I dialed 911 and gave the dispatcher my address. I reported active destruction of private property, named the contractor's machinery, and requested an officer. While I spoke, the bulldozer made one last push. The center span folded sideways, struck the creek, and sent a brown wave against the opposite bank. The operator finally shut down the engine.
In the sudden quiet, I could hear a board member say, "Well, that's done." Darlene slipped her phone into her jacket pocket and started toward me.
"Mr. Sullivan," she said, "I told you we would handle the hazard."
I stared at her. Behind her, the creek was carrying splinters downstream. "You came onto my land and destroyed something you don't own."
"You were served notice."
"A letter from your association isn't a demolition permit."
She straightened her jacket and told me to calm down before I embarrassed myself. That was when the deputy's cruiser finally appeared on the access track, tires crunching over the same gravel I had walked with Pops. The deputy, Collins, was courteous and thorough about photographs, but cautious about assigning criminal responsibility when the contractor produced a work order purporting to authorize removal of an unsafe structure. He took names, copied documents, recorded our accounts, and said the civil courts would probably have to resolve liability. By the time he left, the bridge was rubble and the people who ordered it were gone.