I followed them only far enough to make clear that the inspection was unauthorized. I didn't touch either of them. I didn't raise my voice. When Vivian reached toward the gate leading to the backyard, I stood beside it and said, "That's enough. You need to leave my property now."
She stared at me. "You are obstructing a lawful inspection."
"Then send me the written provision authorizing it. Until you do, you can inspect the view from the public sidewalk."
Trevor stopped smiling. "You can't talk to my mother like that."
"I just did. Politely."
"She runs this neighborhood."
"She helps administer an association. She doesn't own the neighborhood."
Vivian's cheeks reddened. She pulled a pen from her blazer pocket, scribbled something on the clipboard, and snapped it shut. "Formal action will be taken against this property. You have been warned."
"I'll look for the written notice."
She marched toward the driveway. Trevor lingered near the electric meter on the side of the house and photographed the enclosure, then my truck's license plate. I watched him, wondering what possible purpose either picture could serve.
"You really have no idea who you're messing with," he said.
"I know I'm speaking to a person who's been asked to leave. Last request, Trevor. Go."
He walked backward a few steps. "My mom can make things happen around here."
"She can make appointments like everyone else."
His smirk returned, but it looked forced. He followed Vivian to the BMW. As they drove away, I noticed Zoe standing in the doorway with her arms folded around herself. She hadn't heard every word, but she'd heard enough.
"Is she allowed to come into our yard?" she asked.
"Not simply because she says so. There can be specific inspection rights in association documents, but she needs to identify them."
Zoe looked toward the street. "She was acting like a police officer."
I sighed. "A clipboard can do that to some people."
"I don't like her son."
"Neither do I."
She looked at Gerald, still smiling beneath the maple. "Maybe he's the only normal person here."
I laughed, but there was a tightness behind it. That afternoon, I photographed the areas Vivian had complained about and recorded what she and Trevor had said while it was fresh in my memory. I had spent years as an electrician documenting work orders, code inspections, and safety procedures. A dated record wasn't glamorous, but it was often the difference between an argument and a fact.
At five o'clock, my phone rang. The caller identified himself as a city code enforcement employee. An anonymous complaint alleged unpermitted electrical work at my address. The city wanted to inspect the relevant improvements. I sat down on the garage step, the phone pressed to my ear, and watched dust move through a stripe of afternoon sunlight.
"Whoever reported it is mistaken," I said. "I'm a licensed electrician. I know which work requires a permit, and I've kept the records for the work that did."
"An inspection should clear it up, then," the employee replied. His tone was professional, not accusatory. "Can you be available Monday?"