Chapter 6 - The Broken Line
By Friday morning, Warren Voss’s machine began to move in broad daylight.
At 9:00 AM, two process servers in dark sedans pulled up the driveway to hand me two formal court notices: an immediate foreclosure filing on the farm due to an alleged “technical default” under the transferred loan terms, and a civil lawsuit filed by Daniel Voss claiming three hundred thousand dollars in damages for assault, trespass, and destruction of property.
An hour later, my cousin Harlan—who worked as a clerk at the county courthouse—called my landline from a payphone behind the diner.
“Sam,” Harlan whispered, his voice frantic. “Warren’s lawyer spent two hours in Judge Thorne’s private office this morning. They’re fast-tracking the hearing for Monday. Thorne’s going to sign an emergency order giving Daniel a protective injunction against you, which means you won't even be allowed within five hundred feet of your own daughter if Warren’s legal team gets her placed into a temporary administrative conservatorship.”
“Can Thorne do that?” I asked.
“Thorne’s brother owns thirty percent of Warren’s development company, Sam!” Harlan yelled softly. “The whole courthouse is rotten! You need a lawyer from Atlanta today, or they’re going to strip you clean before you even get to state court!”
“I don't need a lawyer from Atlanta, Harlan,” I said.
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to make a phone call,” I said, and hung up the receiver.
I walked to the kitchen desk, picked up the yellowing address book Sarah had kept by the microwave, and flipped through the pages until I found a number written in blue ink under the letter V.
Marcus Vance. Washington D.C.
Marcus had been my platoon sergeant in 1989. After he left the Army, he went to Georgetown Law, spent fifteen years as a federal prosecutor, and was now the senior partner at one of the largest investigative litigation firms on the East Coast. We hadn't spoken since Sarah’s funeral twelve years ago.
I picked up the phone and dialed the ten digits.
The line rang twice before a woman’s professional voice answered: “Vance & Associates, Office of the Managing Partner.”
“Tell Marcus that Sam Reed from the 75th is on the line,” I said.
There was a five-second pause. Then the line clicked, and a deep, gravelly voice snapped through the speaker: “Sammy? Is that you, you old mule?”
“Marcus,” I said. “I need a favor.”
“You haven't called me in twelve years, Sam. If you’re calling now, somebody’s bleeding or somebody needs to be.”
“My daughter was beaten by her husband,” I said plainly. “His father owns the town, bought my mortgage, bought the local judge, and is trying to take my girl and my land by Monday.”
The line went dead quiet for three long seconds. I could hear Marcus taking a heavy breath on the other end.
“What’s the name of the father?” Marcus asked, his tone shifting instantly from old friend to lethal predator.
May you like
“Warren Voss. Hartwell County.”
“Give me two hours,” Marcus said. “I’m landing my firm’s private plane at the regional airport by four o'clock. Don't sign anything, don't talk to the sheriff, and keep your wood bat by the door.”
