Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“My father is sixty-two and works on engines every day,” I said.
She clutched her mug closer to her chest. “Mr. Benson told me it was all standard. He had the power of attorney right there on his desk.”
“Did he show you the original?”
“It was a blue document,” she said. “It had a gold seal on it.”
I took my phone out and took a clear photo of the disclosure page, making sure the signature line and the final sum were in focus.
“Thank you, Emily,” I said.
“Please tell me I am not going to lose my home,” she whispered.
I did not have an answer that would comfort her, so I turned and walked back to my car.
Gerald Benson’s downtown office sat on the third floor of a brick building near the county courthouse. The lobby was quiet, smelling of heavy lemon polish and old leather binders. A young woman with a gold nameplate that read Amber sat behind a polished mahogany counter.
“Mr. Benson is in consultations all afternoon,” she said, her fingers remaining poised over her computer keyboard.
