I nodded. Her refusal to promise dramatic criminal charges was a relief. I wanted someone to make the situation stop, but I had lived long enough to know that a lawyer who guaranteed a result before reading the documents was probably selling confidence rather than advice.
She prepared a response to the temporary order, obtained written statements from three neighbors, and asked the court to preserve the entire recording. She also advised me not to contact Delilah directly, not to post about the case, and not to attempt clever surveillance operations that might make our evidence harder to use.
"People lose good cases by trying to make them more exciting," she told me. "Your job is to remain ordinary, keep the records, and let me ask the questions."
That advice would become more difficult to follow before the week was over. Delilah was not content with accusing me in writing. She wanted the sound of police sirens on my street, and she would keep making calls until somebody answered one the way she hoped.
The first evening call came on a Wednesday when the wind was shaking loose leaves against the garage door. I was replacing a ceiling fan in the back bedroom, a job Sarah would have mocked because I had promised to replace it before she became sick. Two headlights swept across the curtains, and a firm knock sounded at the front entrance.
There were two officers on the porch. The younger one introduced himself as Officer Caleb Morris, and his partner, Officer Lisa Grant, stood half a step behind him with a tablet in her hand. They looked uncomfortable in the way people do when a situation has already been described to them but the person in front of them does not resemble the description.
"Mr. Mitchell, we received a report of a disturbance at this address," Morris said. "The caller claimed you were threatening to burn property and might be in crisis. Is anybody else inside the house?"
I felt anger rise so suddenly that I had to put my hand against the doorframe. "No one else is inside. I am hanging a ceiling fan. Would you like to see it?"
Grant asked whether I had any weapons accessible and whether I was willing to step onto the porch to speak. I answered the questions and kept my voice level. After Sarah died, I had learned that grief could make ordinary questions feel like accusations, and I did not want my anger at Delilah to become anger at two officers trying to check a report.
I showed them the room, then handed over Patricia's business card and explained the civil dispute. I did not ask them to adjudicate whether the HOA president was lying. I asked them to compare what the report alleged with the time-stamped camera footage and my account of that evening.
The officers watched enough to see me arrive home and enter the house hours earlier. Grant called dispatch to confirm the reported time and the information actually supplied by the caller. When she returned, her expression had changed from cautious to very tired.