The Former President Answered For The Tree In Open Court

By April, I had learned how many kinds of waiting a courthouse could hold.

Waiting for an elevator. Waiting for a lawyer to finish another hearing. Waiting while someone checked whether a page had been filed or merely sent.

Ellen kept me from mistaking movement for an answer.

"Read the order when it comes," she said.

Our civil case ended with signed settlements entered as court judgments. Deborah had lawyers, records she could not explain away, and a rental house with enough value to cover what she owed. She agreed to sell it under terms that secured payment from the closing proceeds.

I didn't have to trust another promise from her.

The association canceled the charges on my account and agreed to refund the $650 it had collected. Its judgment against Deborah included that reimbursement, the $15,600 still missing from the reserve, and the $3,900 audit bill.

Deborah's judgment to me covered $680 for Keisha's work, $4,800 for removal, and $1,220 to restore the damaged garden and plant a suitable new tree.

That was $6,700.

She also agreed to pay my documented $4,600 legal bill. Ellen's work beyond the first agreement had cost another $2,200, which I had approved in writing.

The bond carrier pursued its own $40,000 recovery. The judgments and payment instructions accounted for its payment so the association couldn't collect the same stolen money twice.

I checked each line with a pencil.

"Anything missing?" Ellen asked.

"Twenty-six years of shade."

She let me sit with that before we went on.

The settlement barred Deborah from serving on our board or handling association funds for ten years. It required a signed correction to the owners stating that my fines were withdrawn and that I had not authorized the false spending approvals.

"That sentence matters," I said.

"Then leave it in."

We did.

The criminal case belonged to the state. My settlement couldn't cancel it, and I hadn't asked it to.

In May, I sat behind the prosecutor in Superior Court. Keisha came on her day off. Yvonne sat on my other side with the audit in a plain folder.

Deborah entered guilty pleas to obtaining money by false pretenses and to the charge arising from the deliberate damage to my tree. Her lawyer presented the sale agreement and the secured payment instructions.

The prosecutor described the copied signatures, false invoices, bank transfers, and garden recording. Keisha's report was part of the evidence supporting the plea.

The judge asked Deborah whether she understood what she was admitting.

"Yes," she said.

He asked whether anyone had promised her she could take the plea back after sentencing.

"No."

Her answers were small. I had heard her carry a voice across our entire clubhouse. That morning, I had to lean forward.

I was allowed to speak before sentence was imposed.

I held one sheet of paper, though I knew what it said.

"My wife built a garden where people could rest," I told the judge. "Ms. Pruitt damaged it to support a false bill and punish me for asking about our money. Then she used her office to charge me for the damage."

I stopped, took a breath, and finished.

"I want the payments enforced. I want the record to say what happened. I want to go home and take care of what's still growing."

Deborah's lawyer asked the judge to consider her lack of a prior record and her agreement to repay everything.

When Deborah spoke, she turned partly toward us.

"I'm sorry for the harm I caused."

There was no but after it.

I didn't nod. I wasn't required to give her anything in return.

The judge imposed a suspended prison term, supervised probation, and two hundred hours of community service. Repayment was required, with credit for money recovered through the civil judgments. Violating the terms could put her back before the court.

It was a criminal record, a debt secured against her property, and rules somebody outside our neighborhood would enforce.

It was not a cheerful warning on clubhouse paper.

The prosecutor showed me where later payments would be recorded and gave me the office number for any problem. I wrote it down. Court had not made me a different man. I still wanted a name, a number, and a place to send a question if the promised check failed to arrive. This time, those things came without a fight.

Outside, Keisha touched my arm.

"You did well."

"You wrote a very clear report."

"You kept a very clear file."

We stood there a moment, two people who had done their own jobs.

At home, I took off the dark suit and hung it where June used to keep the cedar blocks. I put the court papers in the drawer.

The next afternoon, Ellen called.

"The rental sale closed," she said. "The closing lawyer has sent the judgment funds. Come by when you're ready. There's an envelope here with your name on it."