"Commissioner Todd Gisham has signed several recommendation letters," she said. "That's public record. So is the condominium he owns with Darlene in Florida."
I wrote his name down. "Are you saying those permits are improper?"
"I'm saying the relationship should be examined alongside the approvals. A conflict isn't proof of corruption. You know that."
I did know. I thanked her for being careful, because I had no interest in trading Darlene's unsupported allegations for unsupported allegations of my own. Still, a commissioner involved in recommendations benefiting a development associated with his romantic partner deserved questions. Especially when the same development's leaders had recently decided the law didn't apply to my bridge.
Over the next several days, I visited the county clerk's office and began assembling a second binder. The first binder concerned my bridge. The second concerned Meadowbrook's infrastructure, the kinds of systems homeowners rarely discuss unless they stop working: sanitary treatment, stormwater drainage, power connections, road maintenance, and emergency access. My career had taught me that beautiful houses depend on boring documents. Someone has to own every pipe, maintain every pump, inspect every culvert, and grant every right of entry.
Martha, the senior clerk, recognized me by the second morning. On the third she slid a stack of older plats across the counter and asked whether I had started an archaeological expedition. I told her the artifacts were considerably younger than the land. She laughed, then showed me how an