Two mornings later, another envelope appeared in my mailbox. This one came from Cedar Ridge's attorney. It warned me not to interfere with association contractors while the board reviewed what it called a "boundary use matter."
I read that phrase twice. Boundary use matter. Fifteen containers were sitting nearly two hundred feet inside my property line, and suddenly the boundary was uncertain.
I called the county sheriff's office. A deputy named Mark Ellis arrived around noon. He was polite, patient, and clearly unimpressed by neighborhood politics. We walked the field while cicadas buzzed in the oak trees and sunlight flashed off the corrugated steel walls. I showed him the survey, the deed, the photographs, and Vanessa's notice. He studied everything, then removed his sunglasses.
"Your documents look clear to me, Mr. Cole. But ownership and removal are civil issues, unless there is something else going on that gives us authority to act."
It wasn't the answer I wanted, but it was an honest one. He documented the complaint and gave me an incident number. I wrote that number in my notebook.
Vanessa arrived before he left. Of course she did. Her white SUV rolled onto the gravel. A moment later, she stepped out, wearing that same bright orange business suit like she was reporting for a television interview.
"Officer, thank goodness," she said. "We've been having access problems."
I stared at her. Access problems on my land.
Deputy Ellis asked, "Who authorized the containers?"
"The association board," Vanessa replied.
"Do you have permission from Mr. Cole?"
Her smile paused for half a second. "There are historical community access considerations under review."
That wasn't an answer, and all three of us knew it.
After the deputy left, Vanessa followed me toward the gate, her heels clicking against the gravel behind my boots. "Calling law enforcement was unnecessary."
"Then moving the containers should be easy."
"Our counsel will handle this."
"Good. Mine will, too."