OIL DISCHARGE ON DRIVEWAY.
Fine: $400.
That one was more interesting.
My driveway was clean when I went to bed.
At 6:10 the next morning, a patch of dark motor oil appeared approximately three feet from the curb.
My doorbell camera caught movement at 2:17 a.m.
A hooded figure walked onto my driveway carrying a plastic container.
The camera angle never showed the face.
I did not need it yet.
I collected the container from behind a shrub near my side fence.
Bagged it.
Labeled the date.
Saved the video.
Paid the fine.
The fourth violation involved landscaping.
My hedge supposedly exceeded the approved height by five inches.
I measured it.
It did not.
Paid.
Saved.
Fifth.
Trash container visible from street.
The photograph had been taken at 6:58 a.m.
Trash pickup occurred at 7:05.
Paid.
Saved.
By then, I had spent $1,275.
Caleb came home from college one weekend and saw the folder on my kitchen table.
“What is all this?”
“HOA nonsense.”
He flipped through the pages.
“Why are you paying them?”
“Because I want them comfortable.”
He looked at me.
“You’re doing cop stuff.”
“I’m drinking coffee.”
“Dad.”
I smiled.
“They’re either incompetent or dishonest.”
“And?”
“If they’re incompetent, documentation fixes it.”
“If they’re dishonest?”
I sipped the coffee.
“Documentation fixes that too.”
Caleb looked toward the garage.
“This is about Mom’s car.”
“I think it started there.”
He closed the folder.
“I hate these people.”
“No.”
“I do.”
“You don’t know them well enough.”
“They’re trying to take Mom’s car.”
“Then be angry about behavior.”
I pointed at him.
“Not people.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You always turn everything into a speech.”
“You keep providing opportunities.”
Things became more serious in September.
Lorraine sent a formal HOA notice announcing a mandatory garage compliance inspection.
I read the bylaws twice.
Nothing granted board members unrestricted access to private garages.
The notice claimed a three-person Community Standards Panel would inspect my property at eleven the following Friday.
I took the morning off.
At 10:58, three men walked up my driveway wearing matching gray polo shirts.
One carried a tablet.
Another held a camera.
The third had a clipboard.
No state identification.
No county insignia.
No contractor name.
I stood in front of the closed garage.
“Morning.”
The man with the clipboard smiled.
“Mr. Walker?”
“Yes.”
“We’re here on behalf of Fox Hollow Community Standards.”
“Names?”
His smile changed.
“Excuse me?”
“Your names.”
He gave them.
Derek Mercer.
Paul Hammond.
Victor Lane.
Derek was Lorraine’s younger brother.
I already knew that.
“What licenses do you hold?”
Derek frowned.
“HOA authorization doesn’t require a state license.”
“For what type of inspection?”
He looked toward the others.
“Property compliance.”
“What exactly are you inspecting?”
“Vehicle storage.”
“From inside my private garage.”
“Yes.”