"I have authority under the Oversight Initiative!"
"No, you have a vest you bought on Amazon."
She bristled. "A uniform!" she corrected.
"A vest."
"A uniform!"
"A vest, Karen."
She stomped her foot like a toddler denied a cookie. "You're obstructing justice!"
"No," I said, stepping forward. "I'm obstructing trespassing." I pointed at the camera. "You're being recorded."
She froze. That was her weakness: not authority, not resistance—documentation. She hated when her actions were captured by anything other than her imagination.
She backed away slowly, muttering, "This will not stop harmony. This will not stop the initiative." Then she disappeared into the darkness of the cul-de-sac, reflective vest sparkling like a deranged firefly.
The next morning, half the neighborhood found envelopes identical to mine. Some asked if I knew anything; others asked if she could really fine them again.
"No," I told them. "She has zero authority."
"But she threatened legal action," one neighbor whispered.
"She threatens shadows," I replied. "You'll be fine."
Still, not everyone was reassured. Karen had spent years conditioning them to fear her clipboard; undoing that takes time.
By noon, I had collected eleven more letters from neighbors who didn't trust themselves not to burn them out of frustration. I forwarded everything to Deputy Hernandez.
He called twenty minutes later. "Yeah, I think we have enough for charges," he said. "This initiative isn't registered with the state—not even close. She's fabricating documents and presenting them as legal authority."
"Do what you need to do," I replied.
He hesitated. "One problem."