Police are coming. I'm armed. Leave now. The crowbar clatters on concrete as he runs. I bag it with a kitchen towel, old evidence habits.
Sergeant Nyland arrives 8 minutes later. Kid never learns. They arrest Jackson at home 20 minutes later. Attempted burglary. Second arrest in 3 weeks.
1:00 a.m. Deandra Facebook melts down. This monster got my son arrested again. Planted evidence. Someone stop him before he hurts our children. 42 Larkspur Lane.
She posts my address, calls for community action. My phone won't stop buzzing, but by morning 60-plus people report her post. Facebook bans her for 24 hours. Three neighbors post their security footage of Jackson's break-in with timestamps. Comments flip.
Wait, her son's the criminal? How many arrests now? The narrative's turning. She's losing control of the story she's written for 3 years. Morning, day 49.
I shower carefully, sport coat on, project authority. Load USB drives for each board member. Marcus texts. Process server ready. Sloan confirms.
Camera crew already at community center getting set up shots. I look at the Harley gleaming in morning sun. Miranda's name perfect across the tank. Then drive to the community center. That pre-raid calm settling over me.
All planning done. Just execution now. The parking lot's already filling. I recognize Mrs. Kowalski's grandson helping her from their van. The Brunellis with their kids, Rick Haverson and his brother.
All eight plaintiff households arriving together like we planned. Deandra's Audi is parked in the front row, crooked across two spaces like she owns the place. Through the community center windows I can see her setting up at the head table, arranging papers with sharp, aggressive movements. She's wearing a power suit, hair sprayed into submission, that confident tilt to her chin. She thinks this is her victory lap.
Thinks she's about to crush me in front of the neighborhood. Place that lean, make an example out of the guy who dared challenge her authority. She has no idea she's walking into an ambush. I grab my briefcase, check my phone one last time. Marcus.
Standing by. Sloan. Rolling. Gregory. Inside.
She's already gloating. I take a breath, smooth my jacket, and walk toward the door. Time to show Deandra Callaway what real consequences look like. Day 49, 4 hours before the meeting. 7:00 a.m. email blast from Deandra.
Emergency assessment deadline extended 30 days due to administrative error. Disregard previous lean notices. She's erasing evidence, trying to walk back extortion now that she smells trouble. I screenshot it, forward to Marcus. He replies instantly.
Too late. We have originals with metadata. She just admitted the threats by retracting them. By 9:15, the battle lines are drawn at the community center. Deandra's 12 supporters, matching beautification committee visors, arms crossed, occupy the front rows like they're defending the Alamo.