Different Circles

“The Stratocaster you play is insured separately and listed as a unique asset,” Wesley said. “By itself, it is currently valued at ninety-five thousand dollars, though I personally think it would sell for much more at auction. And yes, they may try to go after it, but I am reasonably sure I could convince a judge that that particular guitar is essential to your income stream and reputation as a musician.”

“Reasonably sure? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that I can’t promise you that some judge will not order it turned over, but it is unlikely.”

“Oh ... okay,” Matt said, feeling a little better, but not much.

“My strong suggestion to you,” Wesley went on, “is that we ask for permission for you to start selling off some of these assets yourself.”

“How does that help anything?” he asked, pondering the loss of his yacht and his helicopter and one of his pads. He hadn’t even ridden in the helicopter yet! Had never even met the pilot he’d hired to fly it! And now he was going to have to fire him along with all the other crew of the yacht. It had been a long time since he had felt like crying—probably more than thirty years—but he felt like that now.

“You’ll get more money for them that way and pay down the debt faster. If the IRS seizes your yacht and your helicopter, for instance, they’ll just auction them off with little to no effort and take whatever they get. But if you sell it, you have a vested interest and can work to get a better price. Same for your LA condo. In addition, if you sell the condo yourself, then the argument about them seizing the San Juan Capistrano domicile becomes null and void.”

Matt nodded miserably. “I guess I understand that shit,” he said. “What about my pad down in Cabo? Will they try to take that too?”

Wesley shook his head. “That possession is out of their reach,” he said. “It is in Mexico, not the United States, and they have no ability or jurisdiction to seize it. However, I would strongly suggest that you consider selling it as well.”

“Sell my Cabo house?” he asked, outraged. “Why the fuck would I do that if I don’t have to?”

“For money to pay them off,” the lawyer explained. “My understanding is that you own the house in Cabo San Lucas free and clear, correct?”

“Well ... I own the house itself,” he said. “Paid cash for that motherfucker when I bought it. Two hundred fuckin’ Gs. But I don’t own the land it sits on. Those fuckin’ beaners won’t let Americans actually buy the land from them. I have a ninety-nine-year lease on the property—well, ninety-five years at this point.”

“That doesn’t really matter,” Wesley said. “You have de facto ownership of the property.”

“De facto?”

“That means that for all intents and purposes, the property is yours to do with as you please,” he explained. “That ninety-five-year lease would transfer to any potential buyer, so the land retains the same value it would have if you did legally own it. And real estate in Cabo San Lucas—particularly two acres of actual waterfront real estate—is extremely valuable right now. I checked with our real estate department on this. Even without the house on it, that land would be worth well over a million dollars American now. With the house, it’s worth maybe one point four million.”

“Damn,” Matt said slowly. “That’s a pretty good investment I made, isn’t it?”

“It was,” Wesley agreed. “You bought at exactly the right time, just a year or so before Cabo San Lucas was discovered and became a major tourist destination. You could unload that property today, by the close of business hours, for one point three million minimum. That would be a pretty decent chunk of what you will end up owing to California and the IRS.”

Matt was shaking his head. “No fuckin’ way,” he said. “I ain’t selling my house in Cabo. I’ll keep it until I die.”

“Are you sure that is a wise decision, Matt?” Wesley asked. “My understanding is that you only spend a few weeks there a year.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Matt said. “That house is mine. I love it almost as much as I do my fuckin’ Strat. I ain’t givin’ it up.”

Wesley gave a sour face but let the subject drop. “All right then,” he said. “You hang on to the domicile in Mexico.”

“You were talking some shit in one of our phone calls about how the only way I can claim that my income isn’t taxable is if I renounce my American citizenship.”

“Yes,” Wesley said carefully. “I did say that.”

“Is that shit still on the table?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I renounce my citizenship and move my ass down to Mexico, does that make all this shit go away?”