Bob Vance stepped laterally, trying to place his bulk between me and the surveyor. "Don't look at that junk, Dave. It’s an unverified private survey. Keep driving the markers."
Dave Morris didn't drive the marker. He wiped his muddy gloves on his canvas trousers, walked up the bank, and took the state hydrologist’s report from my hand. He flipped directly to the third page, where Dr. Finch’s gold-foil state seal caught the cold morning light.
"This is an agricultural exemption certificate," Dave muttered, his eyes tracking down the technical columns. "Signed yesterday afternoon. It says the sediment isn't farm runoff. It says the Route 9 culvert collapsed on the township side three months ago, backing township stormwater onto the Miller parcel." He looked up, his face hardening as he turned toward Bob Vance. "Bob, if this runoff is originating from the road structure, this isn't an agricultural discharge. It’s a municipal maintenance defect. You can't condemn an easement on an owner for water the township is dumping on him."
"He bought that paper from a county hack," Mark Vance barked, his face tightening into an ugly, mottled red. He took two fast strides toward me, reaching out with his left hand to grab the lapel of my jacket. "I told you to clear the lane, Rafael. You're interfering with a municipal officer in the execution of his—"
The sharp, high-pitched warble of a state cruiser siren ripped through the trees from the north.
A dark green Ford Interceptor from the Blackwood County Sheriff’s Department slid off the blacktop at thirty miles an hour, throwing up a spray of brown gravel as it locked its brakes across the ditch line, pinning Mark Vance’s cruiser from behind.
Lieutenant Jesse Miller stepped out of the patrol vehicle before the engine had even died. He was in full county uniform, wearing his campaign hat against the mist, with a black audio recorder already clipped to his lapel and running. Behind him, two uniform deputies emerged from the passenger side, their hands resting lightly on their duty belts.
"Take your hands off that man's jacket, Mark," Lieutenant Miller said, his voice quiet, flat, and absolute.
Mark froze, his fingers inches from my chest. He slowly pulled his hand back, forcing a stiff, practiced smile as he turned toward the senior officer. "Jesse. We’re handling a civil code violation on the boundary ditch. Bob has the administrative easement papers right here."
"Bob doesn't have a damn thing that supersedes the state extension office," Lieutenant Miller said, walking up the center of the lane without looking at the zoning chairman. He stopped three feet from Mark, his eyes dropping to the deputy's service belt, then shifting to me. "Rafael. You have that card?"
I reached into my watch pocket, pulled out the microSD adapter, and handed it directly to the lieutenant.
Miller took a heavy, rubber-armored field tablet from his deputy's hands, slid the card into the reader port, and tapped the screen twice. The audio from my Silverado’s cab filled the quiet road: the clean dispatch code, the sound of Mark's heavy flashlight shattering my taillight lens, and Mark's voice telling Bob to get the surveyor out by dawn because I didn't have an attorney or an access road.
Bob Vance took half a step backward toward his truck. One of the county deputies immediately stepped around his tailgate, blocking his path to the driver's door.
"That’s an altered digital file," Mark Vance said, his voice rising, cracked and thin against the wet wind. "He rigged that in his shop. You know how these independent ditchers operate, Jesse. He was running without lights on a public—"
"The dispatch recording on our central server logged your radio check at 9:14 PM, Mark," Lieutenant Miller interrupted. His face was entirely devoid of expression. "It matches the timestamp on this file to the second. You didn't log an equipment violation. You didn't log an impound. You had Arlo drag a commercial transport vehicle into an unauthorized holding yard while you tried to extort a deed conveyance for your brother's grading company."
Miller turned his back on Mark, looking directly at the township surveyor. "Dave. Pack your transit and get your pins out of this ditch. This survey is terminated by order of the county prosecutor."