I called my old attorney, Margaret Price, who had helped structure my investments and still treated me like a man perpetually one bad decision away from bankruptcy. She answered on the fourth ring, and I could hear traffic in the background. When I explained the foreclosure letter, she went quiet for a moment. Margaret had known me long enough to recognize the difference between my irritation and my concern.
"Send me everything," she said. "Especially that boundary revision. Do not sign anything, don't admit the debt, and don't make a threat you wouldn't want repeated under oath."
"I was thinking of asking her to move her Mercedes off my driveway," I said.
"That one is allowed. What are you not telling me, Ezra?"
I looked toward the dark field where the porch light barely reached. "Regional Trust issued the notice."
Her silence this time lasted considerably longer. "The bank you own?"
"Apparently we've become very creative while I was busy raising tomatoes."
Margaret exhaled. "Then we have two problems. One is a fraudulent claim against your farm. The other is the possibility that your own institution helped manufacture it. We have to treat the second problem seriously, even if it embarrasses you."
That was why I trusted her. She never confused loyalty with the obligation to tell me what I wanted to hear. We agreed that I would approach the branch as an ordinary customer first, ask for the basis of the charges, and preserve the response. Margaret would independently request certified records from the county clerk and engage outside banking counsel to review the institution without giving anyone an opportunity to alter files. If employees had knowingly violated lending controls, I intended to learn exactly who and how.
The next morning I dressed in clean work clothes, parked my old pickup outside Regional Trust's Main Street branch, and walked in carrying the foreclosure envelope. The marble lobby looked much as it had after the renovation I approved years earlier. Brass letters stood behind the tellers, framed photographs showed local businesses, and a bowl of wrapped peppermints sat on the counter. I remembered arguing that the bank should look welcoming rather than intimidating. Now, watching a young couple nervously review loan papers at a desk, I wondered how well we had preserved that promise.
Janet Morrison saw me before I reached the service counter. She had worked there for nearly fifteen years and usually greeted customers with the brisk courtesy of someone juggling six tasks at once. This morning she nearly dropped her coffee. She hurried around her desk and ushered me into a private office so fast that the couple looked up from their paperwork.
"Mr. Blackstone, I'm very glad you came," she said. "We absolutely have to discuss the irregularities attached to your property."
"That's what I was hoping to do."