At least he should have.
He pointed toward me.
“Stay where you are.”
I looked at the pistol on his belt.
Then at the other guards.
Several were armed.
None wore a badge from any city, county, or state.
“Who is the enforcement officer on the order?”
Marjorie lowered the bullhorn.
“You don’t get to interrogate us.”
“If a court ordered the seizure of my property, someone lawful is supposed to execute it.”
“The association has retained authorized enforcement personnel.”
I looked at Roderick.
“You’re a sheriff now?”
His jaw tightened.
“Keep pushing.”
“That a yes?”
“Everett.”
Marjorie stepped forward.
“Red Hollow was incorporated into the Silver Briar community boundary three years ago. You failed to pay association assessments, special assessments, enforcement fines, accumulated penalties, and legal expenses totaling four hundred eighty-six thousand dollars.”
I almost smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because the number had grown by nearly eighty thousand dollars since the previous letter.
“You’re claiming I owe half a million dollars to an HOA I never joined.”
“You were given notice.”
“I was given fake invoices.”
“You were given legally sufficient notice.”
“Show me the order.”
This time she did.
She opened the folder and held the top document toward me without letting it go.
I stepped close enough to read.
COUNTY SUPERIOR COURT.
ORDER OF POSSESSION AND ASSET RECOVERY.
Case number.
Judge’s name.
Stamped seal.
Signature.
Instructions supposedly granting Silver Briar Estates immediate possession of Red Hollow Farm, its buildings, machinery, vehicles, accounts, and improvements pending liquidation.
It looked impressive.
That was the point.
But I had spent six months reading county filings because of Marjorie.
Three details bothered me immediately.
The case number format was wrong.
Our county had changed numbering systems two years earlier.
This document used the older format.
The judge’s signature appeared below the certification block instead of above it.
And nowhere did the document identify the sheriff, marshal, deputy, or other lawful official charged with executing the order.
Instead, a paragraph near the bottom authorized “designated agents of the claimant.”
That phrase alone made my stomach turn.
I looked at Marjorie.
“You sure you want to do this?”
“I’m already doing it.”
“You’re being recorded.”
She looked at my phone.
“Recording personnel during a lawful seizure is obstruction.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Roderick.”
Two guards moved.
I backed away.
“Do not touch me.”
“Hand over the phone,” Roderick said.
“No.”
“You heard the president.”
“I heard a private citizen tell another private citizen to take my property.”
His face changed.
I turned and walked quickly toward the machinery barn.
Not running.
Running would have encouraged them.
The barn sat sixty yards away.
Steel frame.
Concrete floor.
Heavy sliding doors.
Inside were two tractors, my combine header, a service truck, my seed tender, and a network cabinet connected to the farm cameras.
I stepped inside.
Pulled the main steel door.
Dropped the mechanical crossbar.
Then locked the interior latch.
Someone hit the door almost immediately.
“OPEN IT!”
I ignored them.
My phone still had signal.
I sent the entire video file to my wife.
Then I sent one line.
This is no longer an HOA dispute.
Laurel answered less than thirty seconds later.
CALLING NOW.
My phone rang.
I picked up.
“Where are you?”
Her voice had changed.