The police cruiser rolled onto my ranch while I was still sitting on the mower.
Blue lights flashed against the old red barn. I shut off the engine. Then I looked across the yard at Linda Parker, president of the Brookstone Hills Homeowners Association.
She stood beside my fence in a bright red jacket, arms crossed, looking pleased with herself.
"There he is!" she shouted.
One of the deputies stepped out. Another followed. Linda pointed straight at me. "He's trespassing!"
The deputy looked at me, then at the mower, then at the ranch house, then back at Linda. "On whose property?"
"Brookstone community property."
I almost laughed. I had been mowing the same yard since I was twelve. The ranch house had belonged to my grandfather, then my father, now me. Behind me were 360 acres of cattle pasture, hayfields, and woods. Brookstone Hills sat beyond my eastern fence—not inside the ranch, not around the ranch, next to it. Yet Linda had called the cops and demanded they arrest me for mowing my own front yard.
The taller deputy walked over. "Sir, what's your name?"
"Daniel Brooks."
"Do you live here?"
"Yes."
"Own the property?"
"Yes."
Linda shouted from behind him, "That section is disputed!"
The deputy turned. "You said he was trespassing."
"He is! On disputed land, on HOA-controlled land!"
I got off the mower. "Deputy, my deed is inside the house."
Linda stepped forward. "He's trying to delay this!"
"I'm trying to show him ownership."
She raised her voice. "You already received notice!"
I stared at her. "The letter that said I need HOA permission to mow my yard?"
"Yes!"
The younger deputy looked confused. "You need permission to mow?"
Linda sighed like she was explaining something to children. "This is not about mowing. It is about unauthorized alteration of protected common landscaping."
I looked down. Fresh-cut grass. That was the protected landscaping: my grass, my yard.
The taller deputy's nametag read Harris. He asked, "Ms. Parker, does the HOA have a deed to this land?"
"We have control rights. Our attorney has the paperwork."
"Do you have it?"
"No."
"Court order?"
"No."
"Recorded easement?"
"It's more complicated than that."
I knew that sentence. Whenever Linda did not have a simple answer, suddenly everything became complicated.
Then my attorney, Rachel Monroe, pulled into the driveway. She got out carrying a folder thick enough to stop a door.