Actually, Ashley, as we established with the Naples Police Department on Saturday, the association declined to claim ownership of the abandoned property, I reminded her casually, leaning against the handle of the dolly, because, as I recall, claiming the coins meant taking legal responsibility for the hundreds of pounds of oxidizing hazardous waste you allowed to accumulate in a municipal waterway. A liability that would have subjected this very board to thousands of dollars in EPA fines. I looked at the rest of the board members. Arthur was sweating. A woman on the end of the table was furiously typing on her phone, probably Googling EPA fines.
"I saved you," I said, putting a hand on my chest in mock sincerity. Dave's Demo and Haul, acting through me as a registered subcontractor, remediated a massive environmental hazard for free. And under Florida Chapter 705, the abandoned property extracted during that legal code-compliant cleanup reverts to the finder, me. "We are voting to ban magnets right now," Ashley shrieked, pointing her gavel at me like a weapon.
"I am pushing the emergency resolution through. As of tonight, any subaquatic salvage is a violation of the CC&Rs, punishable by a $500 immediate fine." She looked around the table at her fellow board members. "Do I have a motion to pass the emergency resolution to ban salvage equipment?" "I guess I'll motion," Arthur stammered, out of looking nervously between Ashley and my giant jar of coins.
"Seconded," said the woman at the end of the table. "All in favor?" Ashley demanded, her eyes locked on me with a look of pure manic triumph. I cleared my throat loudly. "Point of order, Madam President," I said, my voice cutting through the tension.
"You don't have the floor," Ashley snapped. "Actually, under Robert's Rules of Order, which your bylaws explicitly state govern all HOA board proceedings, any member of the association can raise a point of order regarding procedural violations," I said, taking a step closer to the table. "And you, Ashley, are currently in massive violation of Florida state law." The room gasped. I swear, a lady in the third row literally clutched her pearls.
I pulled a folded piece of paper out of my back pocket. And I had printed this out right before I left the house. Florida Statute 720.303, Section 2, Paragraph C, I read loudly, making sure every syllable echoed in the silent room. Notice of any meeting in which regular or special assessments against parcels are to be considered for any reason shall specifically state that assessments will be considered and provide the nature, estimated cost, and description of the purposes for such assessments. Furthermore, notice of any meeting at which an amendment to rules regarding parcel use or common areas will be considered must be mailed, delivered, or electronically transmitted to the members and posted conspicuously on the property at least 14 days before the meeting.
I lowered the paper. I looked Ashley dead in the eyes. 14 days, Ashley, I said softly. You drafted this emergency resolution on Sunday. You posted the agenda update yesterday.
"You did not provide the legally mandated 14-day notice to the community to alter the rules governing the use of the common area pond. Therefore, any vote you take tonight is procedurally invalid, legally void, and completely unenforceable." Arthur, the treasurer, dropped his pen. It clattered loudly on the folding table. He's right, Ashley.
The state statute requires 14 days for rule changes on common areas. If we vote on this now, any homeowner could sue the board for procedural negligence. We are the board. We act in emergencies. Ashley yelled, her face turning that familiar dangerous shade of purple.
It's not an emergency, Arthur argued back, his voice shaking slightly. It's a guy with a magnet. But we can't risk a lawsuit over procedural errors. The HOA insurance won't cover gross negligence. The table devolved into chaos.
The board members started arguing with each other. Ashley was banging her gavel repeatedly, but no one was listening to her. The crowd of residents behind me was buzzing. Some laughing, some whispering in shock. I just stood there, watching the administrative empire crumble under the weight of its own rule book.
It was, literally, a beautiful thing to witness. After about 3 minutes of shouting, Ashley slammed the gavel down one final time with such force I thought the handle was going to snap. "Fine!" she screamed, her chest heaving. She glared at me with a hatred so pure it could have melted steel. "The motion is tabled for 14 days.
We will post the notice tomorrow. And in exactly 2 weeks, well, your little magnetic hobby is illegal on Pelican's Perch property. Enjoy your victory tonight, because it is your last." She sat back down, crossing her arms, looking smug. She thought she had won the war, even if she lost the battle.
She thought she was going to have the last laugh. But I didn't haul 85 lb of loose change down the street just to give a legal lecture. "Oh, Ashley," I said with a wide, genuine smile. "I'm already done fishing. I've extracted all the valuable material.
The pond is clean. I'm actually here for a completely different reason." I unhooked the ratchet straps holding the giant glass carboy to the dolly. I gripped the thick glass neck of the jar, braced my legs, and hoisted the massive 85-lb container off the metal base. I took two steps forward and slammed the jar down onto the folding table directly in front of Ashley.
The cheap plastic table literally bowed under the weight. The wooden legs groaned. Thousands of coins shifted inside the glass with a loud cascading crash. Ashley jumped back, nearly tipping her chair over. "What are you doing?"
"I am conducting official HOA business," I announced, pulling a standard white business envelope from my front pocket. I tossed it onto the table next to the giant jar. "As you know," I said, projecting my voice to the back row, "the monthly HOA dues for Pelican's Perch are currently set at $94 a month. A steep price, honestly, but we do get lovely landscaping." I pointed at the jar.