“He’s seventy-nine years old. He’s lived there his whole life. His family’s been on that land for a hundred years.”
“And I’m sure that’s very meaningful to him.” Brent’s voice was flat. Bored. “But the zoning changed. He’s out of compliance. That’s not my fault.”
“You could have talked to him. You could have walked over and knocked on his door like a human being.”
“I don’t need to talk to him. The county will handle it.”
“He offered you strawberries,” I said. My voice was shaking now. “In June. Remember? He walked over to that fence and offered you strawberries my mother planted before she died. And you said you weren’t big on fruit.”
Brent’s jaw tightened.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t know what your father’s running over there. But I see the trucks. Early in the morning. Every week. He loads up boxes and drives off before sunrise. That’s not a hobby garden. That’s an operation. He’s probably selling it. Without a license. Without paying taxes. I’m doing the county a favor.”
