"Most of it did. Some didn't. We're replacing a few trees and dealing with the rest."
"I'm sorry we believed her," Nora said.
"A believable paper is easier to trust when you want what it promises."
She looked toward the lake beyond the cottonwoods. "The water's lower now. My grandson says he likes seeing the little birds that walk on the mud in the morning. We never noticed them when the lake was full."
"Funny what people notice when things change."
Nora paid for her apples and carried them to the car. I watched her go, then returned to stacking produce boxes. The orchard was still a business, and ordinary work had a way of interrupting even the most consequential legal dispute. I was beginning to appreciate the interruptions.
The criminal case, meanwhile, was moving more slowly and with higher stakes than the civil negotiations. I had been asked to preserve my original photographs, the alarm data, the orchard books, and every communication from the first two days. The prosecutor had accepted the case, but she was not going to turn the county court into an HOA meeting simply because people wanted a dramatic conclusion.
My part in the criminal proceedings would be to explain what I owned, what I had agreed to, what happened to my water, and what the verified loss had been. Denise would have a lawyer, a right to contest the evidence, and a choice about how to respond to the charges. I had no control over whether she denied the allegations, sought a trial, or negotiated a plea.
What I did control was the truth of my records.
As the peach leaves turned in October and the nights began to cool, I prepared to give my statement in court if it became necessary. I was surprised by how much I dreaded that possibility. I had stood at a ditch beside a forged document and known exactly what to say. I had never stood before a judge while another family waited to learn whether someone they loved would go to jail.
Rachel told me there was no contradiction in wanting accountability and disliking what accountability might cost. I carried that thought through the winter while the district repaired its notice procedures, Canyon Lake Estates revised its bylaws, and the twenty-three young trees stood marked for removal after dormancy.
The case reached a plea hearing in late winter.
The courthouse was a low brick building near the county offices, with a narrow hallway where people waited beneath fluorescent lights and tried not to look as frightened as they felt. I arrived early and found Rachel sitting on a bench with the prosecution's notice folded across her knees. She looked at the papers I was carrying and raised one eyebrow.
"You brought another notebook."
"It's the one with the original readings."
"You won't need to read the whole thing aloud."
"I know."
"Richard, the important thing today is that you tell the judge what happened to you, not what you think should happen to Denise. Sentencing is the court's job."