Small park.
Then one additional area had been colored with a green highlighter.
My driveway.
Freehand.
Uneven strokes.
From curb to garage.
Beside it, handwritten in blue:
COMMON AREA OVERFLOW.
I stared at the map.
She had not misunderstood the recorded plat.
She had not discovered some obscure easement.
She had taken a marker and drawn my driveway into the association's common property.
Then used that drawing, socially if not legally, to explain years of conduct.
That afternoon I stopped waiting for Patricia to become embarrassed.
Embarrassment requires doubt.
She had drawn the map herself.
The more I reconstructed the history, the less the situation resembled simple trespassing.
Squatters know something is not theirs.
Patricia's behavior was different.
She expanded by habit.
Every time the house became vacant, she occupied another small function.
Driveway first.
Then garage.
Then storage.
Then backyard staging.
Then remotes distributed to neighbors.
Every new resident arrived to find the arrangement already functioning.
Anyone who objected became the disruptive person.
Police calls made them look suspicious.
Violation letters made them look noncompliant.
Neighbors who had enjoyed the shared benefits had a reason to prefer the arrangement over the stranger.
Then the stranger left.
The vacancy returned.
Patricia's roots went deeper.
The house was not empty because nobody wanted it.
The house had become difficult to inhabit.
There is a temptation when you possess institutional authority to confuse access with entitlement.
I could have called the sheriff personally.
I could have spoken to the county attorney.
I could have asked a colleague whether there was a quick way to "look into" the police calls.
There were people who would have answered because of my title.
That was exactly why I refused.
I had been on the bench eight days.
Eight.
The office did not belong to me.
It belonged to the public.
I had no right to spend even a fraction of its influence solving my driveway problem.
Whatever happened next had to be available to Thomas Hale, homeowner.
Not Judge Hale.
So I called a tow company.
Saturday morning.
Bright.
Hot.
The flatbed entered the cul-de-sac with amber lights rotating.
I met the driver holding my deed and identification.
He was a heavyset man named Winston with forearms tattooed almost to the wrists.
He looked at the RV.
Then the house.
"Yours?"
"The house and driveway are mine."
"RV?"
"No."
"Permission?"
"No."
"Owner requested removal from private property?"
"Yes."
He checked the deed address.
My license.
Then whistled.
"All right."
He began unspooling cable.
Doors opened along the street.
Dale appeared.
Mrs. Okafor came outside holding her toddler.
Bev stood near her mailbox.
Then Patricia came through her front door quickly.
Gardening apron.
Gloves.
Keys in one hand.
Paper in the other.
"You cannot tow that."
She addressed Winston, not me.
He stopped.
"Ma'am?"
"I have a lease."
She held out the document.
"A signed parking lease with the property owner."
Winston took it.
I read over his shoulder.