Then she asked, "Are you absolutely certain?"
I felt an old, familiar irritation.
"Ma'am, I've owned this property for nearly thirty years."
She forced a smile.
"Well, perhaps you can explain why you continue ignoring our notices."
I leaned against the doorframe.
"Because your association doesn't govern this parcel."
She shook her head.
"That's your opinion."
"No. It's what the recorded deed and subdivision documents establish."
Her smile disappeared.
"I don't appreciate being lectured."
I remained calm.
"I'm happy to review any document you believe gives the association authority over my property."
She stepped closer.
"People like you always think you can challenge every rule."
I looked at her.
"What exactly do you mean by people like me?"
She hesitated.
Then she waved her clipboard.
"Residents who refuse to cooperate."
I nodded slowly.
"I see."
She continued speaking, but I was no longer focused on the details of her complaints.
I was watching how she behaved.
She didn't ask questions.
She didn't examine the documents I offered.
She treated my right to disagree as a personal insult.
By the time she left, she'd threatened legal action, additional fines, and possible removal of my vehicle.
I stood on the porch watching her drive away.
Then I called my daughter.
She worked as an attorney in another state and had inherited her mother's patience along with my stubbornness. When I described the visit, she listened quietly.
Then she asked, "Dad, have you documented everything?"
I smiled.
"Of course."
She laughed.
"Sometimes I forget who I'm talking to."
I looked toward the driveway.
"Something about this woman doesn't feel right."
My daughter was quiet.
Then she said, "Trust your instincts, but don't treat them like evidence."
I smiled again.
That was exactly what I'd taught her.
And I intended to follow the advice.
Over the following weeks, I began noticing unfamiliar vehicles in the neighborhood.
The first was a white SUV with tinted windows and a magnetic sign reading Community Enforcement Division. It appeared near the entrance several afternoons in a row, usually around the time residents returned from work. Two men in dark uniforms sat inside, watching cars pass through the intersection while occasionally writing something on a clipboard.
I assumed they were private security contractors.