The Old Lease Led Me To A Recorded Right Of Way

I called Celia before I called a lawyer.

"Did I miss something in the lease?" I asked.

"Tell me what happened."

She listened without cutting in. In the background, I heard her close a drawer.

"Don't pay him," she said. "Send me everything. The association has to deal with me as the owner, and I'll request a hearing."

"I don't want you fined because of my work."

"You rented a usable workshop. I'm going to help keep it usable."

She emailed the signed lease, the survey attachment, and the title papers she had saved when she bought both properties. My paper copies and her scans matched.

Still, the survey was a drawing of a right. We needed the document that created it.

The next morning, I found that document in the Pima County recorder's records. A clerk helped me order a certified copy. It cost $16.

The 1978 grant gave the workshop parcel access over an eight-foot strip for foot traffic, handcarts, and the delivery of materials. It bound later owners of the land under the strip.

It did not say the person pushing the cart had to own a townhouse.

I read that part three times.

Outside, the November sun warmed the bench where I sat. A bus sighed at the curb. I called Celia.

"It actually says handcarts."

"My father used one when that place was a pottery shop," she said.

"Kent told me to choose another business."

"Let's choose a surveyor first."

She gave me Amira Saad's number. Amira called back while I was sorting sand through a screen at my bench.

"I can locate the recorded passage," she said. "I cannot decide a legal dispute by smiling at it. Though I do usually smile."

"That would be a change."

Her fee for the survey work and report was $780. I paid it from the money I had saved for a new mixer. Celia offered to pay, but I wanted the first bill in my own folder.

Amira came that afternoon in dusty boots, carrying a yellow case and a lunch bag with little oranges on it.

She was thirty-eight, Egyptian American, and cheerful in a way that did not ask anyone's permission. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and spread my survey on the workshop table.

"My mother calls every field day a picnic," she said. "She assumes I sit down."

"Do you?"

"In the truck, usually. Now, show me the gate."

I led her along the strip. Mesquite leaves had gathered against the chain. Beyond it, the alley was wide enough for the small delivery truck that brought my clay.

Amira photographed the gate, took notes, and studied the peach storage wall.

"How old is that addition?"

"Eighteen months, maybe. The cement is still too clean under the paint."

"You can tell from that?"

I pointed to a white curl along the base.

"Salt coming through. Someone used a hard patch against soft earth. The old wall can't dry."

She nodded and wrote something down.

"Different trade. Same problem. People cover evidence and call it finished."

Kent came out before she put her notebook away.

"Who authorized this?"

"Celia Ortiz engaged me with Ms. Acosta," Amira said. "I'm reviewing an access survey."

"Celia doesn't own this courtyard."

"I saw that in the records."

Her bright tone left him nowhere to put his outrage.

He stepped toward the yellow case.

"There will be no drilling."

"There isn't a drill in there."

"No digging either."

"We'll arrange any field access through counsel if necessary. Today I'm looking."

Kent raised his map.

Amira looked at it carefully.

"Who prepared this?"

"The president."

"I meant which surveyor."

His cheeks darkened.

"The association's map is final."

"Then its author should be easy to identify," she said.

That evening, my clay supplier charged $120 to take my delivery back to the yard. I had to rent smaller mixing tubs and make extra trips for two jobs. By Friday, my receipts for those costs totaled $420.

I kept every one.

Celia hired a property lawyer named Elena Pike. Elena asked for the deed, the lease, the fine, and photographs before she gave any opinion.

"The old grant matters," she told us on a three-way call. "The lease gives Lourdes the benefit of that access. Celia owns the parcel it serves. We'll address both interests."

She sent a notice asking the association to preserve records and allow Amira to locate the markers. The association's outside lawyer agreed to a supervised visit without admitting anything.

Amira texted me the appointment time.

Then a second message arrived.

"Bring your old survey. If the corner is where the records put it, his storage wall is standing in our measuring line."