Pearce handled a lot of collection cases. I took care of expenses, paid my debts, paid my bills, leaving no basis for one. But if Pearce wasn’t bringing a collection action, that only left one other alternative.
He was after the farm.
The Stone family farm had been handed down from generation to generation. My sisters and I inherited the land from our parents.
Neither Mama nor Daddy ever made a will. Not uncommon in this area. My parents died intestate. So did my grandparents. Thatmeant that the farm in Bullock County was technically “heirs’ property.” Land owned by the descendants of the deceased as tenants in common.
And heirs’ property is a can of worms.
Shitttt.I should have taken care of it. Should have dug through our ancestry, taken time to file a quiet title action. Bought my sisters out, had them sign a quitclaim deed.
Because I knew the facts. Over the past few decades, 90 percent of Black Americans had lost their farmland. Through partition sales, foreclosures, deceptive tactics. Their property interests were vulnerable because of the history of heirs’ property and the cloud it casts over title.
I wanted to storm the post office and demand to see the correspondence. I was wild to know what that letter would say.
But the letter wasn’t even there. The postman still had it in the postal truck that was bumping over a farm road somewhere in Bullock County. And the postal notice stated that I could pick the letter up at the post office in Union Springs in two days.
Two days? That was a damned lie. It was Friday; the post office was closed on Sunday. I’d have to wait until Monday. And if they insisted on hanging on to it for two business days, it could be Tuesday before I’d be able to collect the letter and see what the hell this was all about.
I leaned against the painted beam holding up the porch and looked out at my property. Seeing it with fresh eyes—the trees, weathered barn, green fields. The sight as familiar as my own face in the mirror.
No one was going to take it. I wouldn’t permit that to happen.
I walked over to my wicker rocking chair and sat. Tried to calm myself by rocking back and forth.
Right.
Good luck with that.
Friday through Tuesday? I couldn’t wait it out. No damn way.
I lunged out of the chair so fast that it rocked so far back that it tipped against the window frame. Any more force and I’d have busted out the glass pane.
I charged across the yard and pulled open the driver’s door, climbed inside. Didn’t even check the clock. Because it didn’t matter what time it was.
There was someone I had to see.
CHAPTER
28
I wanted to burn the rubber off my tires. Tear the asphalt off those country roads. It required all the restraint I could claim, but I kept my foot from stomping on the accelerator and stayed within the speed limit.
Back in the city limits of Union Springs, I headed downtown and wheeled into a parking spot close to Arch Pearce’s law office. After I slammed my car door shut, I was disposed to break into a run. But I held back, as a matter of dignity. I was trying like hell to hold on to mine.
When I stepped up to the entrance of the office building, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I paused, taking a longer look. Determined, yes. Intimidating? Sure. Just wanted to make sure that I didn’t appear to be crazy or wild-eyed.
A buzzer sounded when I opened the door and stepped inside.Fancy,I thought.Very twenty-first century.Moreover, alerting Arch Pearce to arrivals would be a practical necessity in that office. Odds were good that a person walking in was someone he had pissed off.
After all, he was in the business of taking advantage of peoplewho were vulnerable. Bringing them to their knees. Taking what was rightly theirs.
Well. He’d picked the wrong woman to mess with.
It was getting close to five o’clock. The reception area was empty except for one lone employee, a young administrative assistant occupying a desk. As I marched up, she watched with some trepidation, shrinking back in her chair.
That might’ve been a result of my intense facial expression.
I stood in front of her desk, eyeing the closed door directly behind her, bearing a brass nameplate.
