No immediate evidence showed drinking water contamination because the subdivision used municipal water.
That prevented panic.
But groundwater beneath the clubhouse was contaminated.
Potential migration toward a stormwater retention area had to be assessed.
The financial consequences could be enormous.
The board called an emergency meeting.
Two hundred twelve homes.
Nearly every one logged in.
The president sat at the clubhouse table.
Burnt-orange coat gone.
Navy blazer.
The treasurer opened.
“I’m going to say this as clearly as possible.”
He looked directly into the camera.
“There is an unregistered underground fuel tank behind the clubhouse.”
The virtual meeting exploded.
Chat messages.
Questions.
The treasurer continued.
“The tank appears to be leaking.”
More chaos.
“Our drinking water comes from the municipal system.”
He repeated that twice.
“We currently have no evidence that household drinking water is affected.”
Important.
A resident shouted through an unmuted microphone:
“Who put the tank there?”
The treasurer answered:
“It predates the subdivision.”
Another:
“Then why are we responsible?”
The association attorney spoke.
“Because the association owns the property.”
That was the first terrible answer.
Then:
“And because evidence indicates the tank was intentionally returned to active fuel use.”
Silence.
The president leaned toward the microphone.
“Under a board-approved emergency program.”
The treasurer turned toward her.
“No.”
She stared.
The entire meeting watched.
He continued:
“I have reviewed every set of approved minutes for three years.”
“There was no authorization to reactivate an underground tank.”
The president’s face hardened.
“We approved winter resilience.”
“We approved generator maintenance, snow contractor contingencies, and emergency supplies.”
“Not buried gasoline storage.”
She looked toward the attorney.
He did not rescue her.
The treasurer continued:
“I also found no disclosure that the contractor who inspected or serviced the tank had a financial relationship with the board president.”
Chat erupted again.
The president stood.
“This is defamation.”
The attorney said:
“Please sit.”
She turned.
“I am not going to sit while people accuse me—”
The treasurer held up an invoice.
“Your pool renovation.”
Her face changed.
The room became quiet.
He continued:
“Thirty-four thousand eight hundred dollars.”
“You paid twelve thousand four hundred.”
“The remaining balance was credited against consulting services.”
“That is unrelated.”
“Then we will determine that.”
The president looked toward the screen.
Residents stared back through hundreds of tiny video windows.