I have photographic evidence of commercial vehicle traffic patterns. Commercial vehicle traffic. My buddies drove a Ford pickup, a Chevy sedan, and Rodriguez's personal motorcycle. Real threatening stuff.
That night, I found copies of Dolores's evidence folder slipped under three neighbors' doors. Professional-quality photos of my garage during our weekend sessions with handwritten notes. Excessive noise 11:30 a.m. Possible monetary exchange 2:15 p.m. Unknown chemicals stored unsafely. The unknown chemicals WD-40 and Coca-Cola.
But here's where Dolores made her first real mistake. She decided to go nuclear with official complaints. Filed formal violations with the city planning office claiming I was running an unlicensed motorcycle repair business. Alleged I was advertising services online and accepting payment from customers.
Pure fiction. But she figured city officials would rubber stamp anything an HOA president submitted. Problem was, I'd learned a few things about documentation during my Navy years. 25 Years of military paperwork teaches you that everything leaves a trail if you know where to look.
I spent my lunch break at the planning office filing a Freedom of Information Act request for all complaints filed by Willowbrook residents in the past year. Cost me $43 and a 2-hour wait in a plastic chair that squeaked every time I moved. But what I discovered was gold. Dolores had filed complaints about seven different residents.
Seven. All targeting the same type of people. Single men, blue-collar workers, modest incomes. A Latino landscaper who worked from home.
A black single mother who ran a small catering business. An elderly widower who restored antique furniture in his basement. Every complaint contained the same phrases: declining property values, inappropriate commercial activity, neighborhood character concerns. I remembered reading about discrimination cases in the military.
Patterns like this weren't just coincidence; they were evidence. Document everything, because systematic harassment based on demographics could be prosecuted under federal fair housing laws. I made copies of everything. Then paid another visit to Mrs. Briana, the retired teacher who'd brought me cookies during my first Dolores encounter.
Mrs. Briana, I'm curious about something. Has Dolores ever complained about other neighbors? Her eyes narrowed. The taste of her green tea was bitter, matching her expression.
That woman. She invited me in for tea and the story started flowing. Turns out Dolores had a history. She targeted the previous owner of my house.
A divorced electrician who also used his garage for work. Filed so many complaints the guy eventually sold and moved to another state. Same pattern with two other families who'd lived here before I arrived. "She thinks working men are..." Mrs. Briana struggled for the polite word.
"Beneath the neighborhood standards. She wants only office workers and retirees here." The pieces clicked together like a socket wrench finding the right bolt. This wasn't about noise or property values. This was about class warfare.
Mrs. Briana leaned forward conspiratorially. But Nathaniel, you should know something else. Dolores has been asking strange questions about your friends, specifically about the one who rides the motorcycle. My blood chilled.
What kind of questions? Whether he's married, what he does for work, if he has a criminal background, she seems very interested in that particular friend, Rodriguez. She was targeting Rodriguez.