The humid Georgia air hung heavy over the county courthouse. Andre Linwood waited patiently, leaning against his old Ford pickup, a nondescript figure amidst the rush of lawyers and clerks. He had been tracking Julian Pryce’s movements for days.
Finally, Pryce emerged, looking harried, a briefcase clutched in his hand. He headed straight for his luxury sedan, eager to escape.
“Mr. Pryce!” Andre called out, stepping directly into his path.
Pryce flinched, his eyes darting around nervously. “Do I know you?” he stammered, trying to sidestep Andre.
Andre didn’t move. He held up a thick, bound ledger. “Andre Linwood. I work at the postal bank. And I’ve got a few questions about your notarizations.”
Pryce’s face went ashen. He recognized the ledger. It was a copy of the town’s historical land transfer records, the ones that rarely saw the light of day. Andre flipped it open to a marked page, revealing a series of property deeds, each bearing Pryce’s signature as notary. Each one connected to Marcus DuBose’s development deals.
“These are all the properties Marcus acquired in the last four years,” Andre said, his voice low and steady. “Including the ones that were quietly re-zoned, the ones with questionable appraisals, and the ones where the purchase price seemed… suspiciously low for historic Pine Bluff land.”
He pointed to a specific entry. “And this one,” he continued, “is the original Linwood parcel, the one where the country club is being built. The signatures, Mr. Pryce, look a little too perfect. A little too much like forgeries.”
Pryce’s eyes darted frantically between Andre, the ledger, and the courthouse entrance. He knew what this meant. Personal corporate liability. Fraud. State prison time. Marcus had protected him, but this was different. This was official.
“I… I can explain,” Pryce stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. “Marcus, he made me…”
“Get in the truck, Mr. Pryce,” Andre cut him off, his voice firm. “Let’s talk about what Marcus ‘made’ you do.”
Pryce, visibly trembling, hesitated for only a moment. He glanced back at the imposing courthouse, then at Andre’s unyielding face. He knew he was trapped. He climbed into the passenger seat of Andre’s beat-up pickup.
Andre handed him a pen and a fresh, blank legal pad. “Start from the beginning, Mr. Pryce,” Andre instructed, his eyes fixed on the appraiser. “Everything Marcus DuBose made you sign, everything he had you falsify, every kickback he gave you. Every single detail.”
Pryce swallowed hard, his hand shaking as he took the pen. He looked at the first blank page, then at the undeniable evidence Andre had laid out. The weight of his own actions, of Marcus’s threats, of the years of quiet corruption, crashed down on him.
He began to write. The confession started slowly, then picked up speed, page after page filled with his cramped, nervous handwriting. It detailed Marcus’s systemic land fraud, the falsified appraisals, the money laundering, the pressure tactics. Four pages of damning truth, a clear, concrete record of everything. Julian Pryce had broken.
+ There are no comments
Add yours