A Two Thousand Dollar Nebraska Land Purchase Leads to a Federal Fraud Case
It detailed the day Brinley Fairmont had first come to my porch, the forged signature on the county consent form, and the silent photographs Chadwick had taken of my tractor.
I signed my name at the bottom of the third page, the ballpoint pen scratching loudly in the quiet room.
“Thank you, Mr. Graham,” Clara said, taking the clipboard back. “We will get this over to the courthouse before they close.”
I walked back out to my truck, the cold air hitting my face like a wet cloth.
I drove the six miles back to the section line, the truck’s heater blowing a thin stream of warm air against my boots. The sky was getting darker, the clouds hanging low and heavy over the empty corn fields.
I pulled into Henry Duca’s yard at exactly three in the afternoon. His old white farmhouse stood against the wind, its paint peeling in long, grey strips near the foundation. A rusted windmill stood near the stock tank, its metal blades turning with a slow, rhythmic groan.
