Maya's mom told her, "You're in trouble with the police. She said we might have to move."
I put down the invoice I was reading.
"We're not moving. Nobody is in trouble with the police."
"The woman saying that is the same one who cut our power while you were home alone."
I looked her in the eyes. "She picked the wrong house."
I spent the next 2 weeks preparing for the meeting the way I used to prepare for PUC hearings. A USB drive loaded with everything.
The original inspection report from the PUC's preserved archive. The altered version from Lone Star's system.
Side-by-side comparison. Clint Avery's vacation records and the Instagram photo.
Geo-tagged, time-stamped, undeniable. Nina's recording of Tammy admitting the lien-and-sell scheme.
The complete financial audit showing $47,000 flowing to a landscaping company that never landscaped anything. Google Earth images proving not a single plant changed over 3 years.
A full chronological timeline of every violation, every fine, every fake legal letter, and every family Tammy had driven out over 9 years. Sandra Weeks confirmed her crew.
Tom Gentry confirmed he'd attend. Officially, as part of the ongoing PUC investigation.
And I'd spoken with the Collin County Sheriff's Office. Not to file a report.
To let them know that evidence of multiple felonies would be presented in a public forum and the subjects would be in the room. Sheriff Tipton assigned a deputy.
Just in case. The file was 5 in thick.
The USB weighed less than an ounce. And in 3 days, Tammy Pritchard was going to walk into the clubhouse she'd ruled for nine years expecting to run the meeting the way she always had.
She had no idea it would be the last one she'd ever chair. Tuesday evening, 7:00, Pecan Hollow Clubhouse.
I got there at 6:45. The parking lot was already full.
Cars lined the curb for two blocks. Out of 127 homes, 94 owners showed up.
Standing room only. Folding chairs ran out before the first row filled.
People leaned against the walls. The air conditioning fought a losing battle against 94 bodies and a Texas evening that refused to drop below 92.
Tammy sat at the front table in a white blazer, hair freshly blown out, lipstick precise. Brenda Kay sat beside her with her laptop open.
Fingers poised, ready to record whatever version of events Tammy dictated. Three board members flanked them, looking like men who'd drawn the short straw at a funeral.
What Tammy didn't notice was the KXAS-TV van parked on the side street. Sandra Weeks and her cameraman slipped in through the back door at 6:55 with a handheld camera already rolling.