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I came home to find my car CLAMPED on my OWN property thanks to our power-hungry HOA president Barbara, but she had NO IDEA she was messing with a Superior Court Judge who'd just uncovered her $42,000 neighborhood scam. What would YOU do when faced with a tyrant who's breaking the very laws they claim to enforce? comment below where you’re watching from! I knew something was wrong the moment I turned onto Maple Lane. Three neighbors stood in my driveway, pointing at my car. My stomach dropped as I pulled up behind them. What could possibly be happening now?
"Judge Morrison, they got your car too!" called Mrs. Patel, wringing her hands. Her family ran the best Indian restaurant in town, and she always brought me samosas when I helped her with permit paperwork.
I parked my other car—an old Subaru I kept for bad weather—and hurried over. There it was: a bright orange metal boot locked tight around my Tesla's front wheel. A hot-pink paper flapped under the windshield wiper. The bold black letters screamed: "PARKING VIOLATION: $350 FINE. REMOVAL FEE: $150. VEHICLE PARKED IN UNAUTHORIZED LOCATION."
"This has to be a mistake," I said, snatching the paper. "This is my house. My driveway."
I had been a judge for fifteen years, but I still believed in staying calm and checking facts before jumping to conclusions. That approach had kept me sane through hundreds of cases where people shouted and cried in my courtroom. But right now, my heart was racing, and I felt my face getting hot.
"Barbara Wilson was here with two men about an hour ago," explained Mr. Johnson from next door. He leaned on his cane, shaking his head. "She had some kind of official-looking paper. Said your car wasn't supposed to be parked there because of some rule about the extended part of your driveway not being approved."
I looked down at where my Tesla sat—on the newer concrete section I'd added last month to make room for both my vehicles. I'd filed all the proper paperwork with the county. Paid for all the permits. Had everything inspected twice.
"She's targeting everyone lately," whispered Mrs. Rodriguez, glancing nervously across the street. "Last week she left a $200 fine because my son's basketball hoop was two inches too tall."
I followed her gaze to the two-story colonial where Barbara Wilson lived. And there she was—peering through her pristine white blinds, phone held up like she was taking pictures. When our eyes met, the blinds snapped shut.
"I'm going to talk to her," I said.
"Be careful," Mrs. Patel warned. "Frank says she's been recording all her conversations to use against people."
Frank was Barbara's husband—a quiet man who always looked like he wanted to disappear. I'd seen him at community meetings, sitting behind Barbara, never speaking unless she nodded at him first.
I smoothed down my suit jacket and took three deep breaths. In court, I never showed anger. I wouldn't start now. This had to be a misunderstanding that could be fixed with a calm conversation.
As I crossed the street, I mentally reviewed the HOA rules I'd memorized when I bought my house five years ago. There was nothing about driveway extensions being forbidden. In fact, three other houses on our street had them.
I rang the doorbell, waiting with my hands clasped in front of me. The door opened a crack, and Barbara's perfectly made-up face appeared. Her blonde hair was pulled back so tightly it looked painful.
"Judge Morrison," she said, not opening the door any wider. "I assume you're here about the parking violation?"