One evening, while reviewing statements for a civil suit against the remaining board members, I received a call from Mendoza. “We got her.” “Where?” “Granada. She was trying to board a yacht registered under a fake company. Coast Guard flagged it. She’ll be extradited within the week.”
I didn’t say anything at first, just sat there staring at the wall of my study. Then I asked, “Was she alone?” “No, her notary was with her. So was a man we believe helped fabricate the property deeds.” I thanked him and hung up.
The next neighborhood meeting was held under the new transitional committee. Gone were the catered spreads and pompous speeches. Now we had folding chairs, notepads, and open discussion. I stood up near the end. “We’ve got a lot of rebuilding to do,” I said.
“Not just docks and budgets. Trust, accountability, community. We let one person turn this place into their personal empire because it was easier not to ask questions. That ends now.” When I finished, no one clapped. They just nodded.
That was better. Approval is easy. Agreement takes work. And after everything we’d been through, the people of Windward Palms were finally ready to work.
On a quiet Wednesday morning, I walked into the county courthouse with a folder tucked beneath my arm labeled WPR Association Civil Action. The courtroom was smaller than I expected, windowless with wood-paneled walls that hummed with the dull groan of overhead fluorescence. At the front, Judge Harlon Witford sat behind the bench with an expression that suggested he’d already read too much HOA nonsense for one lifetime. Douglas Wright sat with his attorney at the defense table, thinner than I remembered, his hands folded tightly in his lap. His suit didn’t quite fit, and his eyes avoided mine.
The other two former board members, Janice and Peter, had opted for video appearances from their respective detainment locations, their feeds boxed in the corner of a wall-mounted screen. Olivia’s seat was empty. Her extradition had been delayed by two days due to a diplomatic formality, but the judge had ruled the case would proceed in her absence. My attorney, a sharp former JAG officer named Tanya Riley, stood and launched into the opening statement.
“We intend to prove that the Windward Palms Residential Association, under the leadership of these individuals, knowingly exploited private property, misappropriated homeowner funds, and breached fiduciary duties for personal enrichment. We will also demonstrate that Mr. Taylor suffered material damages and reputational harm as a result of these unlawful actions.” Judge Whitford didn’t nod. He just scribbled something on a yellow legal pad and gestured for the first witness.
