He answered sounding half asleep.
“If this is about wiring, call somebody useful.”
“She parked a BMW in my garage.”
Silence.
“Who?”
“HOA treasurer.”
Another silence.
“Start over.”
I explained.
By the time I reached the handwritten note, Derek was fully awake.
“Photograph everything.”
“Already did.”
“Save the recording in two places.”
“Done.”
“Do not remove the notice from the door until you photograph how it was posted.”
“Done.”
“You’re annoyingly prepared for an electrician.”
“I spend time with lawyers.”
“That explains the damage.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“What do I do?”
“First, nothing emotional.”
“I was hoping for bolt cutters.”
“No.”
“Tow truck?”
“Not yet.”
“She moved the car.”
“Good.”
“Second, request the exact bylaw authority for the violation and the parking rule.”
“In writing.”
“Obviously.”
“Third, ask for the meeting minutes where that rule was adopted.”
“What if they don’t give them?”
“Then that becomes useful too.”
I looked at the notice again.
“And the access code?”
Derek stopped joking.
“That concerns me more than the fine.”
“Why?”
“Because emergency access used for a treasurer’s personal parking is not a misunderstanding.”
“Change your code today.”
I did.
Then I went to work.
At lunch, I emailed Willowbrook management.
Subject:
REQUEST FOR GOVERNING DOCUMENT AUTHORITY AND ACCESS LOG.
I asked for:
The section authorizing temporary use of a resident’s private garage.
Minutes approving the policy.
The basis for the open-garage citation.
The access history for my emergency garage code.
Any record showing who requested or viewed that code.
I copied Brenda.
I copied the HOA president, a quiet accountant named Ronald Pierce.
I copied Derek.
Brenda responded in eleven minutes.
Mr. Morrison,
Your adversarial tone is unnecessary. Board officers must occasionally exercise discretion in order to protect neighborhood operations. Continued resistance may result in enhanced compliance review.
Regards,
Brenda Whitfield
Treasurer
Willowbrook Estates HOA
Derek replied only to me.
Save that.
Then:
Do not answer yet.
I did not.
That afternoon, Mrs. Chen waved me over while I was unloading conduit from my work van.
Mei Chen lived two houses beyond the corner.
Seventy-three.
Small, silver-haired, always working in her garden.
Her husband Henry had been a career Army mechanic and died four years earlier.
A row of metal wind chimes hung beneath her porch roof.
Henry had bought them in Colorado decades earlier.
Each tube had a small engraving.
Dates.
Places.
Their children’s initials.
Brenda hated them.
She called them “visually inconsistent.”
Mrs. Chen had received six citations.
She never took them down.
She handed me a glass of iced tea.
“I heard about your garage.”
“News travels fast.”
“She told three people at walking club that you became aggressive.”
“I recorded the conversation.”
Mrs. Chen smiled.
“Good.”
Then she disappeared inside.
She returned carrying a plastic file box.
“You should see something.”
Inside were folders.