Legacy Leadership

A high-stakes family battle where money, power, and bloodlines collide. Book 1 in the Dawson Family Series.

A novel by Doug Gray, PhD, a business psychologist and family wealth advisor

Pitch: When a secretive Nashville patriarch dies, his heirs must battle deceits, a cryptic trust, and their own dysfunction in Legacy Locked, a gripping psychological thriller where money, power and bloodlines collide.

Disclaimer: This work of fiction contains complex characters who are more exciting than anyone ever met by the author.

SUBSTACK READERS: please add your comments below… I’m hungry for your feedback!

WEDNESDAY

Chapter 1

Heavy rain on a tin roof makes it hard to listen. And harder to think.

Brad Paisley and Carrie Underwood riffed “Come on, baby, let the good times roll...”

Will knew the song. “You only live but once, and when you're dead you're done.”

Now another louder lyric was drumming in his ears. Trust nobody.

Will stared at the patriarch’s oil portrait. Thick polished maple framed the man’s scowling face. That man was never satisfied. The crease lines were deeper on the right side of his face, like a political statement. He always had to be right. To avoid scrutiny, his eyes focused on something off center. A new property. Another racehorse. An asset map with potential acquisitions. Color coded pins, bronze-silver-gold for quicker decision making.

The patriarch in the oil painting, Jack Dawson, was Will’s father. Finally unable to speak.

Well, you old bastard, all those bourbons and Cohiba cigars finally caught up to you.

Will muttered, “Now what do you expect us to do?”

He picked up the golf putter and drove an imaginary ball into the wall of trophies. But his eyes never tracked the ball.

Instead, he walked over to the old man’s desk. The Reliance oak desk. Another acquisition stolen from a Confederate landowner during that Endless War for Southern Independence. Amid silver and bronze statues of racehorses, Will picked up the10-pound keepsake. Granite on the backside. Black trim on the front side. Gold letters designed to be eternal reminders.

Protect our assets. Trust nobody.

How many times had Will heard his father declare that pledge? At the end of business meetings. With his sisters. Like an epitaph.

They didn’t need a family flag to remind their people. For the past 38 years, those words had been uttered more religiously than a prayer before any meal.

He scanned the shelves once again.

Where would the old bastard hide those estate documents?

Another meeting with the Chamberlain attorneys was scheduled for Friday afternoon. But Will didn’t want to go empty-handed.

He returned to the Reliance desk. As a child he had discovered a hidden drawer and imagined that there must be more secret drawers. He got down on his knees and stroked the ancient oak under both sides.

No triggers. No succession plan. No career clarity.

His phone buzzed with a text from Emily. Jack’s first wife. The one woman who could have read him bedtime stories, if she had cared more.

He read the text. “Will, something’s wrong. I can’t find the documents that Jack left for me years ago. They were in my wall safe. Call?”

Will needed to find those legal documents. And Emily needed to find them too. Will kept muttering, since the house was empty. “How ironic that we are searching at the same time, in two different houses. Confusion from the grave. What a fine legacy from your sudden death.”

He texted back, “Not now. Busy.” And he made sure that his phone was muted.

Then he stared at the silent oil painting.

Maybe you wanted us to be confused. Maybe you wanted us to fight over the properties until one of us emerged bloody with a majority ownership.

Will picked up the putter again and stared out the window at the heavy rains pummeling the tin roof and wall of windows.

You always liked fighters.

He hoisted the Taylor Made Spider X club with practiced ease. But he didn’t swing the club. He had no distant green or target.

“Screw this...” he muttered. “Time to do something productive.”

Will walked away from Jack’s office to the South Wing, where he roomed.

He stepped on his Peloton bike and pushed the buttons for a scenic ride in Tuscany. Time to spin. Time to recall some of the family history. Maybe there were clues from the past.

He thought about Emily, because of her text. Jack’s first wife. One of her vices was Pinot Grigio and Emily preferred to drink alone. That way no one would tell her when she had too much. Now she lived alone, adored by four gigantic white Persian cats. Never remarried. Never had children, which was a second reason for their divorce. Yet she retained the Dawson surname.

Emily had been a star tennis player and a beauty at Old Miss. That era ended at a Delta Gamma sorority party, under the rose awnings, when a sorority sister introduced her to a tall man who lived near Nashville. He wore white seersucker pants and a smirk. She fell hard. They were married a month after graduation. The charcoal and rose wedding invitations promised, “Jack and Emily forever.”

But after 7 years without children Jack was done with her.

No-fault divorces are easy when there are no capital assets. Both parties agreed to irreconcilable differences. He got the divorce. She kept the Dawson surname.

Jack went back on the hunt and somehow fell into bed with a stunning brunette named Regan, a widow with 3 young kids. Will was her eldest and only male. The girls, Harper and Nora Lee still lived nearby but hated to talk about the family businesses. They were raised to have strong opinions.

“Emily, you were never part of this family,” Will kept muttering. “You were always potential energy, a rose that never blossomed. What can you do for us now?”

Will cranked on the Peloton resistance knob and raced through the Tuscany vineyards, amid a rush of memories. A cheerful voice from the bike said, “Spin faster. You’ve got this!”

Jack and Regan became a power couple at a time when rural Nashville needed more power couples. Jack like to hunt quail and never had enough land. Regan liked to buy racehorses. But women were expected to wear flouncy hats with feathers and white dresses at the Percy Warner steeplechase. They were expected to drink mint juleps, gossip about musicians, and agree with the men who ran them around. Not Regan. She drank single malts with the men in private showings where there were no other women.

She flirted until those men shared secrets about genetic flaws and questionable bloodlines. When it was time to haggle prices, she usually got her number, and the sellers got a “you’re such a dear.”

And a kiss on the cheek.

Within a decade they were the largest landowners in Williamson County and had four steeplechase grand winners. They bought land from old farmers and old church deacons. The Dawson name was suddenly a regional brand.

Franklin, Tennessee was, and is, a small town with provincial pride.

When the Wall Street Journal declared Nashville, Tennessee an “It City” the region officially exploded. Music City Plus. Healthcare giants like HCA spawned 400 related companies and countless millionaires. Bridgestone, Nissan and Mitsubishi relocated their corporate headquarters for tax benefits. Amazon, Oracle, and Alliance Bernstein quickly followed. The airport added concourses and became international.

The Dawson Brand became the largest real estate developer within 100 miles.

And Nashville was recognized as the #1 fastest growing region in the U.S.

Then Jack Dawson suddenly died on Tuesday. Yesterday. At age 61.

And now what are we supposed to do?

Chapter 2

Tuscany, Italy, looked lovely. Will imagined spinning over hills and through ancient villages that were strangely empty. Timeless. His flow state. He checked the leaderboard. Sorted by age and gender. 12,456 riders. He was at 1,378. Got to crank it up to be in the top 10%. Argh!

Or not.

Will clicked the phone on his watch. “Hey sis, just thinking of you. Whatcha doing?”

Nora Lee picked up her phone, “Same old. Let me walk outside.” She grabbed a cheap yellow umbrella from her foyer. As the rain pelted, she walked down the stones toward the garage. When she reached the corner, she glanced back at the house to make sure that she was alone.

Every third home in East Nashville has a small business. Vintage bookstores. Tattoo shops. Asian tea houses. Craftsman style bungalows painted purple and lime green to attract a certain kind of customer. People with purple hair. Or lime green hair. Of any age.

Half of the neighborhood had garages converted into a recording studio. Wannabe artists floated from garage to garage to play backups. Fueled by the dream of a big break. But truly fueled by their desire to hang out together. Social reinforcement defines every community. Nora Lee had some neighbors with talent, but more neighbors with enthusiasm. Both were important for her mental health.

Nora Lee hosted porch concerts so that she could listen. Then dance by herself.

Nora Lee called it D-house, because her visitors called it that. Shorter than Dawson House. Longer than “Douse.” Someone gave her a small sign near the front door saying, “Welcome to D-house.” She never replaced the sign.

Names are sticky things, like bad memories.

Five years ago, when she first took deed for the house, Nora Lee said yes. Ever since then she has had a WIT living in the house. A Woman-In-Transition. She never required rent. She did have some house rules. No kids, because they always grow up and need more than any WIT could ever provide. No partners, because couples always want to take over. D-house was too small for couples, and just enough for one person in transition. No hard drugs, because Nora Lee is realistic. And who needs the cops?

One of her WITs rode a unicycle. Another WIT was a felon. Another WIT loudly claimed that she was a French noblewoman.

Hannah was the current WIT at D-house. She sometimes worked as a masseuse in a nearby chain massage place. She was licensed. But Hannah had few repeat customers. One reason was that she talked at people. Another reason was her knuckles. The pain was tolerable, but never enjoyable.

Hannah applied the same approach to D-house. She never did dishes. She often complained. She never cooked for others. She was tolerable but never enjoyable. When she got too loud, Nora Lee had to walk away.

Hannah had only one patterned response. When talking about the dominance of male musicians on the Lower Broadway honky-tonks, she’d say, “That’s just not right!”

After Nora Lee walked into the garage she said, “Hey Will. I’m alone now. Nothing new here. Hannah’s driving me crazy again.”

Will said, “Let me guess. That’s just not right!”

“You know it. I should get her a t-shirt.”

“How about a mirror? Or a pacifier. Do you ever tell her to shut up?”

“You know I could never do that. She’s in transition.”

“Aren’t we all?” Will thought about their father for a second. “How long has she been living in D-house?”

“It has been a long 8 months. I’m thinking of adding a new rule. “No more than 12 months residency.”

“Why not? You’ve tolerated her for a long time. Maybe giving her a timeline will lead to some changes. We all need some career clarity.”

“Hmmm, somehow, I think you’re talking about another subject. Are you talking about our father now?”

Will cringed. “Argh, you hit me in the gut. Once again. I’ve been thinking about the meeting on Friday with the Chamberlain lawyers.”

“Yeah, I hate them too. Probably because our parents picked them, not us. And they never fully answer my questions.”

“Right? What’s that about? Basic answers would be a reasonable place to start. Like what are the exact terms of the trust? And who, other than our mother, are the trust officers?”

“Now I can hear Hannah again, saying “That’s just not right!”

“Hah! I know exactly what Hannah would say if she saw your distributions. Can you imagine her outrage? “What? You get how much money every 3 months? Just for being a Dawson? That’s just not right!” Thank God she’s not listening.”

“We are fortunate. But that’s not the point. That’s one reason why I keep this D-house project going. It’s my little charitable project. But my point is that it sucks being a beneficiary in limbo. I get that I should be content. I get that most people do not have enough money. I get that the Chamberlain people have seen all kinds of tragic succession stories. But I don’t get why they think we will end up like characters in some HBO television story of failure.”

“Or greed.” Will looked up from the Tuscany countryside, stared at the rain, and slowed his pace.

He thought about the negative media coverage. Succession. Yellowstone. Landman. Dallas. All those fear-based stories of greed.

“Right. I’ve been thinking about greed lately,” she continued. “What is the Dawson legacy? How much wealth is enough? The big questions. I’ve been asking my Chat GPT about succession planning.

“Yeah? What are you learning?”

“That it’s faster than the internet. And when I ask the prompt to cite peer reviewed sources, I get great information.”

“I’m impressed, sis. Give me an example.”

“Sure. Most successions are quiet events, within the family. Not at all like those TV movies. Most attorneys are supposed to advise and recommend, then step out of the way.”

Wills glanced up from the Peloton screen. “Hah! I’m not sure the Chamberlain dudes can step out of the way. Every meeting ends with more billable hours. They perpetuate more and more billing, not resolutions. At $900/hour. I want to find a different firm.”

“Hmmm. I’ve been thinking the same thing. Maybe the Coupar Group? They have a good local reputation. Active with the Baptists.”

“You’ve said that for years now. How about if I schedule a meeting with them?”

“I think our mother would hate that idea.”

“Now we’ve got several reasons to call them. She would hate the idea. You and I are tired of the Chamberlain dudes. Dad is dead. And who cares what Harper thinks...”

“I’ve been wondering about Harper. I haven’t talked to her since our father died.”

“That was only yesterday. Feels like a long time ago. Let’s give her a call.”

“Now?”

Why not? Will avoided his sister Harper but he never avoided conflicts.

Chapter 3

The D-house garage has two levels. The lower level is an open space for the mess of recording panels, music stands, drums, microphones, portable walls for acoustic options. Upstairs is N’s private retreat. Two opposing walls with big windows bring sunlight and possibilities and fresh air for the stands of peace lilies and ferns. One wall of books. A glass-topped writing table and office chair. Nora Lee settled into her recliner to focus on her two siblings.

Will started, “Hey sis, how you doing?”

“Winning the god-damned morning,” said Harper.

Will said, “Not winning the day?”

Harper said, “That remains to be seen. Lots of changes in the wind.”

Will said, “Yes, for sure. Hey, you’re on speaker. Nora Lee is here with us.”

“Now I know the wind is Northwest. Wassup sibs? Did somebody else die?”

“I’m alright,” said Will. “Spinning along. Talking about you. So, we figured we should call.”

“And I always wondered if I was the least important one in the family. Now I know,” said Harper. “I can’t even imagine what you two were talking about.”

Nora Lee sighed, “He’s lying. Again. We were talking about how much we hate the Chamberlain dudes.”

“That makes three of us,” said Harper. “I always feel angry after their meetings. The bastards. They treat us like kids.”

Will said, “Yeah, it pisses me off. Everyone else in my life assumes that I’m a responsible adult. Capable of making good decisions. All my property managers rave about our work.”

Harper continued, “That senior partner, Topher Chamberlain, should be stuffed and reassigned to a private bank in New York or London. I hate it when he says, “It depends...” To every question.”

“Yeah. I noticed that too,” said Nora Lee. “Of course, “It depends.” That’s why our parents retained their firm. To spell out the details.”

Will said, “My take is that he uses “It depends” as a placeholder for more billable hours. I had an MBA professor who used “It depends” all the time. To delay responding directly. Or to fluff his ego.”

“But academics can’t pad their bills,” said Nora Lee. “They don’t make any money. So, sis, we have an idea.

“I’m sitting down. Nobody else is listening.”

Will said, “We’re thinking of reaching out to another firm for estate planning advice. Quietly. For a second opinion. From our generation.”

Nora Lee slowly added, “Without telling our mother.”

“Ah, there’s the rub. Likely to send her off the damned deep end. Tell me more. When would this make sense?”

Will spoke quickly, “The sooner the better. I don’t want to meet with the Chamberlain dudes on Friday and be empty-handed.”

Will thought about the downside of meeting with another firm. They would require endless discovery meetings. Requests for legal documents that were unavailable. And whatever legal advice they provided would probably contradict the Chamberlain group. Then again, they didn’t know what legal advice was going to be provided by the Chamberlain group.

Harper replied slowly, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Will said, “Consider what we know. Our father died yesterday. His burial is Sunday afternoon. Our mother has never shared legal documents with us. The Chamberlain dudes have never shared legal documents with us. They rarely answer our questions. We’ve got a meeting scheduled with them on Friday. We’re smart, well-educated people in our 30s. We deserve some good legal counsel.”

Nora Lee said, “One more thing. I know that you understand a lot of the legal stuff. And I appreciate that you went to the Nashville Law School for three years...”

Harper cut her off. “And I never passed the bar. After 4 attempts. So, I can’t represent the family.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” said Nora Lee. “What I wanted to say is that you think like a lawyer. We need that right now. You are cautious. You imagine the legal downsides. Frankly, I have no idea what is going on.”

Will considered the facts. She’s not just cautious. She’s downright pessimistic. And cynical as hell. And targeted in yet one more lawsuit from Jordan.

“We all know the biggest problem. We don’t have any legal documents to reference. I’ve asked for them.”

Will said, “Yeah. That’s why we need to meet with someone quickly. Nora Lee suggested the Coupar Group. Maybe you know about them. Do you have any other recommendations?”

“Hmmm. You know I’ve always got an opinion or two. Maybe we should move fast on our own. One of my law school professors often quoted the research. He said, “Nothing is more important than whatever you think is important right now.” Leads to all kinds of biased decisions. Hmmm. Let me make some calls. There are two other firms in town that are pretty good with estate law. The Cardigan Group and Mattox Law. How available are you for a meeting tomorrow? If I can get an hour with one of them?”

Will said, “Nothing is more important. I’ll be available at any time.”

He thought, Do Whatever It Takes. DWIT. Protect our assets.

Nora Lee said, “Me too. Thanks, Nora Lee, for making some calls. You know I’ll say yes.”

THURSDAY

Chapter 4

Nashville has a long history of violent growth from outsiders. As a frontier town on the Cumberland River, the riverfront hosted brothels and whiskey. Countless skirmishes. Local resistance. Fights for honor were required to determine property rights and slave ownership. Brothers and cousins killed one another in endless guerilla warfare raids, rapes, murders, lynchings. Tennessee earned “The Volunteer State” label because more soldiers per capita volunteered and died during those bloody decades. For over 30 years the region was a battlefield of chaos, with the bloodiest named events in nearby Franklin, Murfreesboro, and Stones River. Tennessee was the last Confederate state to secede from the Union. The town of Nashville was targeted early, then became the first Confederate capitol to fall to those damned Union aggressors.

The strategic importance of Nashville only increased with the war. Shipping lanes were defined by the Cumberland River flowing west to the Mississippi. The railroads were repeatedly attacked by local rebels like Nathan Bedford Forrest who burned bridges and destroyed tracks. Fortifications were built on a hill above the village of Nash. The Union stronghold added supply depots and manufactured guns. They built larger structures. Wounded soldiers and prisoners littered the streets. The hospitals and churches followed to provide care.

Even today, Nashville has more philanthropic giving per capita than any other city in the country. That Volunteer State endures outside of government funding. The demand for whiskey, brothels, and publications is nothing new. Printers Alley printed maps, then pornography, then bibles in response to the changing demands. Music City of every genre needed a home.

Nashville was and is a town full of creators.

The Nashville Business Journal publishes “The Crane Watch Photo” every month. Last month 18 cranes set the record for Nashville as the fastest-growing city in the country. One more futile attempt to track the ever-changing developments in the downtown skyline. Over 2 million people now and 100+ new people every day. Mostly from California and Chicago.

The Mattox Law Firm sits on fertile ground, at the corner of 12^th street south and Edgehill. Stuffed between Vanderbilt’s Medical Center and the ghostlike studios on Music Row. The global medical achievements at Vandy range from the first NeoNatal intensive care (NIC) units to cancer pharmacology to COVID antibody treatments.

When the WSM Radio Tower was built in nearby Brentwood, in the 1940s, suddenly half of the country could hear the magic of the Grand Ole Opry. Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline recorded in RCA and Columbia Studios, then transformed the dreams of musicians in every corner of the world. Today the 12 South neighborhood intersects too many restaurants, and too many buried layers of history. Creators and Makers. Local dreamers with global visions still haunt the neighborhood.

There is something strong in the Nashville water.

SUBSTACK READERS: please add your comments below… I’m hungry for your feedback!