A Two Thousand Dollar Nebraska Land Purchase Leads to a Federal Fraud Case
The signature on the consent form was tall and elegant, with wide loops in the capital letters and a fancy tail on the last letter. It was the kind of writing that belonged to someone who sat at a clean desk all day.
I sat there with the engine idling, the heater blowing lukewarm air against my boots. The comparison was plain.
The lines on the photocopy were the work of a machine or a thief who had practiced on a kitchen table.
I put the truck in gear and headed back toward the farm.
The sun was low over the western pasture when Mr. Duca walked up my driveway. His work boots made a dry, scraping sound on the packed dirt, and he was holding a grease gun in his left hand.
“You have that look about you,” he said, stopping by the porch steps.
“Look at this,” I said, handing him the photocopy of the consent form.
He squinted at the page, his weathered face tightening as he read the name written on the line. He did not say anything for a long moment, his eyes moving back and forth across the paper.
