I did not know how the hearing would end. I did know I would be there, and I knew why. I had spent twenty years keeping the pond healthy, and someone had treated it like an empty space on a development map. I wasn't going to let a packet of glossy drawings substitute for my permission.
The night before court, Ethan called to ask whether he should come. I told him school came first, and he told me he had already finished the assignment he'd been worried about. I could hear the disappointment when I said the hearing might be dull, full of rules and documents rather than dramatic revelations. Then I offered him a compromise: he could review the court's public order with me afterward, and we would discuss what it actually meant before celebrating or worrying.
"You're trying to teach me not to believe the first thing somebody says," he observed.
"I'm trying to teach you not to believe the first thing I say, either," I replied. "Especially if I sound too certain."
He considered that. "Then I guess I'll see you after school."
When I hung up, I looked at the folder Daniel had left for me to review. There was the $4,800 invoice, the old Riverstone maps, the 1994 agreement, and the six-month-old email naming Hayes Pond as a relocation destination. At the back was a photograph of the tagged trout that had first caught my attention. It was a strange assortment of documents to place before a judge, but together they told a clear beginning: I hadn't created this fish problem, and I hadn't agreed to become anybody's solution.
The courthouse was smaller than most people imagine when they think about a case involving millions of dollars in proposed development. It had a brick exterior, a flag beside the steps, and a security desk where an older officer checked our bags with the unhurried competence of somebody who had been doing the job for decades. There were no crowds of reporters waiting outside. There was a municipal parking lot half full of pickup trucks and a hallway smelling faintly of floor polish.
Karen arrived in a dark suit with two attorneys and a man I recognized from the Silver Ridge management company. She looked composed until she saw Martin and Leah standing beside Daniel. Her gaze paused on Martin's old leather case, then moved away so quickly I wondered whether she already knew what was inside. She did not acknowledge me, and I didn't feel any need to acknowledge her.
The hearing concerned a narrow question: whether the court should grant Silver Ridge immediate authority to enter my property and remove the fish before the underlying dispute could be decided. Daniel had explained that limitation repeatedly, perhaps because he knew I wanted somebody to stand in a courtroom and tell Karen she was wrong about everything. Courts rarely finish complicated disputes on a single morning, he reminded me. A judge could refuse the emergency request without resolving all questions about ownership, damages, future permits, or development rights.
Silver Ridge's attorney spoke first. He described a growing environmental hazard, the risk of overcrowding, and the potential for diseased animals to affect other waterways. Those concerns were real enough in the abstract, and I listened carefully because I shared some of them. What bothered me was the way he stepped over the fact that his own client had created the overcrowding without asking whether I wanted it.