A Two Thousand Dollar Nebraska Land Purchase Leads to a Federal Fraud Case
At one in the afternoon, I pulled into the gravel lot of the county feed store to pick up a sack of mineral block. Mr. Duca was leaning against the tailgate of his rusted green pickup, his hands shoved deep into his denim pockets.
“You look like you’ve been digging in the dark,” Mr. Duca said, nodding at my mud-stained boots.
“I spent the morning with Sarah Finch,” I told him, dropping the heavy sack into my truck bed. “She says the zoning citation won’t hold if we fight it.”
Mr. Duca looked down at his boots, his face tightening. “The Fairmonts have a firm out of Lincoln that costs more than my entire herd is worth, Arthur. They don’t play by our rules.”
“They don’t own the dirt under my feet yet,” I said.
He reached out and tapped my arm, his fingers rough as bark. “They took eight thousand dollars from me last year just to make the letters stop. Don’t let them take your spirit too.”
