Guess who owned Greenscape Solutions? Karen's husband, David Morrison. I found him on LinkedIn.
Then I cross-referenced the fine collection. Over the three years Karen had been president, the HOA had collected significantly more in violation fines than the previous two years combined. Where was that money going? It was going into a separate account, a reserve fund for future improvements. Karen had control of that account.
I did some digging, pulled public property records, checked for permits, looked at the county assessor's website, and I found something interesting: Karen and David owned a commercial property two towns over, a warehouse. They'd purchased it about two years ago, right around when the fines started increasing.
I couldn't prove anything, but I had suspicions. So, I did something slightly sketchy: I called the county health department and reported a concern about unlicensed produce sales. I told them I'd heard rumors of someone selling fruits and vegetables from a home-based operation without proper licensing or handling protocols. The health department said they'd look into it.
A week later, I got a call from my attorney. "You're not going to believe this," he said. "I got a call from a guy at the county. They went to inspect Karen Morrison's property based on a health department complaint. They didn't find anything at her house, but they found a commercial kitchen rental agreement under her name. She's been preparing and packaging food there."
"Is that illegal?" I asked.
"Depends on what she's selling and how she's documenting it. But here's the thing: she doesn't have a business license for a food operation. She's not paying business taxes on whatever she's selling, and the health department is now asking questions about where her inventory comes from."
I felt something shift. The strawberry theft wasn't the crime; it was the symptom.
Karen had built a system: use HOA power to collect fines; use those fines to justify increased reserve funds; funnel money through her husband's company; develop a side business selling stolen produce. No inventory costs. No accountability. It was embezzlement wrapped in neighborhood governance wrapped in petty theft.
And I was about to blow it wide open.
Building a case against a sitting HOA president requires more than video evidence. It requires documentation, strategy, and most importantly, allies.
I started by talking to Derek again. Not about the basketball hoop this time, but about HOA finances. Derek worked in accounting; he understood budgets.
"Can you help me figure out if the money's being diverted?" I asked.
He said yes immediately. Something about Karen had bothered him, too. We spent two Saturdays in my home office going through the HOA budget reports. Derek showed me things I'd missed: line items that didn't add up, expenses that were vague, fund transfers that seemed irregular.
"This Greenscape Solutions contract," he said, pointing at the screen. "Forty grand. But there's no visible work. The landscaping in this neighborhood hasn't changed in three years. Where did the money go?"
"That's the question, isn't it?"
Next, I contacted the previous HOA president. His name was Robert Williams. He'd served for four years before Karen ran and unseated him. I found his number in the public records.
When I explained what I'd found, Robert was silent for a long moment. "I wondered when someone would look into her," he said finally.
"What do you mean?"
"Michael, the reason I didn't run for re-election was Karen. She had the board votes lined up before the election happened. She had something on Phil and Susan—I never found out what. But they were going to vote her way no matter what. I didn't want to stay and watch what she'd do next."
"Did you suspect financial impropriety?"
"I suspected she was building power in ways that weren't in the bylaws. Beyond that, I didn't have proof. By the time I started seeing red flags in the budget, I was already losing votes. I decided to step back."
Robert agreed to meet with my attorney. He'd provide testimony about Karen's methods and the board dynamics.
Then I contacted Tom Chen again and asked if he could do something more than just authenticate my video: could he trace the digital footprint of Karen's food operation? Could he pull metadata from the photos she'd taken of my garden?
Tom said yes, but it would take time. He wanted to document everything properly: chain of custody, time-stamping, expert analysis. "This is going to be court-ready," he told me. "If you're going after her, we do it properly."
I also pulled my own records: every morning I'd had the camera running, I documented what I found missing from the garden. I'd kept a daily log; I created a spreadsheet: date, time, approximate quantity, estimated value. Over four months of theft, the total came to over $3,000. $3,000 of stolen produce.
My attorney, Sarah Chen—no relation to Tom—suggested we go to the police with the evidence. Not to sue Karen, not yet, but to file a formal theft complaint. The police could investigate independently, and it would create a separate paper trail.
I called the Willow Creek Police Department and made an appointment. The officer I met was named Jenkins. He was patient, careful, and took detailed notes. He reviewed the video evidence, the transcripts of Karen and Susan discussing sales, the health department findings about the unlicensed kitchen.