Chapter 9 - THE MASK OF ELI MERCER
Wayne Higgins looked like he was about to faint. "Now wait just a minute, Lena—"
"The signature on Boyd’s deed is signed Lena May Vance," I stated, projecting my voice so every person in the hall outside could hear. "My legal name on my birth certificate and my father’s trust is Lena Marie Vance. Furthermore, the Social Security number Boyd filed ends in 4821. My legal number ends in 4281. And most importantly..."
I plugged a small flash drive into the boardroom’s presentation projector mounted on the wall.
A massive high-definition video lit up the white screen behind Boyd’s head. It was the timestamped recording from my hidden phone taken in the kitchen six months ago. The audio boomed through the speakers:
“Sign the papers, Lena, or sleep in the road... You think anyone’s spending fifty grand to fix a broken horse? You’re twenty-four. The county takes you as a ward, and this farm is finally mine!”
Ruth sank into a chair, sobbing into her hands. Travis bolted for the side exit, but the door opened before he could touch the brass handle.
A man stepped through the door.
He wasn't wearing grease-stained overalls or scuffed work boots. He wore a bespoke three-piece midnight-blue Italian suit, a crisp silver tie, and an air of absolute, terrifying power.
"You won't be leaving just yet, Travis," the man said smoothly.
Boyd squinted at the tall newcomer, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Who the hell are you? This is a closed meeting! Mercer? What are you doing in a suit, you junkyard grease-monkey?"
The lead attorney from Midwestern Prairie Development LLC immediately stood up from the table, his eyes wide with shock. The three corporate lawyers bowed their heads respectfully.
"Mr. Mercer," the lead attorney stammered, adjusting his collar frantically. "We... we didn't know you were personally overseeing this transaction."
Boyd looked back and forth between the high-powered Chicago lawyers and the man he had treated like a town mechanic for five years. "Overseeing? What are you talking about? He owns a scrap yard on the north ridge!"
"He owns the scrap yard because he bought it for cash three years ago," the attorney said, his voice trembling. "Gentlemen, this is Elias Mercer—founding senior partner of Mercer, Sterling & Croft, the largest agricultural litigating firm in North America, and majority shareholder of Midwestern Prairie Development."
Eli stepped forward, placing one hand on the back of my chair.
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"You tried to sell Thomas Vance’s land to my company, Boyd," Eli said, his slate-gray eyes boring into Boyd’s soul like twin laser beams. "Did you really think I wouldn't check the chain of custody on a farm that belonged to the man who saved my family thirty years ago?"
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