I thought about the foster homes: seven of them. Every single one, somebody else controlled the locks; somebody else decided when you stayed and when you left. I had spent my entire adult life earning the right to a door that was mine, a key that was mine, a home that nobody could take away. And Brenda Hayworth, with her blonde bob and her clipboard and her pearl Lexus, had walked up to my door and taken it. Not because I owed her money, not because I had broken a rule—because I was gone, because I was serving my country, and she saw an opportunity.
Captain Sparks lined the documents up on her desk with the precision of someone building a prosecution, which is exactly what she was doing.
I hired Reed Callahan on Captain Sparks' recommendation. He was a civilian attorney based in Denver: 53 years old, bowtie, reading glasses, and a 17-year track record of SCRA cases that read like a highlight reel of military families getting justice. His office walls were lined with framed letters from soldiers. He charged $350 an hour and was worth every cent.
We sat in his conference room on a Tuesday morning: mountains visible through the window behind him, snow on the peaks, sun cutting low across the table.
"Here's the strategy," Callahan said. He counted on his fingers:
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"SCRA complaint filed with the Department of Justice, Civil Rights Division—federal. This goes on the DOJ's radar immediately."
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"Civil lawsuit in federal district court: SCRA violations, fraud, conversion of property, trespassing, intentional infliction of emotional distress. We name Brenda, Glenn, and Tiffany individually, plus the HOA as an entity."
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"Formal complaint to the Colorado Board of Real Estate Appraisers regarding Glenn's forged assessment. That's his license."
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"Notification to the HOA's insurance carrier that the property preservation claim was fraudulent. They'll want their $6,800 back, and they'll come after Brenda to get it."
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"Emergency motion for injunction and asset freeze. We lock everything down before she can move money."
I liked the way Callahan said "we"—not "I," not "you": we.
That afternoon, I called a locksmith: a real one, licensed, bonded, recommended by Nate. He changed every lock on my house back to brushed nickel Schlage deadbolts.
I stood in my own doorway for the first time in nine months and breathed air that smelled like home: old coffee, the faint pine of the cleaning spray I'd used before deployment, and something dusty underneath that was just the scent of a place that had been lived in by strangers.
I installed four security cameras: two on the porch covering the front door and sidewalk, one on the patio, one inside the living room angled at the entry. Nate held the ladder while I mounted the exterior units.
Dale Riggins walked over while we worked. Dale lived three doors down: 62, retired firefighter, arms like fence posts, voice like a diesel engine at idle. He'd seen me on the ladder and came to investigate.
"Cole, when'd you get back?"
"Last week."