The board tried to convene an emergency session that Thursday evening. Dolores needed a quorum, four of the seven board members present to conduct official business. Three of them called in sick or unavailable or offered excuses ranging from the plausible to the transparent. One of them, a quiet accountant named Ferris, who had been on the board for 2 years and had spent most of that time looking increasingly uncomfortable, called me directly. He'd read the letter.
He'd pulled the county records himself. He wanted me to know that he had not known about the permit application rejection or the 2019 lease offer and that he intended to consult a personal attorney before attending any more board meetings. I thanked him. I told him there were no hard feelings toward people who'd been kept in the dark.
Dolores' filing attempt was the move of someone running out of options. She went to the county recorder's office with a handwritten notice of disputed ownership. A legal document that, if accepted, would cloud the title and potentially freeze any sale or refinancing of the parcel by flagging an ownership dispute in the public record. It's a real mechanism and it can cause real problems. It's also only available to people with a recorded legal interest in the property, lien holders, easement holders, co-owners.
The county clerk looked at Dolores' document, looked up her name in the system, found zero recorded interests, and declined to file it. She was asked to leave the counter. I heard about this from Theron, who had a contact at the recorder's office. He told me with the particular satisfaction of someone who has seen bureaucracy, for once, actually work correctly.
Meanwhile, the physical preparations were complete. Braddock had confirmed that Virginia law was unambiguous. As the owner of the real property to which the docks were permanently affixed, I had the legal right to secure them. A trespasser, meaning anyone using the docks without my permission, could be removed by law enforcement if they refused to leave.
The padlocks were not vandalism. They were not harassment. They were a property owner exercising the most basic right of ownership, the right to decide who does and does not have access.
The HOA's 4th of July dock party was scheduled for a Saturday. Every year, residents launched their boats, floated out onto the lake, and tied up to watch the fireworks from the water. Dolores coordinated it.
She had a spreadsheet, I was told. She had a slip assignment chart. That party was in six days.
Harriet and I sat on my front porch that evening after the county filing rejection. The air carried the smell of freshly cut grass and the distant sweetness of someone's backyard grill two streets over. The sun was going low. The lake would be orange and pink right now. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Ready," I said. She nodded. She handed me a thermos of coffee. It was the good kind, the kind that smells like it means it.
"You know," she said, "Harlan would have liked you." "I think he'd have liked what's about to happen," I said. She laughed. It was the kind of laugh that meant yes, absolutely, and also yes. Six days.
5:31 a.m. on the Fourth of July, and Mill Lake was the most peaceful place on Earth. Colby and I worked without talking much. The lake was a mirror in the gray pre-dawn light, flat and still, the color of old pewter. Somewhere in the cattails, a red-winged blackbird was warming up. Our boots left dark prints in the dew-soaked grass as we carried the gate hardware to the first dock access point, the air tasting faintly of iron and lake water.
The padlocks went on in order, north dock first, east bank access point second, the south launch ramp third. I posted the private property signs at every entrance, four-foot aluminum stakes hammered into the ground with a rubber mallet. Each strike made a clean, solid thunk in the quiet morning. 16 locks, 12 signs, one swing gate installed on the main dock path, hinges set, hasp closed, keyed.