A Two Thousand Dollar Nebraska Land Purchase Leads to a Federal Fraud Case
“Can we stop them?” I asked.
“We can fight the injunction,” Sarah said. “But you have to decide if you want to write the check for the three thousand dollars.”
I looked at the blue paper on her desk. The money was my grandfather’s inheritance, the last safety net I had after thirty years in the diesel shop. I pushed the leather bank book across the green blotter.
“Write the papers,” I said.
The wind was coming from the north when I pulled into the Co-Op station at one o’clock. The two-dollar gas station coffee tasted like burnt paper, but it was hot enough to warm my fingers. I stood by the pump, watching the digital numbers click up on the dial.
Mr. Duca’s red flatbed truck pulled up to the diesel pump opposite mine. He climbed out, wearing his dirty canvas coat, and nodded to me over the top of the metal island.
“I saw the sheriff out at your place this morning, Arthur,” Mr. Duca said.
“He left some papers,” I said.
