention of everyone around him.
"I have to take this," he muttered, and walked, almost ran, toward the cafeteria exit.
He reached an empty side hallway, smelling of floor cleaner and gym balls. He answered on the third ring, his voice tense.
"Yeah?"
"Mike," said Rick's unmistakable raspy voice. "It's Rick Doyle."
"Rick," said Michael, trying to sound calm. "What happened? Do we have the judge's order?"
Rick didn't bother with greetings. His voice was a satisfied growl, all business.
"We have the green light, kid. The wheels of justice finally moved. The judge signed the court order for the sale. Attorney 'Shark' Harris just left the county clerk's office. They have the stamped paper. Legally, you are a businessman."
A sigh that seemed to have been held back for a whole month escaped Michael's lips. He had to lean against the wall; his knees felt weak with relief. 'It worked. Fuck, it worked.'
"Okay," Michael said, his voice almost a whisper. "What's next?"
"No time for 'what's next'," Rick growled. "I already have the buyer's representative ready. He has the cash in the escrow bank. We have to sign today."
"Today?" Michael asked, adrenaline replacing relief.
"In an hour. The escrow office is downtown. Get out of that damn school right now. I'm sending you the address. See you at the escrow office in an hour."
Click. Rick hung up.
Michael stared at the phone. One hour. He was on the other side of town.
He ran back to the cafeteria, grabbed his backpack, ignoring Sam's questions. He went straight to the school's main office.
The secretary, an older woman who looked at him with perpetual disappointment, looked up. "Mr. Gray, you cannot leave without a..."
"Emergency medical appointment," Michael cut her off. "My... legal guardian is waiting for me."
The secretary sighed but saw the urgency in his eyes. She handed him an exit pass and asked no further questions.
Michael ran out the main doors, taking the steps two at a time. He ran the three blocks to the bus stop, the August sun beating down on him. The bus arrived five minutes later, which felt like five hours.
The ride downtown was torture. The bus smelled of hot vinyl and exhaust. He stood by the door, bouncing his leg, watching the traffic lights change at a glacial speed.
Finally, he arrived at his stop. He ran the last two blocks to the glass office building. He saw Rick Doyle waiting for him at a Starbucks across the street.
But he wasn't alone. Beside him was lawyer "Shark" Harris, impeccable in a three-thousand-dollar suit, reviewing some papers. Michael walked in, the freezing air conditioning hitting his face.
"Alright, kid, you made it," Rick said. "Take a seat. We have one last issue to resolve before going in there."
Michael sat down. The smell of burnt coffee churned his stomach. "I thought we had the green light."
"We do," said Harris, without looking up from his papers. His voice was smooth, precise, and devoid of any emotion. "The judge approved the emergency sale. But he was very specific in the order."
Harris finally looked up, his eyes cold. "The net proceeds of the sale must go directly into a blocked trust account, administered by me. You will not be able to touch that money until you turn eighteen."
Michael's world stopped. The relief he had felt turned to ice.
'Blocked? Until eighteen?'
He looked at the calendar on his phone. August 25, 2015. His eighteenth birthday wasn't until... August 2017. Two years.
Two years. The Ethereum window in September 2015 would close. The 2018 peak would come and go. His multimillion-dollar plan, his entire future, evaporated in that sentence. He felt nauseous again.
"No," Michael said, his voice flat.
Harris raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me? It's not a negotiation, Mr. Gray. It's a court order. It's designed to protect you from yourself."
"No. The money can't be blocked," Michael said, his mind racing at a thousand miles per hour, looking for a way out, a loophole. 'Think. Think. What is the flaw?' "I need it. To invest."
Harris almost laughed. "Michael, the judge ordered this to protect you from yourself. To prevent a 16-year-old from squandering half a million dollars on... I don't know, guitars and video games. My job is to put that money into low-risk Treasury bonds and hand it to you when you are an adult."
"No," Michael repeated, his gaze hard. "The plan doesn't work like that. There has to be another way."
"There isn't," said Harris. "It's a blocked trust, or no sale."
Michael thought fast, his brain searching frantically in his memory. 'An entity. A legal entity. It's the only way.'
"The order is for me," Michael said, leaning forward. "For Michael Gray, the minor. What happens if the money doesn't go to an account in my name? What happens if it goes to a company?"
Rick frowned. "What company? You haven't founded any yet."
"We found it now," Michael said. "A California LLC. I am the owner. The member. The judge's order is for my assets. The company is a separate legal entity. The sale money would go to the company account."
Harris looked at him, this time with a flash of genuine interest. "A clever idea, kid. Very clever. But it fails. A minor cannot be the manager of an LLC. You can't open the bank account. You can't sign the checks. We're still at the same point."
"I won't be the manager," Michael said, the solution clearing in his mind. "You will be. You will be the managing director with signing power. That complies with the judge's order to 'protect' the asset. But I, as the sole owner, can direct the company's investments. It's legal. And fast."
Rick Doyle let out a laugh. "Fuck, Harris! I told you! A shark!"
Harris looked at him with interest. "Clever. But it's a massive liability risk for me. What do I get out of it?"
Michael knew it was time to negotiate. He couldn't offer a percentage of future profits; Harris had no idea about the potential millions of dollars and Michael would never give away that information. He had to offer something that sounded reasonable now.
"You are a lawyer. You charge for your time," Michael said, adopting his business tone. "The judge's order is that you 'manage' this money for two years. I will pay you an annual management fee. Let's say... five percent of the total capital."
Harris did the mental math. The capital was $400,000. Five percent was $20,000.
"Five percent a year," Michael specified. "That's forty thousand dollars in two years, just for having your name on an account and signing what I tell you. It's the easiest money you'll earn in your life."
Harris thought about it. $40,000 for doing almost nothing. It was a good deal. He looked at Rick, who shrugged.
"Alright," said Harris. "Five percent annually on the managed capital. In writing."
Harris took out his phone. He dialed his office. His voice was fast and authoritative.
"Sarah. I need you to register a new LLC in California. Expeditiously. Yes, right now. 'Gray Matter, LLC'. G-R-A-Y... M-A-T-T-E-R. Me as managing director. The client, Michael Gray, as sole member... Yes, I know he is a minor, we will handle the trust paperwork later. I need the federal tax ID number and the articles of organization in the next half hour. And open a corporate bank account. Move it."
He hung up. Looked at Michael. "Okay, kid. You're in the game. 'Gray Matter, LLC' will be operational by the time we finish the signing."
He stood up and adjusted his suit. "Let's go to the escrow office."
Michael walked out of Starbucks and crossed the street toward the glass and steel office building. The lobby was quiet and smelled of money. They took the elevator to the fourteenth floor. "Fidelity National Title Group".
Rick patted Michael on the back. "Relax, kid. Let the adults talk."
They entered a cold and sterile conference room. At the long polished mahogany table, there were already three people: a woman in an impeccable gray suit (the buyer's representative), a pale and nervous man with glasses (the escrow agent) and...
"Harris! Good to see you!" greeted Rick, his voice too loud for the room.
Attorney "Shark" Harris was already there, sitting as if he owned the place, with an expensive leather briefcase open in front of him. He simply nodded.
"Michael," said Harris, pointing to the empty chair beside him.
Michael sat down. He felt completely out of place. He was 16 years old, wearing a worn black hoodie and dirty skate shoes. He was sitting at a table where almost half a million dollars was about to move. It was surreal.
The escrow agent began to speak, his voice a monotonous murmur, explaining the documents. "...transfer of property in Northgate... agreed sale price of four hundred fifty thousand dollars... funds confirmed by the buyer, 'Pacific View Investments'..."
Michael tuned out. He looked at his hands on the table. They were calloused from the guitar. He had a small burn scar on his knuckle from the fryer at the Burger Barn.
He felt like an impostor. A kid playing in the adult world.
"...and now, if the seller's representative can sign," said the escrow agent, sliding a stack of papers across the table.
All eyes turned to Michael. He didn't move. Since he was a minor, Michael didn't sign anything. He knew he couldn't. His heart pounded, hoping the plan would work.
Harris, unflinching, leaned forward. He pulled a Montblanc pen from his jacket.
"Gray Matter, LLC, will act as the seller, with court approval," he said calmly.
He began to sign. Harris, as his legal guardian for the transaction and managing director of the LLC, signed the stack of documents.
One signature after another. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. The only sound in the room. Each stroke of the pen was a hammer nailing the coffin of his past life.
With each signature, the house, the mausoleum, the last vestige of the other Michael's life, dissolved. It was becoming zeros and ones in a bank account.
Harris signed the last paper and slid the stack back to the escrow agent.
"Everything seems to be in order," said the agent.
The escrow agent, a pale man with thick glasses, looked up from his computer. His fingers had been typing furiously for the last five minutes.
"Very well," he said to the room, his voice monotone. "The transfer of funds from the buyer, 'Pacific View Investments', has been confirmed and received by the escrow account. The sale is recorded. The funds have been released."
Michael felt the weight of the last few months evaporate from his shoulders. He had done it.
Rick stood up, his chair screeching loudly on the marble floor.
"Excellent. A pleasure doing business with you," he said to the buyer's representative, his shark smile in full splendor. She simply nodded, gathered her papers, and left the room without saying a word.
Michael stood up too, his legs feeling a little weak. Harris, the lawyer, was already putting his Montblanc pen into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Now what?" asked Michael quietly, addressing Rick and Harris as they walked out into the lobby.
Rick patted him on the back, this time with genuine familiarity. "Now, we take you to the bank, kid. Harris is going to set up the account for your new company. 'Gray Matter', right? Good name. Sounds like a brainiac."
An hour later, Michael was sitting in a car, parked on a side street, a block away from an imposing Chase Bank building.
Harris had gone in alone. "Wait for me here. It's better if I handle this. Bankers get nervous with minors and money. I'll sign as manager of the LLC. You are just the silent owner."
Michael waited. Twenty minutes felt like two hours. He saw Harris walk out of the bank, adjusting his shirt cufflinks. The lawyer approached the window of the Corolla.
"It's done," said Harris, handing him a blue folder with the bank logo. "The 'Gray Matter, LLC' corporate account is open. The sale funds are being transferred from escrow as we speak. They should appear in an hour."
"And my access?" Michael asked, his voice tense.
"I set you up as a user with 'read-only access' for now," said Harris, his tone condescending, like a father talking to a child. "You'll be able to see the money, but not move it. I am the only signer. As the judge ordered."
Michael's heart sank. 'Shit. So that's how it's going to be.'
"But," Harris continued, "as we agreed, I am here to facilitate your... 'responsible investments'. When you decide which Treasury bond fund you want to invest in, send me the details and I will execute the transfer. Understood?"
Michael nodded, his face an impassive mask. "Understood."
"Good. Now, my fees for the creation of the LLC and this little... banking consultation," said Harris. "Rick has already advanced me his share. My management fee of five percent annually on the capital will be automatically deducted from the account every quarter, starting today. It has been a pleasure, Michael."
Harris turned around and walked away. Michael watched him get into a black Mercedes S-Class that was waiting for him.
Michael remained alone in his car. The shark was gone.
He had done it. He had liquidated the asset. But the price had been high.
He took out his phone and opened the new "Gray Matter, LLC" banking app. He logged in.
The account, which had been opened that morning with an initial deposit of $100, now had a new balance.
$450,000.00
He stared at the number. He didn't feel rich. He felt... armed.
The house was sold. The mausoleum, the last vestige of the other Michael's life, was gone. He had turned it into fuel.
The relief was immense. But he also felt an emptiness. The last door to his past had closed.
He looked at the balance again. His first act as "owner" of a company. He opened the transfer app.
He typed in Rick Doyle's account information. Amount: $50,000.00.
It was the 10% commission ($45,000) plus the $5,000 for Harris's legal miracle. The price of speed. He pressed "Send".
The balance dropped instantly. $400,000.00.
Now he had his capital. But he also had a problem. That money wasn't technically his. Legally, it belonged to "Gray Matter, LLC". And the man who held the signature, "Shark" Harris, thought he was going to invest it in Treasury bonds.
The September window was still open. But he had just exchanged one cage for another.
'Okay, Harris,' thought Michael. 'You want me to buy bonds. I'll buy you the best bonds in the world.'
A smile drew across his face. "I'll buy you Ethereum bonds."