Sparring Partners(25)
Freda shrugged, took a drink. Buddy smiled at her.
Nick lifted the first settlement agreement and said, “This is for Odell Grove, plaintiff number one. He was supposed to receive sixty thousand dollars. Back here on the last page is his signature and your notarization. Please take a look.”
Before she looked at anything, Freda said, “Well, I can assure you I never notarized a signature for Odell Grove. Never met the man.”
They went through all four settlement agreements. Freda admitted that whoever signed her name, and they were assuming it was Mack Stafford simply because there was no other suspect even remotely connected to the matter, had done a passable job of forgery. All four notarizations were done with an outdated stamp and seal, and certified with Freda’s forged signature.
She said, “When I left I took my current stamp and seal, still have it. I had a couple of old ones in a drawer in the file room. Looks like Mack just used one of them and nobody in New York caught it.”
Nick said, “I had to use a magnifying glass to read the seal.”
“No one ever looks that close. As you know, when you get something notarized, you’re standing in front of the notary herself. It’s all very routine.”
Buddy asked, “What’s the penalty for forging a notarization?”
“Up to five years,” Nick said. “Times four, plus he may have forged the plaintiffs’ signatures as well. We don’t know yet.”
“Who’ll prosecute him?” Freda asked, suddenly concerned.
Nick put the settlement agreement away and said, “Don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see where the investigation leads. I’ll ask you to sign a statement that covers everything we just discussed.”
She hesitated and said, “Okay, but I really don’t want to go to court, you know? I don’t want to testify against Mack. Will they really put him in jail?”
Nick frowned and looked around. She was asking questions he couldn’t answer. “Don’t know. Again, we’ll have to finish the investigation first. I’ll ask you to keep this conversation private, okay? If Mack is back in the country, he might skip out again if he catches wind of our involvement.”
Freda nodded grimly and was tempted to explain to this young man from Long Island how fast the gossip flew around Clanton, but she let it pass.
He asked, “And you never met any of the four plaintiffs?”
“No. I don’t think these guys came to town very often. I remember typing the original letters to the manufacturer years ago.”
“I have the letters right here. All four are dated April 17, 1984.”
“Seven years ago,” she replied. “Seems longer than that.”
“Nothing much happened after the first letters. Do you remember why Mack lost his enthusiasm for the cases?”
“Not really. Mack didn’t handle product cases like this. I seem to recall that he tried to shop them around to bigger law firms, but nothing happened. He forgot about them. So did I.”
“And you knew nothing of the settlements?”
“No, nothing at all. As I said, he fired me and I left the office immediately.”
Nick zipped his briefcase and held it in his lap. The meeting was over.
(26)
The FBI had little business in Ford County and rarely ventured there. The call from Special Agent Lenzini was taken by a secretary and routed to Sheriff Ozzie Walls. It was a call Lenzini made with great hesitation since it was his first official contact with anyone in Clanton. He explained to the sheriff that he was pursuing a routine investigation, but one that was nonetheless quite sensitive. Discretion was needed, and so on.
Ozzie was intrigued and eager to help. Any involvement with the Feds was an exciting change of pace. When he asked the nature of the investigation, Lenzini deflected him with “Might be some drug activity. I’ll explain it all tomorrow.”
The following day, Ozzie and Marshall Prather, his chief deputy, drove to the small town of Karaway, the only other incorporated municipality in the county. They met Lenzini at a coffee shop on Main Street midmorning and huddled in a booth, as far away from prying ears as possible. Most of the old gentlemen drinking coffee and talking politics had hearing problems anyway.
Lenzini briefed them on his investigation into Mack Stafford and asked for their help. He had verified the fact that Jerrol Baker, one of the four plaintiffs, was in prison. There was no sign of Travis Johnson, nor of Doug Jumper.
“He’s dead,” Prather said. “Boy got killed in a truck wreck a few years back, over near Tupelo. My cousin knows his family.”
Lenzini made a note of this and said, “That leaves Odell Grove. Any idea where he might be?”
“Yep, he lives not far from here,” Prather said. “Still cuttin’ pulpwood with his sons.”
They decided the wisest course would be for Prather to pay a visit to Odell late in the afternoon when he was probably at home. An FBI agent in a dark suit might not be as welcome. In his two elections for sheriff, Ozzie had done well in the precincts around Karaway, but still he was black and always cautious when knocking on doors deep in the woods.
In the car driving back to Clanton, Ozzie said, “You know, Jake was asking about Mack Stafford. Wanted to know if the case was still open. I told him no. He asked me to let him know if I heard anything.”