“You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Truck?”
Maggie showed the photographs.
Ellen scrolled through them.
“Good.”
“He admitted sixty tons.”
“On camera?”
“No.”
“Witness?”
“Me.”
Ellen handed back the phone.
“That counts.”
“Will you arrest him?”
Ellen looked toward the field.
“Not this second.”
“Why?”
“I need to figure out whose truck, whose material, and whether the dumping was authorized by somebody who claims an easement or waste agreement.”
“There is no agreement.”
“I believe you.”
“That’s different from proving it.”
Maggie folded her arms.
“Calvin knew that.”
Ellen nodded.
“Probably.”
They walked toward the broken gate.
The chain had been cut cleanly.
Ellen crouched.
“That helps.”
“How?”
“Criminal trespass gets easier when somebody cuts their way in.”
Maggie stared toward the tomatoes.
“Can I move them?”
“Photograph everything first.”
“I already did.”
“Do more.”
Ellen looked around.
“Tire marks.”
“Gate.”
“Where the trucks entered.”
“Where material landed.”
“Any labels.”
“Crates.”
“Documents.”
“Anything identifying source.”
Maggie nodded.
Then Ellen asked:
“Insurance?”
“Basic farm policy.”
“Call them.”
Maggie groaned.
“I know.”
“And call Purdue Extension.”
She frowned.
“For rotten tomatoes?”
“For soil contamination.”
Maggie looked at her.
“You think they ruined it?”
“I have no idea.”
Ellen nodded toward the red piles.
“But before you spend ten thousand dollars hauling something away, find out what it actually is.”
That sentence became the first useful thing anyone said all morning.
The insurance adjuster promised to come Monday.
The county environmental office promised Thursday.
Purdue Extension promised somebody that afternoon.
Calvin promised nothing.
He did not answer Maggie’s call.
At nine, neighbors began arriving.
News traveled quickly.
Especially ugly news.
Harlon Pierce came first.
He owned the farm across the county road.
Harlon was fifty-seven, weathered, suspicious, and convinced almost every modern agricultural practice had been invented specifically to make farmers spend money.
He climbed from his truck.
“Lord.”
Maggie stood beside the field.
“That helpful?”
“No.”
Harlon walked closer.
“How much?”
“Sixty tons.”
He whistled.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Haul it.”
“Where?”
“Not here.”
“Insightful.”
He ignored the sarcasm.
“Rotten produce draws flies.”
“I know.”
“Disease.”
“I know.”
“Coyotes maybe.”
“I know.”
Harlon kicked one tomato.
It collapsed beneath his boot.
“Rourke did this?”
“He watched.”
“Same thing.”
“Legally, probably not.”
“Legally.”
He spat into the grass.
“Law is what people say when common sense got expensive.”
Maggie almost smiled.
By ten, three more neighbors had arrived.
By eleven, somebody had posted photographs online.