Janine took half a step to follow.
“Ma’am,” Deputy Reyes said, “you’re going to wait by your vehicle, please.”
“I am the complainant, officer. I have every right to...”
“Wait by your vehicle.”
She did not move for a second. Then she did, because Deputy Reyes was using the kind of voice that does not negotiate.
I went inside, pulled the manila envelope off the kitchen table, and brought it back out. I did not bring all of it. I brought the deed, the recorded 1998 plat, the county-stamped survey, the quiet title judgment with the green return-of-service card stapled to the back, the gate permit, and a thumb drive with the Ring footage from Tuesday morning.
Six items.
I laid them out on the porch table in order.
Deputy Reyes lifted his sunglasses, set them on his head, and started reading. He read for ninety seconds without saying a word. He read the deed first, then the plat, then the quiet title order.
He turned the order over and looked at the green card on the back. He looked at the signature on the green card. He looked across the driveway at Janine Whitmore, who was leaning against her SUV with her arms crossed.
He did not change expression.
“Sir,” he said quietly, “is that her signature?”
“It is.”
“Service was personal?”
“At her front door. March twelfth, 2:14 p.m. Deputy Sandoval served it. There’s a copy of his affidavit underneath.”
Deputy Reyes lifted the affidavit, read it, and set it back down.
“All right,” he said.
He did not say anything else for another ten seconds. He was thinking. I let him think.
Then he turned and walked across the driveway toward Janine’s SUV. I followed at a distance because I wanted to be in earshot but not in her face.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
“Yes, officer.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to answer them carefully.”
“Of course, officer.”
“Do you have a recorded easement for the access route you’re claiming runs across this property?”
“It’s a historic community access, officer. It’s been used for...”