The board meeting was at 2:00. My evidence file would be on the table by 2:15. By 2:30, Tom Reeves and Sandra Marsh would see the deed, the plat, the county records, and the budget line that would make Gail's last 4 years unravel thread by thread. And Gail knew it was coming. Maybe Tom had mentioned it.
Maybe Sandra had let something slip. Maybe Gail had simply been watching my driveway and seen who was visiting. It didn't matter how she found out. What mattered was the timing. She had called state law enforcement on the morning of the meeting that would expose her.
She was trying to remove me from the picture before the picture became clear. Gail climbed out of her SUV, pressed blouse, arms folded across her chest. She was looking at the dock, looking at me. She had the expression of someone who had already decided how this ended and was simply waiting for the uniforms to make it official. Two officers stepped out of the truck.
Doors closed one after the other. Boots crunched gravel. Neither one was smiling. I set the rod down on the dock and stood up. The morning was completely still.
The heron was gone. The water didn't move. Gail's voice carried across the ramp, across the water, across 30 years of Saturday mornings. "Officers, that's the man I called about. He's been poaching fish from our community lake for months.
He knows the rules. He's ignored every warning. I want him removed and I want charges filed today. " The lead officer slid his sunglasses up onto his forehead, looked at the dock, looked at me, started walking. The officer walked the length of the dock in no particular hurry. Heavy boots on old pine boards.
Each step deliberate. Behind him the second officer stayed near the truck, clipboard in hand, doing this by the book. Gail followed at a distance, heels clicking on the concrete boat ramp, staying close enough to supervise, but far enough to look like a concerned citizen, rather than the one running the show. I stood at the end of the dock. Rod on the boards at my feet, stringer in the water with three bass and a bluegill.
I didn't move. Didn't reach for anything. Didn't start talking. I'd been around enough authority in my life to know when someone with a badge walks toward you, you let them speak first. The lead officer stopped about 4 feet from me.
Looked at the rod. Looked at the stringer. Looked at my face. Then he tilted his head slightly, the way someone does when they're placing a face they've seen before, but can't quite pin. "Cody? " he said.
"Cody Anderson. " I felt something shift in my chest. Not relief, not yet. Just recognition meeting recognition. "Yes, sir. " "Officer Dan Garrett, Wildlife Division. " "I think I've read your name about 50 times in the last few years. You run the volunteer stocking program on this lake, don't you?
The bass and bluegill reports. " "Six years running. " Behind us, I could hear Gail's heels stop on the concrete. She hadn't expected this. She'd expected two strangers with badges asking for my ID, not a conversation that started with my first name. Garrett nodded slowly. "Your water quality numbers are some of the best we see in this part of the state.
The bluegill population in this lake, we've cited your data in two regional reports. Appreciate that. I try to take care of the water. " "I can see that. " He glanced at the stringer again. "Then, Mr. Anderson, the reason we're here, we received a report that someone was fishing illegally on HOA property, poaching.
The complainant asked us to make an arrest. That would be the woman standing behind you. " Garrett didn't turn around. "Can I see your fishing license? I pulled my wallet from my back pocket. License was right there, valid, current, my name and address printed clearly.
I handed it over. He looked at it for about 3 seconds and handed it back. License is good. He paused. Now, is this your property?
It is. Do you have documentation? I reached into the tackle box sitting on the dock. The same tackle box Gail had pointed at earlier like it was contraband. Underneath the top tray in a gallon Ziploc bag I'd kept copies of the certified deed and the county plat.
I'd been carrying them every time I fished since the violation notices started. I handed them to Garrett. He unfolded the deed first, read the legal description. His eyes stopped on the same line mine had stopped on weeks ago, including the spring-fed lake and all riparian rights thereto. He read it twice.
Then he opened the plat, traced the boundary lines with his finger, looked at the lake, looked at the property lines, looked at the dock we were standing on. This lake is on your private property. Yes, sir. County recorder confirmed it. No transfer on file.
The lake has never been conveyed to the HOA or any other entity. Behind us, Gail's voice cut in. She'd moved closer. She was standing at the foot of the dock now. Arms still crossed, chin still up, but her voice had an edge it didn't have before.
Officer, that deed is over 50 years old. The developer transferred the lake to the HOA when the subdivision was built. That man is not a member of this community. He has no right to be on this water. Garrett turned around for the first time.
Looked at Gail the way a man looks at a document he's about to check. Ma'am, do you have documentation of that transfer? It's in the HOA files. Do you have it with you? I didn't think I'd need it.