“Get off this property. Now.”
“Ma’am, this is my house.”
“Your house?” She laughed the kind of laugh that is meant to cut. “Honey, I’ve lived in this neighborhood for eight years. I’ve never seen you here once. You don’t belong here. You don’t look like you belong here. And I want you gone.”
“I’ve owned this estate for three years.”
“Estate? You’re squatting. I’m calling the police. I’m telling them there’s an armed trespasser on a vacant property, and I want him removed tonight.”
“I’d rather you didn’t do that.”
“Oh, I’m doing it, sweetheart. Get him out. That’s exactly what I’m going to say.”
Two deputies responded. The first one, she did not recognize. The second one looked at me, lowered his flashlight, and said, “Good to see you, sir.” He had worked under me for eighteen months. She did not know I was a retired U.S. Marshal. But she was about to find out what that costs.