Marian suggested, "Creates curiosity without making claims we have to defend."
Perfect, I said. Print 200. We blanket the neighborhood.
Marian added "Town Hall" to her column. "We need visual aids. I'll print the bank statements in 20-font. Giant timeline of every questionable expense. Make it so simple a kindergartener could follow the money."
"I'll bring a projector," Harlon said. "Show Luther's deposition. Let people watch him cry when he realizes he's been used."
Greta looked uncomfortable. "That feels mean."
"He voted to steal from his neighbors for 3 years," Marian said. "Ignorance isn't innocence when you're a fiduciary."
Which reminds me, she turned to me. "You said something about infrastructure."
Here we go. I pulled out the utility company's inspection report from last week—the orange violation notice they'd zip-tied to the transformer fence.
Rocky Mountain Power flagged safety issues: blocked access, overgrown vegetation, missing signage. They're scheduling a comprehensive assessment.
"What does that mean?" Greta asked.
I'd been thinking about this for days, ever since I'd studied the original 1998 development blueprints at the county office. Transformers that old were supposed to be stress-tested regularly, but utilities often deferred maintenance until someone complained. I'd complained—loud and documented.
"It means when they test the transformer, there's a solid chance it fails inspection. Standard protocol would be immediate replacement."
"How long would we be without power?" Harlon asked.
"Utility estimates 2 to 3 days for a full swap."
I let that sink in. My house stays powered the entire time. Solar array plus battery backup. I tested it last week: 72 hours minimum, longer if I'm conservative with AC usage.
Harlon started laughing. "Oh no. Oh no. So, you're going to make her house go dark while yours stays lit during the town hall meeting?"
"I'm not making anything happen," I corrected. "I filed legitimate safety complaints through proper channels. If the utility company determines the equipment needs replacement, that's their professional judgment based on engineering standards and safety codes. I just happen to have prepared for infrastructure failure because I'm a responsible homeowner who understands electrical systems."
Marian was trying not to smile. "That's diabolical."
"That's just good planning," I said. "Remember when I worked in Iraq? We had a saying: Amateurs talk strategy. Professionals talk logistics. Brin's been playing checkers with HOA bylaws. I'm playing chess with the power grid."
We spent the next 2 hours dividing responsibilities. Greta would coordinate the Facebook group and organize door-to-door flyer distribution. Harlon's son would build a website, pinehaventruth.com, posting all public records. Marian would handle legal filings and media coordination. I'd manage the utility company timeline and make sure the inspection happened before Saturday.
By noon, we'd made a significant dent in my coffee supply, and the whiteboard looked like a military operation chart. Arrows connected boxes. Timelines branched into contingencies. If Brin did X, we'd respond with Y. If she tried Z, we had A and B ready.
Marian packed her briefcase. "Seven days. If she's smart, she resigns quietly and tries to cut a deal."
"She won't," I said. "Her ego's too big."
"Good," Marian said, "because this is going to be fun."
After everyone left, I stood at my sink washing waffle plates and looking out at the neighborhood. Spring afternoon, perfect weather, kids playing basketball three houses down, normal suburban Sunday. In 7 days, none of this would be the same.
I thought about that supply sergeant in Baghdad again, the one who taught me that wars are won by controlling resources and information. Brin had controlled both for years, but she'd made one critical mistake: she'd assumed nobody else understood the systems she was exploiting.
I'd spent my entire career understanding systems—electrical grids, supply chains, organizational hierarchies. You learn the system, you find the pressure points, you apply force exactly where it matters most. Saturday was going to be educational for everyone involved.
Tuesday night, someone spray-painted my truck. I discovered it Wednesday morning walking out for coffee: big red letters across the driver's side—"LEECH." Smaller text on the tailgate—"GET OUT."
The paint was still tacky. Smelled like hardware store aerosol mixed with someone's desperation.
I took photos from six angles. Then called the police.
The cop who showed up looked barely old enough to rent a car. Took a report with the enthusiasm of someone filling out tax forms.
Then my neighbor Felix walked over holding his phone. "Got it on Ring camera," Felix said. "2:00 a.m. White Lexus. Three passes before someone got out."
He showed the footage. Grainy, but clear enough. The license plate caught a street light reflection: "SOLD IT." Brin's vanity plate.
The cop's whole demeanor shifted. He took Felix's statement, requested the video file, upgraded my report from simple vandalism to criminal mischief with harassment enhancement.
By noon, two detectives were at Brin's door. Harlon's wife worked dispatch and gave me details later: Brin claimed her car never left the garage. Anyone could have faked her plates. She wanted her lawyer present immediately.
That afternoon, my truck wouldn't start—just that clicking sound mechanics recognize as expensive news.
I popped the hood and found the fuel system clogged with something crystalline. Had it towed to Raul's shop. He's been fixing my vehicle since Skyler was in elementary school.
He showed me the fuel filter, shaking his head. "Someone dumped something in your tank. Sugar, probably. People see it in movies and think it'll blow up the engine, but it just clogs everything. Whoever did this got their sabotage education from Netflix."
$1,200 to flush the system, replace the filter and fuel pump. I filed another police report. The stack was getting thick enough to use as a doorstop.
Wednesday evening, the neighborhood Facebook page caught fire. Someone posted our town hall flyer, the one about financial records being revealed Saturday.
Within an hour, Brin counter-posted: "Misinformation campaign by disgruntled homeowner. Board taking appropriate legal action."
Then 30 minutes later: "Due to frivolous litigation, HOA may be forced to dissolve. Your property values will collapse. Thank those who refuse to follow basic community rules."
She was playing the property value card: make people choose between their money and the truth.
Greta fired back within minutes: "Section 12 of HOA bylaws requires accurate financial records and member access to audits. Why won't President Keller release bank statements?"
43 likes in 10 minutes. The tide was shifting, and Brin could feel it.
Thursday morning, someone knocked on my door. I looked through the peephole and saw Troy alone, no Brin.