A Two Thousand Dollar Nebraska Land Purchase Leads to a Federal Fraud Case
Pinned to the refrigerator door with a round magnet was a white envelope that had been tucked into my screen door when I came in from the fields.
It was an official notice from the county zoning office, citing my property for failure to maintain weed control and accusing me of storing hazardous materials near a protected waterway.
The citation carried a three hundred dollar fine for every day the violation remained uncorrected.
The citation had Carl Henderson’s signature at the bottom, written in thick black ink.
He had signed it at three o’clock, just four hours after I saw him laughing with Brinley Fairmont in the hallway.
They had not even sent an inspector to the property.
I looked at the kitchen window, seeing my own reflection against the dark glass.
I was fifty-eight years old, and my shoulders felt like they were made of dry sand.
I went to the sink and ran the cold water, letting it pour over my wrists to dull the heat in my joints.
My hands were stiff from the rough wooden handles of the digger, the palms raw and hot.
