She responded by bringing in Peton and Associates, a real estate litigation firm with office furniture so polished it probably had its own legal representation. Its first letter accused me of refusing reasonable safety measures and threatened an injunction, damage claims, and professional liability demands if I did not agree to immediate removal. The letter also claimed that my continued maintenance of the dam exposed Willowbrook to an unacceptable level of risk. It did not cite a valid easement, a government order, or a signed agreement giving Cordelia's board control over my land.
I called Marlo before I finished reading it. She asked me to scan the letter, reminded me not to telephone the firm myself, and sent back a two-page response requesting their factual basis and preserving my objections. "Big envelopes are not bigger rights," she said. "Remember that when they arrive by certified mail."
They arrived almost every day after that. One contained a demand for insurance coverage stated in terms so vague it could have applied to a commercial airport rather than a small creek structure. Another threatened to seek recovery of future flood damages that had not occurred. A third enclosed a proposed release in which I would admit that the dam had been unsafe and authorize entry for demolition, apparently in exchange for the HOA agreeing not to increase its original twelve-thousand-dollar charge.
I showed that release to Dalton when he came over with a casserole his wife had insisted I eat. He read the first paragraph, whistled, and said, "They're asking you to confess that their argument is true before they'll stop accusing you of it. That's a remarkably economical legal strategy."
"It's not a strategy I'd recommend."
"Funny. I thought that's what teachers were supposed to do with students. Make them sign a confession before we knew who broke the window."
Dalton was the sort of man whose humor grew sharper when he was worried. He sat at the kitchen table while I served coffee, looking at a photocopy of Willowbrook's latest budget. The emergency line item had grown again. Under legal and safety consulting, expenses had jumped by thousands of dollars with no supporting description available to the ordinary members who were expected to cover them.
"I've asked for the invoices," he said. "Cordelia says the board has already determined they're privileged."
"The legal advice may be privileged," I said, "but that doesn't necessarily make every dollar spent on it a secret. Ask Marlo to look at your inspection rights as a member."
"You think she's stealing?"
"I think she doesn't want you to see the bills. Those are different statements."
Dalton looked around my kitchen. He had been coming to the Ironwood place long enough to remember when Lillian baked peach pies on Sundays, and he seemed almost embarrassed that a subdivision dispute had reached the table where he used to sit and eat them. "I voted for Cordelia the first time," he admitted. "She said our old board had gotten lazy, and I believed her. I didn't realize she'd make everybody afraid to ask where the money went."
I did not tell him he should have known better. It is easy to recognize arrogance after it has begun hurting you, and I had spent much of my life watching talented people trust polished paperwork that concealed defective assumptions. The important thing was not that Dalton had voted for her. It was that he was willing to ask questions after the vote.