The dispatcher asked whether anyone had entered the water.
I said no.
She asked whether anyone had been exposed or was experiencing symptoms.
Again, no.
Then she advised me to remain away from the pool, keep others clear, and avoid confronting the woman while responding officers were dispatched.
I followed those instructions.
The HOA president stood near the water, one hand on her hip, looking increasingly irritated that I wasn't shouting back.
She wanted a confrontation.
She wanted me angry enough to grab her arm, snatch the bag, or push her toward the gate.
I could almost see the scene she hoped to create.
A large muscular Black man standing over an older white woman.
A frightened phone call.
A police report.
And another opportunity to portray me as the dangerous resident she'd spent months complaining about.
But I wasn't going to give her that.
I remained near the patio door.
Kept my hands visible.
And recorded the conversation while waiting for the officers.
She pointed toward the pool.
"That water's not safe anymore."
I looked at her.
"If you believe that, step away from it."
She laughed.
"Your precious backyard is finally going to be shut down."
I didn't respond.
She continued.
"I told you this would happen if you kept fighting the association."
My stomach tightened.
There it was.
The connection between the supposed contamination and our months-long property dispute.
I looked toward her.
"Are you telling me this was about the HOA?"
Her expression changed.
Just slightly.
Then she folded her arms.
"You've been refusing legitimate access for months."
I nodded slowly.
"So you contaminated my pool?"
She glanced toward my phone.
For a moment, the smile disappeared.
Then she shrugged.
"Maybe now you'll understand what cooperation means."
I kept recording.
Behind her, the wooden gate hung partly open on its damaged latch.
The broken hardware was visible from the patio.
And the small security camera mounted above the fence pointed directly toward the place where she'd entered.
She hadn't noticed it.
Or perhaps she'd seen it and assumed she could explain the recording away.
Either way, her confidence was extraordinary.
She stood in the middle of my backyard, surrounded by evidence of her own conduct, behaving as though my home was the problem.
Two police vehicles arrived seven minutes later.
The first stopped outside the front of the house.
The second approached the public access road beyond the backyard fence, where a narrow pedestrian entrance allowed officers to reach the side gate without crossing neighboring property.
I heard voices outside.
Then footsteps.
The HOA president turned toward the gate.
Her smile returned.
"Good. They're here."