The HOA president pointed toward the red coupe.
“My son was given permission to use that space.”
The deputy looked toward her son.
“By the property owner?”
“No.”
She answered before her son could.
“By me.”
The deputy paused.
“That’s the issue.”
She stared at him.
“I am the elected president of this association.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I have discretionary authority over common-access concerns.”
“Not over property the association doesn’t own.”
“You’re oversimplifying.”
“Then explain it.”
The deputy’s voice remained neutral.
“Show me the recorded document that gives you authority to assign parking inside his driveway.”
She opened the green folder sharply.
Pages moved beneath her fingers.
The homeowner recognized them.
Covenant provisions.
Landscape maps.
Meeting minutes.
A page from the county plat she had repeatedly interpreted incorrectly.
She found the sheet she wanted and held it out.
The deputy read it.
Then handed it back.
“That’s the utility and maintenance strip.”
“It says access.”
“For maintenance.”
“Access is access.”
“No, ma’am.”
His tone became firmer.
“Words matter.”
The Black homeowner almost smiled at that.
For weeks, the HOA president had accused him of hiding behind words.
Now a deputy was explaining that words were exactly what created legal authority in the first place.
She pointed toward the driveway.
“The association has used that area for years.”
The homeowner finally spoke.
“No, it hasn’t.”
She turned.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve owned this property eleven months.”
“The previous owners left forty-one years of records.”
“There is no history of community parking here.”
Her son looked at the coupe.
Then at his mother.
“Mom.”
She ignored him.
The tow operator climbed into the cab.
The engine started.
The son stepped forward.
“Wait.”
The deputy raised a hand.
“Stay clear of the truck.”
The young man stopped.
He looked toward the homeowner.
“You’re seriously letting him take it?”
The homeowner met his eyes.
“You parked there again.”
“My mom told me I could.”
“I told you she couldn’t give you permission.”
The son looked toward her.
The HOA president snapped:
“Do not start.”
He stared.
“I’m not starting anything.”
“You knew he was threatening to tow.”
“You said he couldn’t.”
The deputy looked toward the son.
“Did she tell you that?”
The HOA president immediately said:
“He doesn’t have to answer questions.”
The deputy looked at her.
“That’s true.”
Then toward the son.
“You are free not to speak with me.”
The young man shifted.
His embarrassment was turning into something else.
Anger.
Not toward the homeowner.
Toward his mother.
He looked at the red coupe.
“How much is the tow going to be?”