There was nothing inherently improper about an HOA hiring a licensed security company to patrol common areas, provided the arrangement complied with applicable laws and the association's governing documents. But the uniforms troubled me. They looked unusually similar to police uniforms, complete with shoulder patches, metallic badges, and equipment belts that seemed designed to communicate official authority.
One afternoon, I approached the parked SUV while walking home from the mailbox.
The driver lowered his window.
"Can I help you?"
I smiled politely.
"Who are you working for?"
He looked irritated.
"Community enforcement."
"Which company?"
He glanced toward his partner.
Then he said, "We're authorized by the association."
I nodded.
"That wasn't my question."
The passenger leaned forward.
"Sir, please keep moving."
I examined the insignia on his sleeve.
The emblem featured an eagle, a circular seal, and a small banner containing the words Residential Public Safety. The design was polished enough to look official from a distance, but it didn't identify a recognized police agency.
I took a step backward.
"Have a good afternoon."
The driver rolled up the window.
As I walked away, I noticed the passenger lifting his phone toward me.
He appeared to be taking a photograph.
I kept walking.
But I made a note of the vehicle description and the time when I returned home.
Something about the encounter bothered me.
Legitimate private security personnel generally have no reason to be evasive about the company employing them. They may have policies about disclosing operational details, but their identity and basic role shouldn't depend on intimidation.
These men seemed more interested in making me leave than explaining why they were there.
And when I mentioned the encounter to a neighbor, he became visibly uncomfortable.
"Those guys?"
I nodded.
He looked toward the street.
"They came to my house last month."
"What happened?"
He hesitated.
Then he invited me inside.
My neighbor was a retired postal worker in his seventies who lived with his wife two streets away. He was a quiet man who preferred working in his garden to attending neighborhood meetings, and I'd never known him to exaggerate anything. His wife served coffee while he brought a folder from a cabinet near the dining table.
He opened it.
Inside were HOA notices demanding payment for alleged property violations. The penalties had begun at two hundred dollars and increased until the association claimed he owed more than six thousand.