Chapter 5: What the Notebook Contained
Rob called at five on the dot.
"Play it for me."
I put him on speaker and pressed play.
We listened to the whole thing together — the sound of the garden, the mail slot, Dale's footsteps on the driveway, and then his voice, clear and flat: *You want a war?
I can make things very difficult for this family.
Very difficult.
I know the right people.*
Rob didn't say anything for a moment.
"That's a threat," he said.
"I know."
"That's a documented, recorded threat made to you in front of your own house."
"I know."
"Okay." I heard him exhale.
"I'm going to call the mediation office tomorrow and move this from an inquiry to a formal filing.
The recording goes in.
Patty's notebook goes in.
The photos from Sunday go in."
"He said he knows the assessor personally."
"He might.
But a formal file with a recorded threat and a nine-year witness log isn't something a personal connection makes disappear." He paused.
"I also want to go through Patty's notebook tonight.
Properly.
Can you scan the pages?"
I photographed every page after dinner while the kids watched television.
Thirty-one pages.
Some entries were a single line.
Some ran half a page.
The Garcia boy's name was Mateo.
She'd written it carefully, with the date and a short description: *Neighbor directed child to collect fallen fruit and return it across fence line.
Child appeared distressed.
Parents not present in yard.*
She'd written that in August 2018.
Four years before Maya was born.
I sat with the notebook in my lap for a long time after I finished scanning.
Rob came and sat beside me on the couch.
"She documented the fence complaint against the Garcias," I said.
"The dog reports.
The time he blocked their contractor's truck in the street for two hours.
She has all of it."
"How many separate incidents?"
I counted the entries I'd marked.
"Fourteen.
Over three years."
Rob was quiet.
"This isn't about apples," I said.
"No," he said.
"It never was."
I turned to the last entry in the notebook.
It was dated the Sunday just passed.
That afternoon.
Patty's handwriting was smaller here, like she'd been writing quickly.
*Neighbor directed two young children — approximately ages 6 and 9 — to collect all fallen fruit from their own yard and carry it to the fence.
Children complied.
Neighbor collected fruit in bag without acknowledgment.
Upon completion, neighbor made a remark to the mother on the deck.
Child (younger, female) was observed crying on return to house.
Older child stood in yard without moving for several minutes.
Mother remained on deck.
Did not approach.*
Then one more line, added below, slightly darker ink, as if written a little later.
*I should have said something sooner.
I'm saying it now.*
I closed the notebook.
Outside, the yard was dark.
The tree was just a shape against the fence line, invisible in the way that things are when you've looked at them so long you stop seeing them.
"Rob," I said.
"What if he retaliates before the filing goes through?"
He thought about it.
"Then we have more documentation."
It wasn't a comforting answer.
But it was an honest one.
My phone lit up on the cushion beside me.
A number I didn't recognize.
Local area code.
I looked at Rob.
He nodded.
I answered.
"Is this the family at 14 Crestwood?" A man's voice.
Older.
Careful.
"Who is this?"
A pause.
"My name is Frank Garcia.
May you like
I think you have a problem with your neighbor.
I think I can help."
