Music Row, just southwest of downtown Nashville, was where you went to find the offices of the major labels, publishing houses, video-production houses and music-licensing firms as well as all the businesses that supported the music scene in Nashville.
The big trees along the sidewalks provided gentle shade. Some of the houses, long converted into offices, had been there a century. Others, like the Sony building, shiny with reflective glass, spoke of power and wealth.
These were the buildings where the legends had cut songs. These were the sidewalks those legends had once walked as unknowns, guitars on their backs, just like Webb.
But Webb wasn’t walking these streets today to pitch his music.
He was here to kick producer butt.
The name of the law firm was etched in the glass of the door: Bing and McGee.
Webb took the elevator to the tenth floor. He’d done some online research and found a firm that specialized in music law.
He felt nervous. This was a new type of journey for him. He was a long way from home. The only real friend who could have helped—a Vietnam vet named Lee Knox—was on a two-week vacation, and Webb wasn’t going to call and bother him on the beach. Maybe if he couldn’t resolve the problem himself by the time Lee came back, Webb would ask for a favor. Nor was he going to call his mom in Canada. She’d get worried but wouldn’t be able to help him, so why add stress to her life? For now he was alone. If he didn’t do this, who would?
Webb pushed open the door and stepped onto a rich-red plush carpet. The room was hushed. There were empty straight-backed chairs on one side of the room. They faced floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Music Row. At the back of the foyer, behind a burnished-wood desk, sat a woman about his mother’s age. She wore cat-eye glasses, and it looked like her hair had been styled just before he opened the door—not a wisp was out of place. She gave him a neutral smile.
He took a couple of hesitant steps forward. The name plate on her desk said Ms. Planchette.
“My name is Jim Webb,” he said. “I called and set up an appointment for this time.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s nice that you’re prompt.”
It didn’t seem to bother her that Webb was young. Or that he had a guitar with him. Of course, in this business, some musicians his age were already brand names. She’d probably seen plenty of types come through the door.
“Stampeders?” she asked, eyeing his red-and-white T-shirt.
“Long story,” Webb said. Wednesday. Different day, different CFL team.
“Attorneys love long stories,” she said. “Not me. If you don’t mind, I’ve got a form for you to fill out.”
“I only have a couple of questions for Mr. Marvin,” Webb said. “It’s about—”
“Ms. Marvin.” Ms. Planchette’s voice grew distinctly cold.
“Ms.?” The law firm’s website had listed Jordan Marvin as one of the attorneys. When Webb called for a morning appointment, Jordan Marvin was the only one available.
“Yes,” she said. “Ms.”
The implication was clear. Webb was a caveman for assuming the lawyer would be male.
But Webb wasn’t in a mood to be pushed around. He’d already let Gerald Dean do that to him. For weeks.
“Really?” he said. “You’re going to bust me for assuming that Jordan was a man’s name? Because it is, you know. I bet I’m not the only one who has made this mistake.”
That thawed Ms. Planchette a little. “Maybe.”
“You mentioned a form?” Webb said.
“Also,” she said, “we’ll need a retainer. Credit card or certified check. Cash too, I suppose, but..” She let her voice trail away, as if only drug dealers would deliver cash.
“Retainer.” Webb took a breath. “Would you mind explaining that?”
“Ms. Marvin’s hourly fee is $250. We need a minimum deposit to cover her first two hours of billing.”
“Five hundred dollars.”
That would leave him with $1,099, because he’d already spent eight bucks on some Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and milk, as well as bus fare.
Doing more simple math, he realized that if he paid a retainer of $500, he wouldn’t have enough money to get his music from the producer. He’d be gambling on being able to legally force the producer to give him his songs. And if he gambled wrong…
“Um,” Webb said, “all I need to find out is whether Ms. Marvin can help me with this. I’ll explain what’s happening, and if she thinks she can do something, how about I pay the retainer then?”
Ms. Planchette leaned forward as if she were going to speak confidentially, even though it was only the two of them in the office.
“You seem like a nice kid,” she said. “Are you new to Nashville?”
Webb nodded.
“And you don’t have a car, right?”
Webb opened his mouth to ask how she knew, then hefted his guitar case as an answer.
“Exactly,” she said. “You’re not here to audition. This is a law firm. So why bring up your guitar unless you don’t have a car trunk to keep it in.”
Her voice was growing more sympathetic. “And you don’t have an agent or a manager. If you did, they would have made the appointment on your behalf and fought your battles for you. Which means...”
“I’m a kid without a car, and I don’t even have a contract anywhere. Otherwise, someone else would be here for me.”
“Exactly,” she said again. “Fast learner. Which means the firm is going to need a retainer as the first step. Otherwise Ms. Marvin might as well sit in a coffee shop and answer questions for anyone who doesn’t understand the business.”
“A producer ripped me off,” he said. “I just want to—”
“Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you,” Ms. Planchette said. “From your perspective, you think a producer ripped you off. It’s going to take someone like Ms. Marvin to tell you whether that’s true from a legal perspective.”
“I’m not an attorney,” she said. “Telling me won’t get you anywhere. You’re going to need legal advice.”
“How do I even know if I have a chance of getting my songs unless I explain the situation and ask a couple of questions?”
Ms. Planchette said, “The answers you get from Ms. Marvin are what would be considered legal advice. To repeat, I’m not trying to mess with you here. I’m just trying to give you a clear understanding of the situation.”
Webb said, “I thought some legal firms gave a person a chance to find out if it’s worth hiring the lawyer.”
“Sure,” she said. “Legal firms who have lawyers who are desperate for clients. And those kinds of lawyers are often very happy to string you along so that they can bill you for an hour or two anyway. At Bing and McGee, our attorneys don’t need to play those games.”
Webb gazed out the window. Sony seemed a lot farther away than across a mere strip of pavement on Music Row.
Paying the retainer guaranteed he wouldn’t be able to pay the producer. In the short term, that meant he’d have to give up on getting his music. In exchange, there was only a possibility the lawyer would tell him he could claim his songs in the long term. And even if the lawyer said he had a chance, it still meant he wouldn’t get his songs anytime soon.
That’s what it came down to, he decided. Weighing a certainty against a possibility. If he wanted those songs, he’d have to pay. This was something Gerald Dean had no doubt known all along.
“Well,” Webb finally said to Ms. Planchette, “I appreciate your help with this. I won’t waste your time by filling out the form.”