“I’m a guest of Mr. Riley, per Section 4.3 of the bylaws you drafted in 2017.”
A small ripple moved through the room. Two residents quietly checked the bylaws on their phones.
Janine’s mouth tightened.
“Even so, you have no right to interrupt the...”
“Before you call this vote,” I said, “there is one document the board hasn’t seen yet. I’d like to give it to you. After that, you can vote however you like.”
I held up the sealed manila envelope.
I did not open it. I did not wave it. I simply held it at chest level where every person in the room could see it.
Brent looked at the envelope, then at Janine, then back at the envelope.
The older woman to Janine’s left leaned forward.
“What is in the envelope, sir?”
“A recorded court order, six months old, from the county district court.”
The woman looked at Janine.
Janine had gone very still.
“I think,” the older woman said carefully, “we should see the document before we vote.”
Janine started to speak, stopped, then started again.
“We do not need to entertain documents from non-members during a...”
“I’d like to see it, Janine,” Brent said.
“So would I,” said the woman to Janine’s left.
The third board member, the man who had been looking at his hands, finally looked up.
“I’d like to see it too.”
That made three of five.
Janine could count.
She set down her gavel.
“Bring it forward,” she said.
The words came out flat, like something said by a person who already knew, on some level, that she had run out of meeting to hide behind.