We were done by 6:14 a.m. I drove home, made breakfast, watched some of the morning news. Then I drove back to the lake at 8:45 a.m. and parked on the gravel strip near the launch ramp, which was now gated. I brought a folding chair, a thermos, and a manila folder.
The first resident arrived at 9:07 a.m. He had a kayak strapped to his roof. He walked to the launch ramp gate, saw the padlock, looked at the sign, looked at me. "Morning," I said. He did not respond.
He pulled out his phone. By 9:40 a.m., there were 11 people at the lake, none of them in boats, all of them on their phones. The sound of the holiday morning, distant fireworks somewhere in the county, a kid yelling two streets over, a lawnmower that someone had decided was appropriate at this hour, continued around them, indifferent to their situation.
Dolores arrived at 9:52 a.m. in the white Cadillac. She got out with the energy of someone who had been on the phone for an hour. Behind her, two board members I recognized from photographs. Slightly behind them, Phyllis, phone raised, recording. "You need to remove these locks right now," Dolores said.
"Good morning, Dolores." "This is illegal. This is harassment. This is..." "This is my property," I said. "Would you like to see the deed?"
She called 911 at 10:03 a.m., the same dispatch line. The officer who responded, a different one from the first visit, younger with the quiet efficiency of someone briefed before leaving the station, arrived at 10:19. He reviewed my binder, deed, quiet title filing confirmation number, survey, Braddock's letter of legal counsel confirming the action was lawful. He was thorough. He took about 8 minutes.
Then he turned to Dolores. "Ma'am, the property owner has the right to secure his property. The locks are legal. There's no violation here." "He is preventing residents from" "From accessing private property they don't have a recorded right to access," the officer said, with the gentle firmness of someone who has delivered this kind of news before. "I can't help you with that."
Cecilia Drum had arrived at 10:10. She had a photographer with her, a young woman who moved quietly and got angles Cecilia pointed to. Theron stood near the tree line in a gray jacket, watching without making himself a participant. About 40 residents were gathered now.
The holiday had brought people out. Some were angry at me. Some were reading the signs carefully. Some were talking quietly to each other with the look of people doing math.
I stood up from the folding chair. I had a single page of prepared remarks in my folder. I'd written them over three evenings. I read them.
I described Harlan Beaty, a generous man who asked for nothing and got nothing in return, not even a response to the fair lease offer he mailed to the board 6 years before he died. I described the $22,000 that residents had paid in special assessments to build docks on land the board knew wasn't theirs. I read the date on the certified mail receipt. I said the board's attorney had argued in court filings that this was a dispute about community rights, but that when a man named Harlan tried to formalize those rights through a legal agreement, the board had simply ignored him until he was gone.
Cecilia Drum stepped forward. "Ms. Schrank, there's a record showing the HOA received a lease proposal from Mr. Beaty in March 2019. Can you explain why the board didn't respond?" The silence after that question was the longest 7 seconds I've ever measured.
Dolores said, "That's not... I don't recall." It was enough.