NOTE: This is part of a continuing online novel. Here is the Table of Contents.

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When most lawyers tell their wives they’re going into the office on a Sunday night, suspicious wives would not find them there.

John Yates was different. Mondays were a great day for pitches at Morris, Manning & Martin in Atlanta, entrepreneurs meeting potential investors and the lawyers riding shotgun. Yates liked Mondays.

Some lawyers are built for the courtroom, some for the library, and others are built for cocktail parties. All are important. John Yates, however, was built for the conference room.

He was all he’d ever wanted to be. His job was to act as a go-between between technology entrepreneurs and capital. Almost from the minute he’d gotten his law license he joined the local tech clubs, such as the Southeastern Software Association. He’d watch it all grow, like kudzu, until it covered the northern suburbs, office-warehouses and elegant suites in an arc from Duluth to Alpharetta to Kennesaw and beyond.

It gave him great satisfaction. He wasn’t an engineer, didn’t have the patience for it. And he wasn’t a salesman, didn’t have the nerves for it. But he was smart, honest, conscientious, trustworthy. If you wanted to launch a tech business in Georgia, or wanted to invest heavily in one, you called MM&M and asked for John Yates. And if Yates vouched for you, you’d likely become rich (or richer).

But this was not a normal evening. Oh, his wife would still find him in the office. But while most Sundays he’d be buried in reports and spreadsheets, preparing for the next day’s work, tonight he was spinning in his chair and staring at the skyline. Both of the next day’s meetings had been cancelled, at the investors’ instigation. And others were making noises about “an exit strategy,” a way out of their investments regardless of cost. Yates knew that cost would likely include several clients, and he didn’t know what he could do to help them.

When the phone rang Yates smiled, hoping it was his wife. Small problems were comforting when bigger ones were at hand. But this was something completely different.

“John Yates? That you, John?” The voice had a very strong Japanese accent. “Your wife told me you’re working late Sunday. Well, congratulations. It’s Monday already.”

The voice laughed, and Yates relaxed. Few people in Atlanta recognized the voice of Masayoshi Son. Yates was among those few. To hear the man’s voice, calling him personally, was indeed a great honor. His wife would be tickled when he told her who she had spoken to.

“Son-san. A great honor to hear your voice. How may I serve you today?”

“I have a proposition for you,” Son said, getting straight to the point. “In recent weeks we have had contact with many investors seeking a share in U.S. technology, in start-ups. They have cash easily translated into dollars to invest. Most are in Hong Kong.”

Yates saw no problem with that, but had some questions. “Why call me? You have many U.S. operations.”

“Yes, I know. But most of those investors won’t talk to me anymore.” Son laughed, a big, loud, western-style laugh. The whole world knew his story, how he went from an estimated net worth of $76 billion to barely $1 billion when the Internet bubble burst.

A few also knew that he was now making a comeback, this time as an Internet Service Provider, selling broadband to Japanese consumers at far less than the old government monopoly NTT was willing to charge.

“Besides,” Son continued, “these investors don’t want what I offer, established companies with track records. What they want are start-ups. They know the risks, but they also know the rewards. They know they can lose their money, but I don’t want that to happen. So I say, who can I trust in America? And I thought of John Yates. First thing.”

“Well, that is indeed an honor,” said Yates, and it was. It was also a godsend. Here he was was dreading some of the meetings he would have to take the next day, with entrepreneurs eager to get deals done, thinking of how he would have to explain patiently that the investors would not be coming, owing to “the world situation,” i.e., the real estate collapse. Patience, he would counsel the impatient. I will keep working the problem, he would say.

Now he might have something else to say entirely. “I will need to get some details, on the investors, on their capital, on their requirements,” he said.

“No,” said Son simply. “You don’t need that. I have already organized it. I have two funds – Softbank North and Softbank South. Each is capitalized with 500 million. That’s U.S. dollars. These funds are ready to invest tomorrow, on your say-so. You send in the request, you make the deal, you handle the paperwork for your firm’s usual fee. And, John? You take an extra 2½% for finding the deals. I trust you, but we must act fast.”

Yates was taken aback. “It’s not often I hear a Japanese businessman tell me to hurry, Son-San.”

“Well, I’m Korean,” said Son, which was true. Son's father had run pachinko parlors on the southern island of Kyushu, and despite the family’s taking a Japanese surname his classmates never let him forget that he was “gaijin,” foreign. “Besides, don’t worry about me. I am taking mine off the top.

“I am trusting you, and your well-known discretion," Son continued, flattering the Atlanta lawyer again. "You will tell your friends this is Softbank South. Nothing about Hong Kong. Nothing about China. Softbank South, OK?”

“So long as the checks clear, Son-san, I am happy to accept your word.”

“OK, got to run. E-mails coming – contracts, details, references, forms. You get good sleep tonight, deal with it in the morning. You hear?”

“Yes, Son-san.”

And with that Son-san rang off.