Chapter 7: Donna's Office
Donna Fitch's office was on the second floor of a building downtown, above a dry cleaner and a tax preparation service.
The waiting room had two chairs and a plant that looked like it had survived considerable neglect, which I found reassuring.
She was shorter than I'd expected from her voice.
Sharp eyes, reading glasses on a beaded chain, a desk covered in organized stacks that somehow communicated both volume and control.
Tom had come with me.
He sat beside me and didn't say much, which was exactly right.
I gave her the notebook.
She read it the way I imagined she read everything — completely, without comment, moving at a pace that suggested she was absorbing rather than skimming.
When she finished, she set it on the desk and took her glasses off.
"This is thorough," she said.
"I had time to prepare."
"You had discipline to prepare.
That's different." She opened a folder on her desk.
"I've spoken with Ray.
He's willing to make a formal statement and provide the photograph.
I've also had a preliminary conversation with Patricia — she found me through Ray, I hope that's all right."
"Of course."
"Patricia has documentation.
Not as organized as yours, but substantial.
Letters she wrote to Greg that he never responded to.
A repair invoice from when his landscaping crew damaged her fence and he refused to pay.
Photographs of her driveway after he redirected his downspout." Donna set the folder down.
"And she gave me the name of the fifth family.
The ones who moved before she could reach them."
"Were you able to contact them?"
"Their daughter.
The house belonged to her parents.
Her mother passed last year." Donna's voice was even.
"Her father is in assisted living.
She believes the stress of the situation contributed to her mother's decline." She paused.
"She is very willing to speak with me."
The room was quiet for a moment.
Tom put his hand over mine on the arm of the chair.
"What are we looking at?" I asked.
"I want to be precise, so I'm going to give you the careful version." Donna folded her hands.
"The code enforcement complaint is proceeding.
Greg's connections at the county level appear to be less significant than he implied — I made some calls this morning.
The officer assigned to the complaint is straightforward and has no prior relationship with Greg."
"That's good."
"The photograph Ray took is more significant.
I've referred it to a colleague who handles property damage cases.
If the drainage interference can be established — and the plumbing records from Ray's three service calls support the timeline — Greg is potentially liable for two years of water damage.
That's a civil suit, separate from the nuisance complaint."
"And the pattern?
The multiple households?"
Donna looked at me steadily.
"That's what I want to talk to you about.
Individually, each of these incidents is a civil matter.
Fines, damages, remediation.
But the pattern — nine years, five households, deliberate and repeated conduct — that's a different conversation." She picked up a pen.
"I've spoken with someone at the city attorney's office.
Informally.
They're interested."
Tom sat forward slightly.
"Interested how?"
"Interested in whether this rises to the level of a coordinated harassment campaign against multiple residents.
That's a different legal instrument entirely." She set the pen down.
"I want to be clear: that process is slower, less certain, and not something I can promise an outcome on.
But the interest is real."
I looked at the notebook on her desk.
"What do you need from me?" I asked.
"Keep doing exactly what you've been doing." She almost smiled.
"And one more thing."
She slid a single sheet of paper across the desk.
It was a printout of a Facebook post.
A photo of Greg's fence, lined with eighty-six tagged cans.
Posted by one of his daughter's engagement party guests.
Shared four hundred and twelve times.
The top comment read: *This woman is my hero.
Does anyone know who she is?*
May you like
I stared at it.
"The internet," Donna said, "has an excellent memory."
