IF THAT’S WHAT he wants, it’s fine with me,” Tidwell said, as he handed the sealed envelope to the courier. “You don’t have to tell me what law firm you're delivering this to. We just have to document the time and date that we gave it to you. If you’ll just sign here.”

     Ten minutes later the envelope was safely in the hands of J. D. Edwards, Esquire.

     After opening the envelope and extracting the two documents inside, he took out his iPhone and hit the Facetime icon. Moments later he was face-to-face with Ruskjer.

     “They look official,” Edwards said. “What do you want me to do with them?”

     “Can you scan ‘em and send JPEGs to my Gmail account?” Ruskjer asked. “I can print copies for everyone and make sure they get them.”

     “No problem. It’s as good as done.”

     It was the last time they would see or speak to each other.

     Three days later -- Edwards was dead. The doctors said at forty-two, he was a little young to die from heart failure, but it happens.

     Since foul play was not suspected, no autopsy was ordered.