He opened the folder. "This is the letter. This is the reply. The reply is signed by Karen Whitfield."
The reply was two paragraphs: the first thanked Frank for his concerned input; the second informed him that the board had reviewed the matter internally and was confident in the existing infrastructure. No engineer's name on it, no hydrologist, no third-party review—just Karen Whitfield telling a retired fire captain she'd reviewed the matter internally.
"Frank, can I make a copy?"
"Keep the original. I have three more. I file things."
He files things, too.
The others came one by one: a young man whose wife had been fined for hanging laundry on a balcony; a widow named Ms. Tilton, written up four times for the same flowerbed; a retired schoolteacher with photos of Karen on his front lawn measuring his grass with an actual yardstick; a young mother who played me an archived voicemail of Karen telling her word for word, "If you vote against the new pool levy, I will personally make sure your house values drop in this subdivision."
I labeled every folder, indexed every page. By Wednesday evening, my dining room table was full, my coffee table was full, and the overflow was on the floor.
I called Diane Park at home. She picked up on the second ring and didn't say hello.
"I can't meet you in person yet."
"I'm not asking you to."
A long pause.
"The annexation vote was three to two," she said. "Karen, Tom, and Brad voted yes. I voted no. Margaret voted no. We both flagged on the record that Parcel 7A was outside the recorded plat. Margaret put it in writing in her dissent."
"You have the minutes?"
"I'm the treasurer. I have everything."
"Will you bring them?"
"If it comes to court or a county meeting, yes."
"Diane, it's going to come to one or the other, probably both."