That sentence embarrassed me more than any criticism could have. Lawyers are trained to think of witnesses as sources of information. Former homeowners have to think of appearing in disputes as a return to the place where something happened to them. Linda had been looking over her shoulder for months after she moved. I could hear that in the way she paused before answering any question involving Patricia.
I called the tow company on Friday and described the situation without hiding the possibility of a dispute. The dispatcher asked for proof of ownership, the vehicle location, my written notice, and an assurance that I would be present when the driver arrived. She explained that the operator would decide whether he could proceed once he saw the documents and the vehicle. I did not ask her to promise the tow. I booked the earliest lawful appointment available the next morning.
At eight fifty on Saturday, I stood in the driveway with the recorded deed, a copy of the survey, my driver's license, and the correspondence in a folder. The air was already warm. A young squirrel worked along the split-rail fence, utterly indifferent to who claimed the pavement beneath it. From the neighbor's window came the sound of breakfast dishes. I remember those details because the ordinary morning seemed determined to proceed as though nothing unusual was about to happen.
The flatbed arrived a few minutes after nine.
Its amber lights turned slowly as it rounded the cul-de-sac and came to a stop behind the motor home. The driver was a broad man named Arturo with gray at his temples and heavy work gloves tucked into his back pocket. He inspected the vehicle, the driveway, the sidewalk, and the paperwork I placed before him.
He asked whether the registration was mine. I told him it was not. He asked whether I had given the owner permission to park there. I told him I had not, and showed him the notice I had delivered.
"That's a lot of vehicle," he said.
"It feels larger when it's parked in front of your garage."
He almost smiled. Then he checked his company's paperwork and began preparing the equipment.
Dale came out across the street as Arturo worked. He stood on his porch holding a coffee mug, watched the flatbed for a moment, and then walked down to the sidewalk. Two other doors opened. A woman in tennis shoes approached from Meadow Court. Nobody spoke to me. The neighborhood was assembling itself into the familiar audience I had grown accustomed to seeing when something happened at my address.
Patricia appeared at the fence holding a sheet of paper and a ring of keys.
She moved faster than I had ever seen her move, not running exactly, but walking with the urgent determination of someone whose train is pulling away from the platform. She spoke to Arturo first, her voice pitched to carry across the sidewalk. She did not acknowledge me.
"You cannot tow that vehicle," she said. "I have a parking lease. It's there legally."