The Inheritance of Dust

Discovery

Thirteen days into being sued for $1.05 trillion by my own family.

Brown has a war room now. His little office in Greenwich with the low ceiling has become a war room. There are boxes everywhere, labeled HAWTHORNE v. HAWTHORNE, and a whiteboard that says DAYS UNTIL DEPOSITION: 4.

I was sitting on the floor of the war room because there were no chairs left, eating a bodega sandwich, when Brown came in with a banker's box that was sealed with red tape.

"Sullivan & Cromwell just sent their discovery," he said. "Vivian's death star lawyers. They want everything."

He dumped it. It was 800 pages of what they want from me.

All my bank statements since age 18

All texts with Thomas Hawthorne

All medical records of Thomas Hawthorne

Proof that I didn't forge the geological survey

My high school transcripts (why? No idea, but they want them)

"They're trying to drown us in paper," Brown said. "Rich people tactic. Make the poor kid spend $500k on lawyers to produce paper."

Then he smiled and pulled out another box, smaller, but heavier.

"And this is what we asked for. And the judge just granted it."

Inside was a USB drive. Brown plugged it into his laptop.

It was every text message Chase ever sent to his contractor, Ryan, about the pool house.

Brown hit play on the text reader

Chase: Use interior sheetrock for pool house. Exterior is 3x cost. No one will know.

Ryan: Chase, that's not code. It will mold.

Chase: My mom wants it done for Sloane's party. Just do it. My dad built 300 houses with no permits and no one cared.

Chase: And use 24 inch centers not 16. Save lumber.

Ryan: Chase, that roof is supposed to hold a green roof. That's 40 psf live load. 24 inch won't hold.

Chase: My mom's landscape guy said green roof is light. It's just moss. Don't be a pussy.

Brown paused it. "That's Count One of our negligence claim. He just admitted he cut corners to save $12,000 on a $400,000 building that could have killed 5 women doing yoga."

"There's more," Brown said. He opened Vivian's texts.

Vivian to Demolition Company: How fast can you tear down the workshop? My stepson has sentimental attachment, I want it gone before he tries to claim it.

Demolition Company: Need town permit for historic structure.

Vivian: Thomas built it in 2004, it's not historic. Just do it Saturday when town hall is closed. I'll pay cash.

Brown looked at me. "She demolished your father's workshop without a permit on a Saturday to spite you. While you were at his funeral luncheon. We have the invoice. She paid $8,500 cash."

I felt sick. I remembered that Saturday. I was in Ridgewood, staring at the rusty box, while they were tearing down Dad's workshop where he taught me to hammer.

"And then there's the best one," Brown said. He opened Sloane's I*******m DMs, subpoenaed.

It was Sloane to a friend, 3 days after the party:

Sloane: OMG mom is suing Box Boy for $1B lmao. We will be trillionaires!

Friend: Wait I thought you felt bad for him?

Sloane: I do but like, $1B is $1B. I can feel bad on a yacht.

Brown closed the laptop.

"Jack, I'm going to be honest with you. In order for a judge to give Vivian $1.05 trillion, she has to prove two things: that your dad was not in his right mind, and that you are a bad guy who manipulated him."

"But with this," he waved at the USB, "we prove that they are the bad guys who build dangerous buildings and demolish history for spite and brag about suing their brother on I*******m."

"So we win?" I asked.

"No," Brown said. "Lawsuits are slow. They want you to settle because you're 26, you live in Queens, and you can't afford to fight Sullivan & Cromwell for 13 months. They can."

He was right. I had $3,200 in my checking account. The JP Morgan line of credit was $50 million but frozen until the lawsuit clears. I was a trillionaire who couldn't afford lunch without Mike buying it.

That afternoon, I had my first deposition. In Brown's war room, with a court reporter who looked bored and two lawyers from Sullivan & Cromwell in suits that cost more than my apartment's yearly rent.

Lawyer 1: Mr. Hawthorne, where did you get $8,000 to buy 4,000 acres in 1988?

Me: I didn't. My father did. I wasn't born then.

Lawyer 1: Smirking. So you admit you have no personal knowledge of the purchase?

Me: I have a deed, a map, and 35 years of tax receipts. That's personal enough.

Lawyer 2: Mr. Hawthorne, is it true you live in a $1,800 rent-controlled apartment in Ridgewood, Queens, above a laundromat?

Me: Yes. Good deal. You should see it, the dryer sheets smell amazing.

Lawyer 2: And you do CAD for pantries?

Me: I did. I built pantries that don't fall down. Unlike some pool houses I know.

Brown kicked my foot under the table. Stop being cute.

Lawyer 1: Mr. Hawthorne, did you ever tell your father that the dirt in Nevada was worth trillions to induce him to leave it to you?

Me: No. My father never told me there was a dirt in Nevada.

They went on for 4 hours. They asked about my mom Emily. They asked about my grades. They asked if I ever did drugs. (No). They asked if I ever forged a document. (No).

At the end, Lawyer 1 leaned forward and said, very quietly, so the court reporter almost didn't hear:

"Mr. Hawthorne, my client is willing to settle today for 30%. $630 billion. You walk away with $1.47 trillion. You never have to work again. You can build all the glowing stages you want. Think about it. A jury in Greenwich might give you zero."

I thought about it. $1.47 trillion is still... it's still everything. It's more than I could spend in 100 lifetimes.

Then I thought about Dad's workshop, torn down on a Saturday while I was eating cold cuts at his funeral. I thought about interior sheetrock. I thought about the 24-inch centers, I thought about the rusty box.

I looked at that lawyer in his $4,000 suit.

"No," I said. "My dad held that dirt for 35 years while everyone laughed at him. He didn't hold it so I could give 30% to the woman who tore down his workshop for spite. See you at trial."

The court reporter typed: Witness declines settlement.

Lawyer 1 packed up. As he left, he said, "You will regret that, Box Boy."

He called me Box Boy on the record. In a deposition. The court reporter typed it: BOX BOY.

I went back to Ridgewood that night. Mike, Luis and Jamal were in Unit 14B, working on something I didn't tell them to build.

It was a new workshop. A perfect replica of Dad's old workshop from Elm Hill Road, built from memory and from photos. Same size, same workbench, same pegboard.

Mike said, "If they're going to tear down workshops, we're going to build them. For free, for kids. Right here in Brooklyn."

I put the rusty box in the middle of the new workshop. It was still empty.

But now it had a lawsuit in it, a condemned sign, and a deposition transcript where a $2,200-an-hour lawyer called me Box Boy on the record.

And somehow, that felt like progress.