"You can ask your questions after you drink something."
The agent smiled.
"Yes, ma'am."
They sat around the kitchen table.
The grandmother placed the notebooks between them.
Then began explaining.
The first notebook contained dates of plumbing failures.
The second documented elevator outages.
The third included photographs, contractor notices, and copies of written complaints.
The fourth listed promises made during meetings with building representatives.
And the fifth contained the names of residents willing to confirm particular problems.
The agent turned the pages carefully.
The notes were precise.
Dates.
Times.
Names.
Descriptions.
Sometimes the grandmother included weather conditions because she'd noticed that certain leaks became worse after heavy rain.
Sometimes she recorded the exact words used by maintenance supervisors.
And sometimes she simply wrote, Nobody came.
Those words appeared repeatedly.
The agent looked up.
"How long have you been keeping these?"
The grandmother smiled sadly.
"Long enough to wear out five pens and a whole lot of patience."
The agent smiled.
Then examined a photograph.
It showed a narrow apartment hallway with damaged ceiling panels.
A later inspection report described the ceiling as fully repaired on a date before the photograph had been taken.
The agent looked toward the older woman.
"Who took this picture?"
"My grandson."
The agent glanced up.
"Really?"
The grandmother nodded proudly.
"He likes taking photographs."
She reached toward the bookshelf.
Then retrieved a small album.
Inside were pictures of the boy.
Smiling beside a school project.
Holding a cardboard model of a subway station.
And standing in the damaged hallway with a camera.
The agent felt her throat tighten.
"He's very talented."
The grandmother smiled.
"He is."
Then her expression darkened.
"He also knows what it feels like to be told that his home is fine when he can see the water coming through the ceiling."
The agent nodded.
The grandmother continued.
"I don't need anybody to tell me these buildings are old. I've lived here thirty-two years."
She placed one hand on the notebook.
"But if the government paid somebody to fix them, I want to know why they're still broken."
The agent looked toward her.
"That's a fair question."
The older woman laughed bitterly.
"Apparently not everybody thinks so."
She described the warnings.
The strange visits.
The intimidating conversations with security personnel.
And the afternoon a police officer stopped her grandson outside the building while he was carrying a camera.
The agent straightened.
"What officer?"
The grandmother frowned.
"Big man. Short brown hair. Always looked angry."
The agent felt a chill.
"Do you remember his badge number?"
The grandmother smiled faintly.
"Baby, I write down everything."
She opened the third notebook.