BANG.
Then another.
BANG.
Then a voice I had learned to recognize even through a closed window.
"Open this damn gate! I know you're back there!"
I was standing waist-deep in my swimming pool on a blistering Saturday afternoon in Scottsdale, Arizona, when the president of our homeowners association decided that a locked gate was an invitation to commit the biggest mistake of her life.
Her name was Patricia Holloway.
She was fifty-seven years old, platinum blonde, wealthy, politically connected in our little neighborhood, and convinced that the entire development belonged to her because she had been president of the association for eleven years.
She wore a bright-pink blouse, matching tailored trousers, oversized black sunglasses, white sandals, and black protective gloves.
The gloves should have been my first warning.
I was forty-two, a Black American homeowner who had worked nearly twenty years to afford the kind of house where I could spend a Saturday floating in my own pool without answering to anybody.
At six feet two inches tall, I had a broad athletic build, close-cropped black hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. That afternoon, I wore nothing except fitted gray swimming trunks.
I had no reason to be prepared for a confrontation.
No shoes.
No phone in my hand.
No shirt.
Just the warm desert sun, cool blue water, and the quiet satisfaction of finally having a weekend to myself.
But Patricia Holloway had never respected the idea that my property belonged to me.
She believed a homeowners association rule gave her the right to enter my yard whenever she pleased.
I had spent almost a year telling her otherwise.
And on this particular afternoon, she had come prepared to prove that rules did not apply to her.
The gate rattled again.
"Don't pretend you can't hear me!"
I turned toward the six-foot wooden privacy fence.
Through a narrow gap between two panels, I could see her bright-pink sleeve moving.
"Mrs. Holloway," I called, "you're trespassing. Leave my property."
She gave an ugly laugh.
"Trespassing? I'm the HOA president!"
"That doesn't give you the right to enter my backyard."
"You're violating neighborhood standards!"
I looked around.
The pool was clean.
The patio was swept.
The landscaping was trimmed.
Even the outdoor cushions were arranged neatly because my sister had visited the previous evening and insisted that the patio looked better when the chairs matched.
"What violation?" I demanded.
"Unauthorized pool conditions!"
I almost laughed.
Those three words had appeared in six different complaint notices during the previous two months.
Unauthorized pool conditions.
It sounded official.
It meant absolutely nothing without an applicable rule, an actual violation, and a lawful procedure.
I had asked Patricia to identify the specific provision she believed I violated.
She had never provided one.
Now she was standing outside my gate shouting the same nonsense.
"Send me the rule in writing," I said. "And get off my property."
Her response came immediately.
"You arrogant bastard!"
I heard her kick the gate again.
"You think you can lock me out of this neighborhood?"
I stared toward the fence.
For a moment, I considered climbing out and calling the sheriff's nonemergency number.
Then I remembered something a detective had told me three days earlier.
If she comes onto your property, don't confront her physically. Move to safety, make it clear she has no permission to be there, and let the cameras record what happens.
At the time, I thought the advice was unnecessarily cautious.
Now I understood why he had given it.
The rattling stopped.
For several seconds, the backyard was quiet.
Then I heard a heavy object hit the other side of the fence.
A blue plastic bag came flying over the wooden panels.
It landed on my stone patio with a dull thud.
I stared.
The label faced upward.
Lawn fertilizer.