"Right in the middle of the meeting," Marcus said. "The process server will wait in the corridor. The moment she finishes her presentation, we walk in and hand her the entire stack in front of her peers. Emotional people make critical mistakes, Garrett. We want her angry and talking on camera."
Forming the victim coalition took two long evenings. Mrs. Kowalski's grandson pushed her wheelchair up my driveway after dark; the Brunellis came with their toddler; Rick Haverson's brother, a certified paralegal, took detailed statements from four other families. Everyone was fully aligned.
"We show up as a single unit," I told them. "Bring your families. Deandra has spent three years treating you like isolated account numbers on a violation sheet. Let the undecided members see exactly who she's been squeezing."
Mrs. Kowalski gripped my hand tightly, her skin paper-thin but her grip surprisingly strong. "I honestly thought I was going to lose my home, Garrett. I've been paying her those arbitrary landscaping fees for two years out of fear."
"You thank Gregory," I told her gently. "He's the one putting his reputation on the line to open the door."
I built a simple, streamlined website called *pinehaventruth.com*. It hosted scanned bank statements detailing the $47,000 in corporate transfers, individual victim statements, copies of the bogus fine notices, and the original 2006 charter with Section 12C highlighted in bright yellow. Everything was properly redacted for personal privacy, and everything was thoroughly sourced and dated.
Back when we built federal racketeering cases against multi-state organizations, my old supervisor had a golden rule: *Transparency is credibility's best friend. If you're going to accuse an establishment of corruption, show your work or shut your mouth.* I printed fifty business cards embedded with a QR code linking directly to the site.
The night before the confrontation, I was in the garage putting the final touches on the Softail. Miranda's name gleamed perfectly under the bright halogen work light—the silver script fully restored, the paint showing a mirror finish without a single blemish. I tied her bandana back onto the chrome handlebar, running my palm across the smooth metal of the tank.
My phone lit up on the workbench. It was a text from Marcus: *Process server confirmed, legal filings cleared through the clerk. We are completely bulletproof.*
Sloan texted a second later: *Crew is fully prepped, front-page real estate is locked for the Sunday edition.*
Finally, Gregory: *Meeting notice has forty-two RSVPs already. Three times our typical attendance baseline.*
I looked at Miranda's photo sitting next to my wrenches. "Tomorrow we finish the track, babe," I said quietly. "Almost done."
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