The lake is a community amenity. Everyone knows that. I need to see a recorded document, ma'am. A deed of transfer, a conveyance, a recorded plat amendment, something filed with the county. Gail opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
The management company handles the paperwork. I can get it to you. Garrett held up a hand, pulled the radio from his belt, keyed the mic. Dispatch, this is unit 14. Can you run a property check for me?
Parcel number He read my parcel number from the deed. I need current ownership and any recorded transfers or conveyances involving this parcel or the riparian features. Radio static. We all stood there, Gail on the ramp, me on the dock, Garrett in between, while the dispatch officer ran the search. The lake sat flat and quiet behind us.
The only sound was the radio hiss and one of the bass on the stringer flicking its tail against the water. 30 seconds, maybe 40. The radio crackled. Unit 14 parcel is recorded to Anderson Cody R. Original conveyance 1972.
No subsequent transfers. No easements. No recorded conveyances to any homeowner association or community entity. Parcel is excluded from subdivision common area designation per the recorded plat. Garrett lowered the radio and looked at Gail.
Ma'am, the county has no record of any transfer. This lake is private property. It belongs to Mr. Anderson. Gail's arms unfolded.
Her posture didn't collapse. She was too controlled for that. But something behind her eyes shifted. The certainty that had carried her through four years of violation letters and board votes and neighborhood petitions hit a wall that wouldn't move. That can't be right.
The developer Ma'am, there is no violation here. Mr. Anderson has a valid license and is fishing on his own private property. There's nothing for us to enforce. Garrett clipped the radio back to his belt, turned to me.
And then he did the thing Gail Prescott had never imagined would happen when she picked up the phone that morning. He extended his hand. "Mr. Anderson, keep up the good work out here. Your bluegill numbers have been the best in the county the last two seasons.
The division appreciates what you do. " I shook his hand. Firm grip, held it for a second. The second officer still standing by the truck nodded in my direction. "We appreciate the conservation work, Mr. Anderson.
Not many private landowners put in the effort you do. " Two state wildlife officers, the very officers Gail Prescott had called to arrest me, standing on my grandfather's dock, shaking my hand, thanking me for taking care of the water she'd been charging people to use. Gail stood at the bottom of the ramp. Alone. Not speaking. Watching the scene she created play out in the exact opposite direction she designed it to go.
They weren't the only ones watching. The wildlife truck, the SUV, the officers on the dock, it had drawn attention. Neighbors had come out. Some stood on the walking path along the shoreline. A few more watched from driveways.
By the time Garrett shook my hand, there were maybe 15 or 20 people within earshot. One of them was Tom Reeves. Tom walked down the boat ramp while the officers were heading back to their truck. He looked at Gail, who was still standing by her SUV with no expression I could read. Then he looked at me.
"Cody, I think we should have that meeting now. " He said it loud enough for the people on the path to hear. We walked to my house. Tom. Sandra, who'd arrived while the officers were on the dock, and had seen the whole thing from the road. And behind them, without being invited, eight or nine neighbors who wanted to know what was happening.
I spread the evidence file on the kitchen table. Tab one, tab two, tab three, tab four, tab five. Tom read the deed. Sandra read the county records. They passed the pages between them without speaking.
When Tom got to tab four, the budget page with the lake amenity assessment, he stopped, put his reading glasses on, read the number, $150 per household, he said out loud. For 4 years, 82 homes, I said, times 4 years. Sandra did the math before Tom could. $49,200. The room went quiet. Not the polite quiet of people waiting to speak, the heavy quiet of people doing the same math in their heads and arriving at the same number at the same time.
One of the neighbors standing in the doorway, a woman I recognized from the protect our lake petition, said it first. We've been paying $150 a year for access to his lake. Nobody answered. Nobody needed to. Tom Reeves took off his glasses, looked at Sandra, looked at the neighbors in the doorway, then looked at Gail Prescott's empty chair at the end of the table.
I'm calling an emergency board meeting. Effective immediately, Gail Prescott's authority as president is suspended pending a full review. Sandra, I need you to second that motion. Seconded. We'll need a full audit of every dollar collected under the lake amenity assessment for the last 4 years.
He looked at me. Cody, I owe you an apology. The whole board does. I didn't say anything to that. I just closed the file and looked out the window at the lake.
The water was still flat. The dock was still standing. My grandfather's boards, my grandfather's water, my grandfather's land. Nobody was going to take it today. The formal board meeting happened the following Thursday evening.