The next day, her emails stopped. I imagined her kitchen table covered in bills and legal forms, a pot of cold coffee, her phone blowing up with notifications she couldn't control. I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel good.
Of course, Karen couldn't let it go. When the legal route got expensive, she tried a new angle: public pressure. She printed flyers with my face on them—grainy photo from the news clip—and the words: Danger to Community Safety. She stuck them on lampposts, bulletin boards, even the grocery store window.
Hannah texted me a photo of one. You're famous again, she wrote.
I texted back: Can't wait for the autograph requests.
That night, I took my truck, a staple gun, and a sense of humor, and went on a little walk. For every flyer I found, I stapled a new one next to it: same image, but with big black letters saying: WANTED: Common Sense. Last seen at HOA meeting. By morning, my version had more likes on social media than hers.
A few days later, the sheriff came by—not in uniform, just jeans and a baseball cap. He'd seen the video, the news, the flyers, the whole circus.
"Mike," he said, standing beside his truck, "I'm not here to cause trouble. I just got to make sure everything's safe."
"Safer than a cement truck, I'd say," I told him.
He grinned. "That's what I figured. County records show the bridge is yours. No easement, no shared access. You're in the clear. Just keep the peace, all right?"
"I've been trying," I said. "But peace keeps driving twelve tons over my bridge."
He laughed, tipped his hat, and left.
Karen must have seen the visit from her window, because five minutes later I got an email from [email protected], subject: Trespassing Investigation.
I saw a police vehicle on your property today. This behavior confirms our concerns. The HOA will not tolerate intimidation tactics.
I replied: Thanks for the concern, Karen. He stopped by to compliment the bridge.
No response.
Behind the comedy, things were getting serious. Karen had officially filed her lawsuit in county court. I received the summons the next week. She'd hired Hamilton & Wade LLP, a fancy law firm from downtown that charges by the syllable.
I met my lawyer, a sharp woman named Lisa Barrett, who specialized in property disputes. She looked through my documents, the videos, the original blueprints, and smiled like a chess player seeing a checkmate three moves away.
"She doesn't have a case," Lisa said. "You've got signs, surveys, clear ownership, posted restrictions, and video proof that her trucks ignored them."