The president sighed loudly.
“We've already discussed the water situation.”
I nodded.
“Yes. But this concerns the records.”
She leaned toward the microphone.
“We are working with professionals.”
“I understand.”
I held up the document.
“The association paid for an assessment before the report we've been shown. Was a separate report issued?”
The president looked toward the treasurer.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she answered.
“All relevant information has been provided.”
I nodded slowly.
“Does that mean no earlier report exists?”
Her face reddened.
“I am not going to debate technical minutiae with you.”
I looked toward the other board members.
“I'm not asking for a debate. I'm asking whether the report exists.”
The room became quiet.
The treasurer shifted in his chair.
He was a soft-spoken man in his late sixties who had worked as an accountant before retiring.
He looked uncomfortable.
The president turned toward him.
“Don't.”
The word was barely audible.
But the microphone picked it up.
Several people looked toward her.
The treasurer stared at the table.
Then cleared his throat.
“I believe there was a preliminary document.”
The president's head snapped toward him.
He continued.
“I'd need to review the records to confirm the exact status.”
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
The president leaned forward.
“This line of questioning is inappropriate.”
A woman near the back raised her hand.
“Why?”
The president stared.
The woman continued.
“If we paid for the report, why shouldn't we know what it said?”
Several homeowners murmured agreement.
The president struck the table with her palm.
“Order!”
The room became quiet.
She looked toward me.
“Your time is finished.”
I nodded.
Then sat down.
I didn't argue.
I didn't need to.
The treasurer had acknowledged the possibility of an earlier report.
And the president's reaction told the room she didn't want anyone asking about it.
That evening, my phone rang.
The caller was the retired treasurer.
His voice sounded nervous.
“Can we talk?”
I looked toward my wife.
Then answered.
“Of course.”
He hesitated.
“Not over the phone.”
We arranged to meet the following afternoon at a small coffee shop outside the neighborhood.
He arrived carrying a brown folder.
His hands trembled as he placed it on the table.
“I don't like conflict,” he said immediately.
I nodded.
“Neither do I.”
He gave me a tired smile.
“Then we're both having a terrible year.”
I laughed softly.
He didn't.
Instead, he opened the folder.