It would measure every gallon flowing through that unauthorized pipe to the tenth of a unit.
I ordered it from a supply house in San Antonio and bolted it onto the main line myself on a Thursday night while Ridgecrest slept.
The meter started counting immediately.
2,200 gallons a day.
Every day.
Rain or shine.
Step two was to install a locking isolation valve upstream of the tap.
A six-inch butterfly valve with a steel lockbox.
When closed, it would cut the flow to Ridgecrest completely.
When open, it let me measure exactly what they were taking.
I kept it open for now.
Step three was to file formal complaints with every agency that had jurisdiction.
Janet drafted three simultaneous filings.
One went to the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality for unauthorized water system operation.
One went to the Blanco County District Attorney’s Office for theft of water resources and filing false government documents.
And one went to the Texas Real Estate Commission for selling homes without a permitted water source.
Each filing included the full evidence package.
Each one arrived by certified mail on the same day.
In Texas, a private landowner has ownership rights over groundwater beneath his property under the state’s rule-of-capture doctrine.
That meant, as Janet explained it, that the water produced by my well was not Glenn Caldwell’s to divert through a hidden connection.
Anyone tapping into that system without permission had a serious legal problem.
Step four was cameras.
I mounted two trail cameras on fence posts flanking the tap site.
One aimed at the meter.
One covered the access path from the Ridgecrest side.
Motion-activated.
Infrared capable.
Recording to encrypted SD cards.
If anyone came near that pipe at night, I’d have their face, their vehicle, and the timestamp.
Hank Morrison helped me mount the second camera.
He held the ladder steady while I zip-tied the housing to a cedar post.
When I climbed down, he looked at the whole setup, the meter clicking, the valve locked, the cameras blinking, and shook his head slowly.
“Your daddy would have handled this with a shotgun and a shovel,” he said. “You’re doing it the smart way.”
“Dad’s way would have felt better.”
“Yeah,” Hank said. “But nobody goes to prison for being patient.”
The last thing I did was petty.
I admitted it.
Janet advised against it.
I did it anyway.
I sent a copy of the TCEQ complaint to Linda Caldwell by certified mail.
Not the full evidence package.
Just the cover letter with the case number, the statute citations, and the phrase “theft of groundwater resources” in bold.
I wanted her to see it.
I wanted her to open that envelope with her perfect red nails and read those words and know exactly what was coming.
The certified mail receipt told me Linda signed for the letter on a Wednesday at 10:14 in the morning.
I would have paid good money to see those perfect red fingernails tear open an envelope containing the words “theft of groundwater resources” in bold ink.
Three days later, she called an emergency HOA meeting at the Ridgecrest clubhouse.