HOA Karen Burned My House to the Ground — Then Walked Into My Courtroom the Next Week…
A massive explosion of flames tore through the quiet Colorado night. My phone rang at 2:47 a.m. My neighbors screaming, “Your house is on fire.” I got there by 3:20 to pure chaos. Firefighters on defense, my beautiful 1920s craftsman engulfed and the thick smell of gasoline everywhere. Across the street sat the HOA president Brin in her white Lexus SUV, engine running, just watching the blaze like it was entertainment.
She thought no one saw her, but I knew exactly who did this. For months, she’d been harassing me. Fake violations, false police reports, sabotaging my tools, all to block the financial audit that would expose her stealing over $140,000 from neighborhood funds. This time, she went full arson. What she didn’t know, I’d installed hidden cameras 2 weeks earlier.
And I’m not just the homeowner. I’m the local municipal court judge who would sign her arrest warrant and preside over her court date just days later. Stick around for felony charges and the most satisfying courtroom karma ever. Drop a comment. Where are you watching from? My name’s Declan. I’m 52 widowerower and for 2 days a week I’m a municipal court magistrate handling traffic violations, small claims, the usual city ordinance disputes.
The other three days I renovate historical properties. It’s therapy. Honestly, after my wife Iris died 3 years ago, ovarian cancer, stage 4, the kind that doesn’t negotiate, I needed something to do with my hands, something where I could see progress, where I could take something broken and make it whole again. Iris grew up in a 1920s craftsman bungalow.
Yellow siding, deep front porch, those thick wood columns that look like tree trunks. Every holiday, every summer, we’d visit her childhood home. She’d walk me through it, pointing out details. Original crown molding, the built-in breakfast nook, the way afternoon light hit the hardwood in the living room. Yet, when I found a near identical craftsman in a neighborhood called Ponderosa Bluffs, 40 minutes outside Denver, I didn’t even haggle on price.
I closed in January. The plan was simple. gut renovate it, restore every detail the way Iris described, then donate it as transitional housing for cancer survivors, people who need a safe place to heal without worrying about rent. The house smelled like my grandfather’s workshop, old pine sap, plaster dust, that specific scent of wood that’s been holding up walls for a hundred years.
The floorboards creaked under my boots at 6 in the morning before the world woke up. I loved it immediately. Then I met Brin Castellane. She showed up the day I closed on the property. Heard her heels on the gravel driveway before I saw her. Sharp little clicks like a metronome set to annoyed. Bottle blonde bob tennis visor even though it was January and overcast.
Holding a clipboard like it was a weapon. Your lawn situation is unacceptable. She said, “No hello. No welcome to the neighborhood.” I looked at the grass. It was January. The grass was dormant. CCNR state grass height maximum 2.5 in, she continued, pulling out a tape measure. An actual tape measure, like she was about to prove a point. This is 4.
7, I measured. I laughed, thought she was joking. She wasn’t joking. $150 fine, she said, handing me a pre-printed violation notice. Certified mail follows. Her perfume hit me next. Something aggressively floral, like someone stuffed funeral liies into a bottle of Windex. The kind of scent that makes your sinuses hurt.
I’m Bin Castellane, HOA president, fourth term. She said it like she was announcing royalty. I introduced myself, kept it polite, figured it was just bureaucratic overzeal. Small town HOA president with too much time on her hands. Over the next 3 weeks, I got seven more certified letters. Seven.
Mailbox wrong shade of black. Apparently, graphite noir is unacceptable. Only midnight onyx meets code. Construction dumpster visible from the street, even though I’d applied for the permit, and it was still pending. Work truck parked in my own driveway overnight. Unapproved exterior paint sample, which was me testing wood stains on the back porch, completely invisible from the street.
I started noticing a pattern. My neighbors had the same violations. Same mailbox color, same work trucks, same construction mess, but they weren’t getting letters, just me. Then Brin said something that made the hair on my neck stand up. “This neighborhood has standards,” she said, standing on my porch, looking at my renovation supplies.
“We can’t have it looking like a construction yard for those people who flip houses for section 8.” The way she said those people, I tasted metal in my mouth. adrenaline, anger, the specific flavor of recognizing a dog whistle when you hear one. That’s when I knew this wasn’t about grass height. Late February, I’m replacing the electrical panel, hired a licensed electrician, pulled all the permits, everything by the book, when a county building inspector shows up.
Got a complaint, he says, lookinguncomfortable. Unpermitted electrical work. I show him my permits, show him the electrician’s license, show him the inspection schedule we’d already filed. The inspector, older guy, name tag says Ernesto, looks at the paperwork, then at me. Yeah, I figured. Want to see the complaint photos? He shows me his tablet.
It’s pictures of exposed wiring, junction boxes hanging open, electrical tape wrapped around frayed connections. Dangerous stuff. Except none of it’s from my house. That’s the previous owner’s work, I say. I’m fixing that. That’s why I hired a licensed guy. Ernesto nods slowly. I believe you, but I still got to shut you down for 2 days pending reinspection.
Complaints on file. Got to follow protocol. 2 days. $1,200 and lost contractor time because the electrician can’t just sit around waiting. Can I ask who filed the complaint? I already know. Ernesto closes his tablet, lowers his voice. This is the third call from her this month. Different properties. She’s persistent. After he leaves, I sit in my truck and do something I should have done three weeks ago.
I pull every HOA meeting minute for the past 18 months. They’re public record in Colorado. Anyone can request them. I spend 6 hours reading through bureaucratic nonsense. And that’s when I find it. Three board members got identical violations that I got. Mailbox colors, work trucks, construction mess. But their violations were waved in closed session votes.
No explanation, just waved. I find something else, too. The HOA pays a management company $8,500 a month for a 47 home neighborhood. I pull up industry standards. Should be 2,800, maybe 3,000 tops. 8,500 is insane. I check who owns the management company. It’s Brin’s sister. Now, here’s something you need to know about HOA law in Colorado, and this applies in a lot of states.
Board members have what’s called fiduciary duty. It’s the same legal standard as corporate directors. You can’t use your position for personal gain. You can’t give contracts to family members without disclosure and competitive bidding. Break that rule and you’re personally liable. I screenshot everything, timestamp every document, build a spreadsheet that would make an accountant weep with joy.
But I don’t confront her. Not yet. Instead, I do something smarter. I request a copy of the HOA’s directors and officers insurance policy. It’s buried in the CCNRs that homeowners have a right to see this. Takes them 11 days to send it. When I open the PDF, I actually laugh out loud. The insurance lapsed 4 months ago.
Brinn forgot to pay the premium or chose not to. Either way, every board member is now personally exposed to lawsuits with zero coverage. I print three copies of the lapsed policy. I send them anonymously to three homeowners whose waiver requests got denied. One of them is a retired school teacher named Moren. Another’s a veteran named Gil.
Within 48 hours, Moren and Gil show up at the next HOA meeting. They bring printouts of the board members waved violations. Why did they get waivers and we didn’t? Moren asks, voice shaking but firm. Brin goes rigid. Those were different circumstances. Different how? Gil asks. He’s 68, served two tours in Iraq. Not the kind of guy who backs down because it looks like favoritism to me. Brin’s face flushes.
You’re harassing HOA officers. That’s a finable offense. So’s breach of fiduciary duty. Gil shoots back. The meeting falls apart. Two board members resign on the spot. 3 days later, I find a note on my truck windshield. Judges shouldn’t play contractor. Someone could get hurt. I hold the paper up to my nose. funeral liies and Windex.
My jaw tightens. She knows what I do for a living now. Someone talked. Small towns are like that. Gossip spreads faster than the flu. Most people would back off at this point. File a police report, maybe get a restraining order. But I spent 3 years watching my wife fight an enemy she couldn’t see, couldn’t negotiate with, couldn’t intimidate.
Cancer doesn’t care if you’re scared. It just keeps coming. I learned something from Iris during those three years. When you’re facing something relentless, you don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You outlast it. Late March. I’m at the courthouse. It’s a Wednesday. I’ve got a full docket of traffic cases when my phone rings at 2:15 in the afternoon.
It’s Gil. Declan, you need to get to your house. Something’s wrong. I’m there in 30 minutes. There’s a sheriff’s cruiser in my driveway. I walk in through the back door, the one I always leave unlocked during the day because contractors are in and out. And I see it immediately. My table saw, the power cords been cut.
Not frayed, not damaged, cut. Clean slice like someone used wire cutters. In the back room, the one where I just refinished the hardwood floors. There’s paint thinner spilled everywhere. The can’s empty, tipped on its side. The finish is bubbling and peeling. Ruined. The door to that room was locked. I know it was locked.
DeputyCaitlyn, young woman, maybe late 20s, is taking notes. Mr. Declan. She says, “Miss Castellane filed a report this morning. She claims you threatened her at last night’s HOA meeting.” I stare at her. I wasn’t at the meeting. I was here in court. I pull out my phone, show her my calendar. I had docket until 7 p.m. Caitlyn looks at the calendar, then at her notes. She said it was around 6:30.
I have timestamped court records. I was 40 m away. I pull up the courthouse parking log on my phone. Every judge’s vehicle gets logged in and out for security. See, logged out at 7:14 p.m. Caitlyn writes this down carefully. Her sister confirmed the threat. Says she witnessed it. Of course she did. Brin’s sister, the one billing the HOA 8,500 a month. Deputy, I say slowly.
I’m a municipal court magistrate. Do you really think I’d threaten someone, especially an HOA officer, knowing it would end my career? She looks at me for a long moment. No, sir, I don’t. But I still have to take the report. I understand. Can I file a counter report? Vandalism breaking and entering? Yes, sir. But I got to be honest.
Without cameras, it’s your word against circumstantial evidence. After she leaves, I sit on the front porch and do math in my head. $1,200 to repair the table saw cord and buy a new one. $800 to resand and refinish the floor. Another 400 in lost time. $2,400. It’s not the money that bothers me. It’s the message. I can get to you anytime.
That night, I’m googling security camera systems when I remember something a lawyer once told me during a property dispute case. In Colorado, if 10% of homeowners petition for an independent audit, the HOA board has to comply. It’s state law. They can’t refuse. I pull up the HOA directory.
47 homes, 10% is five homeowners. I’ve got Moren and Gil. I need three more. It takes me 4 days, quiet conversations, showing people the spreadsheet, explaining the lapsed insurance, mentioning the $8,500 management fee. By Sunday, I’ve got seven signatures. We filed the petition on Monday morning, certified mail, CCD to every homeowner in the development.
Brin calls an emergency board meeting for that Wednesday, close session, which is illegal under Colorado’s open meetings act, by the way. HOA boards have to conduct business in open session unless they’re discussing litigation or personnel issues. Financial decisions, those are public. The vote is 3 to2 to allow the audit.
Two board members are terrified of personal liability now that the insurance situation is public knowledge. Brin loses. The audit gets scheduled. It’ll take 60 days. I’ve got 60 days to finish the house. That night, I’m packing up tools when I find a box I’d forgotten about. Iris’s handwriting on the outside, house plans and dreams.
Inside, there’s a sketch she drew, watercolor pencils, her neat architect’s handwriting, labeling each room, the kitchen, the breakfast nook, the bedroom where she’d slept as a kid. At the bottom, she wrote a house should be a place where people heal. I sit on the porch until the sun goes down, holding that sketch, and I make a decision.
This isn’t about beating Brin anymore. It’s about finishing what Iris started. But if Brin wants to keep coming at me, fine. I’m a patient man. I’ve sat in courtrooms watching criminals talk themselves into convictions for 15 years. I know how to wait. I know how to let someone dig their own hole while staying completely still.
Iris used to say, “Don’t interrupt your enemy when they’re making a mistake.” So, I won’t. April 17th, 2:47 in the morning. My phone rings. I’m at my condo. I keep it for nights when I have early court sessions. Saves me the hour commute from Ponderosa Bluffs. It’s Gil. His voice is tight. Declan, your house is on fire.
I’m dressed and in the truck in 90 seconds, breaking every speed limit. The drive takes 23 minutes instead of 40. I can see the smoke before I even turn onto my street. There are three fire trucks, neighbors standing in bathroes and pajamas, hoses snaking across the lawn. And the back half of my house, the addition where I’d restored Iris’s childhood bedroom, it’s just gone.
Black skeleton ribs of framing studs sticking up against the orange glow. Firefighters are in defensive mode. They’re not trying to save it. They’re just keeping it from spreading to the neighbors. I park across the street. Get out. Stand there. Gil walks over, puts a hand on my shoulder. doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The smell hits me first.
Burned insulation has this specific chemical stench. Plastic and fiberglass and something almost sweet like melted candy. Then there’s the crackle of cooling embers. The hiss of water hitting hot metal. And underneath it all, the taste of smoke in the back of my throat. Fire marshall comes over around 400 a.m.
Older guy, soot on his face, tired eyes. Mr. Declan, I’m Marshall Henrikson. I need to ask you some questions. Okay. When’s the last time you were at the property? Yesterday. Left around 6:00 p.m. Anyelectrical work being done? Space heaters? Anything that could cause ignition? No. House has been shut down for 3 days.
No power to the addition at all. We disconnected it for the floor refinishing. He nods slowly. That tracks with what we’re seeing. Point of origin is the basement window, backside of the structure. Accelerant detected. Gasoline poured through broken glass. The words hit me like cold water. This was arson, Henrikson says. Intentional.
I look at the ruins, at the melted window frames, at the pile of ash that used to be Iris’s room. Neighbor reported seeing a light colored SUV leaving the area around 2 a.m. continues. Didn’t get plates. Gil leans in close. Brin drives a white Lexus SUV. I saw her drive past your place twice yesterday afternoon. Slow like she was studying it.
I file that away. Don’t react. Not yet. The next 10 days are a master class in frustration. Detective Ortega, grizzled guy, probably 55, looks like he’s seen every crime humans can commit, takes my statement. I walk him through the entire timeline. the harassment, the violations, the sabotage, the false police report, the pattern.
It’s textbook escalation, I say. She’s desperate to stop the audit. Ortega nods, but his face is neutral. Pattern’s clear, but arson’s hard to prove without physical evidence or confession. Circumstantial won’t hold up. Any decent defense attorney would shred it. What about the SUV sighting? Light colored SUV. 2 a.m. No plates. Could be anyone.
He pauses. Her alibi is she was home asleep. Husband confirms. Of course he does. I’ve seen Brin’s husband at HOA meetings. A dentist. Quiet. The kind of guy who looks like he’s been yelled at so many times he’s forgotten how to have opinions. The case goes cold within 2 weeks. No arrest, no charges, nothing.
I should be angry, and I am. But I’m also something else. I’m patient. Because here’s what I learned in 15 years on the bench. Criminals always come back to the scene. They can’t help it. They want to see the damage. They want to confirm their work. They want to gloat. So, I do three things.
First, I file the insurance claim. State Farm policy maximum. Play the devastated homeowner. Let Bin think she won. Second, I start cleanup. Hire a crew. Begin debris removal. Act defeated in front of the neighbors. Third, and this is the important one, I install four hidden cameras. Motion activated, cellular connected, battery backup, 4K resolution, one on each corner of the property, angled to cover every approach. They’re legal.
It’s my property. Single party consent in Colorado means I can record anything that happens on my land. And I leave the house unlocked during the day. Not smart, right? Asking for trouble. Except that’s exactly what I’m asking for. See, I’d read about this in a case study once. Criminals with narcissistic tendencies can’t resist returning to verify their victory.
It’s compulsive, especially if they think they got away with it. Three days later, my phone pings, motion alert, camera 2. I pull up the app, and there she is, Brin Castellane, walking through my property at 2:20 in the afternoon, looking around like she owns the place. The audit report lands on June 3rd, 62 days after the fire.
I’m in my chambers reading through traffic case files when I get the email. PDF attachment, 47 pages. I open it. Page six makes me sit up straight. Page 12 makes me whistle. Page 19 makes me laugh out loud. The auditor, a firm out of Colorado Springs, no local connections, completely independent, didn’t just find accounting errors, they found a crime scene.
Here’s what Brin and her sister’s management company did. Over 3 years, they build the HOA for landscaping maintenance that never happened. Ghost invoices, madeup work orders. They’d create a fake receipt for $1,200 in tree trimming, submit it, get reimbursed, pocket the money. They did this 43 times. Total theft, $147,000.
But wait, it gets better. Brinn personally received $38,000 in consultant fees from her sister’s management company. Never disclosed, never voted on by the full board, just payments for consulting on what the audit doesn’t say because there’s no documentation because it was a kickback. The HOA’s reserve fund, the emergency money that’s supposed to cover major repairs, insurance deductibles, legal fees, should have been $180,000.
Current balance $4,200. The money was transferred out in chunks over 2 years. line item, emergency repairs, but there are no receipts, no contractor invoices, no work orders. The money just disappeared. And here’s the kicker, the one that’s going to put Brin in handcuffs. To move that money, she needed dual signatures on checks over $5,000.
That’s in the HOA bylaws. President and treasurer both have to sign. The treasurer, a quiet Polish guy named Potter, didn’t sign those checks. Brin forged his signature twice. The audit includes forensic handwriting analysis. It’s not even close. She didn’t even try to make it look real. Now, I know whatyou’re thinking.
Isn’t forgery hard to prove? Not when you’ve got an actual check with a fake signature and the real treasurer swearing under oath he never signed it. That’s slam dunk fraud, felony theft, breach of fiduciary duty. The auditor’s final note, and I love this, says, “The patterns observed suggest intentional misappropriation rather than accounting error.
We recommend immediate referral to law enforcement and consultation with legal counsel regarding board members personal liability. I forward the audit to all 47 homeowners. Within an hour, email chains are exploding. By that evening, there’s a recall petition circulating. By the next morning, three board members resign.
Poter, the treasurer whose signature got forged, files a police report for identity theft and fraud. The community meeting 4 days later is standing room only. 32 homeowners show up. The conference room smells like burnt coffee and rage sweat. Brin brings a lawyer, expensive suit, sllicked back hair. The kind of guy who bills 400 an hour to say no comment.
Her defense, accounting errors. My sister’s bookkeeper made mistakes. We’ll pay it back. Moren stands up. You stole $147,000 and you’re calling it a mistake. Brinn’s face goes red. I didn’t steal anything. This is a witch hunt orchestrated by people who hate following rules. Gil stands up next. You forged Pota’s signature.
That’s a felony. The lawyer puts a hand on Brin’s shoulder, tries to quiet her. She shakes him off. This is ridiculous. I’ve given four years of my life to this community, and this is how you treat me? I’m sitting in the back row. Haven’t said a word, just watching. That’s when my phone buzzes.
Text from the courthouse clerk. FYI, traffic case scheduled for you July 11th. Cast a lane brin. Reckless driving. I read it twice, close my eyes, and smile. Gil’s Garage. Thursday night, 8:00 p.m. Seven of us sitting on folding chairs and overturned buckets. Moren, Gil, Poder, four other fed up homeowners whose names don’t matter yet, but will.
I’ve got printouts of the audit spread across Gil’s workbench. Okay, I say. Here’s where we are. The audit’s done. It shows clear theft. Pota filed a police report. But we need to understand what happens next because this is going to get messy before it gets better. Moren raises her hand like we’re in school.
Can we sue her? Yes, the HOA can sue Brin and her sister’s management company for restitution. You’ll need to hire an attorney, probably on contingency, meaning they take a percentage of whatever you recover. Given the paper trail, most lawyers would take this case in a heartbeat. Pod leans forward. What about criminal charges? That’s up to the DA’s office.
They’re reviewing the audit now. Felony theft, fraud, forgery, those are serious charges, but prosecution takes time. 12 to 24 months, sometimes longer. I pull out another sheet. Here’s what I think you should do. Three-pronged attack. I’ve done this before. Explained legal strategy to non- lawyers in small claims cases.
Helped people understand their options. You break it down into pieces they can visualize. Prong one, file a civil lawsuit. Get your money back. That’s justice in dollars. Prong two, report Bin to the Colorado Real Estate Commission. She’s a licensed agent, right? Fraud is a professional ethics violation. If they revoke her license, she loses 60% of her income overnight. Gil grins. I like prong two.
Prong three, pressure the DA to prosecute. Write victim impact letters. All of you explain how this affected your property values, your sense of security, your trust. DAs pay attention to that stuff. Mass victim letters move cases up the priority list. Marine’s writing this down in a little notebook. How long does the Real Estate Commission take? 60 to 90 days usually.
They hate bad publicity. They’ll fasttrack complaints to avoid looking complicit. I pause. And here’s why that matters. Professional boards move faster than courts. You hit her license first. She’s bleeding money. Makes her more desperate to settle the civil case. Now, let me explain something about HOA law that most people don’t know, and this is important.
Board members have fiduciary duty. That’s a legal term that means you have to act in the best interest of the organization, not yourself. It’s the same standard as corporate directors. You breach that duty. You’re personally liable. Translation: Brin can’t hide behind the HOA. Her personal assets, house, cars, bank accounts are all on the table.
One of the other homeowners, a younger guy named Marcus, raises his hand. What about us? Are we liable for what she did? No, you weren’t on the board. You didn’t vote on the fake contracts. You’re victims, not accompllices. I look around the room. But the HOA as an entity could get sued if someone claims you should have caught this earlier.
That’s why you need to act fast. New board, new bylaws, new management company. Show good faith. We spend the next hour drafting a game plan. Meenvolunteers to coordinate the lawsuit research. Gil will organize the victim letters. Pota will handle the recall election logistics. My job, I’m going to file the real estate commission complaint. All 11 of us will sign it.
But there’s something else I’m doing. Something I haven’t told them yet. The hidden cameras on my property caught Brin trespassing 3 days ago. She walked around the burned out edition, took photos with her phone, kicked through the ash pile like she was searching for something.
Then she picked up a piece of melted copper pipe and put it in her purse. I’ve got it all on 4K video. In Colorado, trespassing is a misdemeanor. But evidence tampering, removing or destroying evidence from a crime scene, that’s a felony. Especially if it’s connected to an ongoing arson investigation. I’m not giving this footage to Detective Ortega yet.
I’m waiting because here’s what I’ve learned about people like Brin. They can’t stop. They’re addicted to control, to winning, to getting away with it. She’ll come back. She’ll make another move. And when she does, I’ll have her. The meeting breaks up around 10:30. Everyone’s energized, angry in a productive way.
Moren hugs me on the way out. Thank you for organizing this. I didn’t organize it, I say. You all did. I just explained the rules. After everyone leaves, Gil and I stand in his driveway under the porch light. You think she knows you’re the one pushing this? He asks. Probably. But she can’t prove it. And even if she could, so what? I’m a homeowner.
I’ve got every right to advocate for an audit, to explain the law to my neighbors. Gil nods slowly. You’re a patient man, Declan. I learned from the best, I say, thinking of Iris. Three years fighting cancer. Never gave up. Never quit. She’s going to do something stupid. Gil says, “Soon. I’m counting on it.” June 21st. Every homeowner in Ponderosa Bluffs gets a four-page letter in the mail.
It’s from Brin, printed on expensive card stock. Her real estate company’s letter head at the top. I read mine sitting on my porch, coffee going cold in my hand. The letter claims, “The audit is fabricated. accounting errors blown wildly out of proportion by disgruntled homeowners who refuse to follow community rules.
I’m specifically named. Declan, last name, a municipal court magistrate, has orchestrated a witch hunt because he was upset about legitimate code enforcement. She calls herself the real victim of a conspiracy by rule breakers who want to turn this neighborhood into a construction zone. And then this is the kicker.
She threatens to sue me personally for defamation. $500,000. There’s a demand letter from her attorney attached. I finish reading. Set the letter down. Take a sip of cold coffee. And I laugh. See, defamation requires a false statement. Everything in the audit is documented. Bank records, forged checks, ghost invoices.
You can’t defame someone by repeating facts. But she’s not trying to win a lawsuit. She’s trying to scare me. trying to make me back off, trying to create enough noise that the other homeowners get nervous and drop the case. It doesn’t work. The next day, a local news reporter calls me. Young woman, ambitious, probably mid20s. Mr.
Declan, I’m doing a story on HOA disputes. Bin Castellane says you’ve been using your position as a judge to intimidate the board. Would you like to comment? I keep my voice neutral. No comment on pending litigation, but all HOA financial records are public in Colorado. The audit report is a public document. I’d encourage you to read it and draw your own conclusions.
2 days later, the reporter calls back. I read the audit, she says. Her voice is different now, quieter. This isn’t a dispute. This is fraud. Like I said, draw your own conclusions. The story never runs because the moment the reporter asked Brinn for documentation to support her claims, Brin’s attorney shut it down.
No further comment. Pending litigation. Translation: They’ve got nothing. But Brinn’s not done. On June 28th, I get a certified letter from the Colorado Office of Judicial Discipline. Someone filed an ethics complaint against me. The allegations used my position as a judge to intimidate an HOA board. threatened legal action while serving in a judicial capacity.
Conflict of interest. Abused authority to access public records for personal gain. I read it twice. My chest tightens. Judicial ethics complaints are serious, even baseless ones. There’s an investigation. Interviews. It goes in your permanent file. It can damage your reputation, your career, your ability to serve. And I know exactly who filed it.
The complaint is anonymous, but the language is identical to Brin’s letter. Same phrases, same accusations. I call my courthouse supervisor, explain the situation, forward the entire timeline, audit, harassment, arson, everything. She reads it in size. Declan, you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re allowed to be a homeowner.
You’re allowed to advocate for your community. And requestingpublic records isn’t abuse of authority. It’s your legal right. I know, but she’s trying to create smoke. Well, the ethics board will investigate, but this is going nowhere. Just cooperate. Tell the truth and it’ll get dismissed. She’s right, but the process takes months and it’s a distraction, which is exactly what Brin wants.
That night, I sit in my condo staring at Iris’s photo on my bookshelf. Some of the neighbors left notes on my truck. Passive aggressive stuff, clearly from Brin’s remaining allies. One said, “Judges should follow rules, too.” Another said, “Your wife would be ashamed.” That second one hits me like a punch. I spend an hour just sitting there holding the note, wondering if Iris would be ashamed, if I’m dragging this out for justice or for revenge.
If there’s even a difference anymore. Around 900 p.m., Moren shows up at my door with a container of soup. You look like hell, she says, pushing past me into the kitchen. Thanks. Brin’s trying to break you. You know that, right? I know. She sets the soup on the counter, turns to face me. Iris fought cancer for 3 years. You think she’d want you to quit now? I don’t answer.
When my husband died, Moren says, people kept telling me to move on. Let it go. Stop being angry. You know what I learned? Sometimes anger is the only thing that keeps you standing. She’s right. And I know what Iris would say. She’d say, “Don’t let small people make the world smaller. I eat the soup. get a decent night’s sleep for the first time in a week.
And the next morning, I send Detective Ortega an email with an attachment. Subject line: Evidence in arson case, trespass and tampering. The attachment is 43 seconds of 4K video showing Brin on my property removing evidence. 3 hours later, Ortega calls. I’m taking this to the DA today. July 7th, 8:45 p.m.
There’s a knock on my condo door. I’m not expecting anyone. I checked the peepphole. It’s Brin. My address isn’t public. I don’t use it on any HOA documents. She had to dig for this. Property records maybe. Or she followed me. Either way, it’s borderline stalking. I open the door, but don’t invite her in. She looks terrible.
Hair not styled, makeup smudged, yoga pants, and an oversized sweatshirt. This is not the put together HOA president I met in January. Declan, please. I need to talk to you. You should talk to your attorney, not me. Please. Her voice cracks. 5 minutes. Against my better judgment, I step into the hallway, pull the door mostly closed behind me.
I’m not letting her inside, and I’m wearing a body camera, small unit clipped to my shirt pocket, recording. It’s legal in Colorado. Single party consent. If I’m part of the conversation, I can record it. What do you want, Brin? She takes a shaky breath. I’ll resign from the HOA. I’ll step down.
My sister will return the money. Not all of it. We don’t have all of it, but a h 100,000. Good faith payment. I’ll drop the defamation suit. I’ll drop the ethics complaint against you. I don’t say anything. Just wait. Just tell the DA to drop the charges, she says. You’re a judge. They’ll listen to you. I’m a municipal judge.
I say slowly. Traffic violations, small claims. I have zero authority over felony prosecutions. And even if I did, what you’re asking is obstruction of justice. Her face twists. You’re destroying my life over a few rule violations, over some accounting errors. Your insurance paid for the house.
You’re fine, but you can’t just let it go, can you? Accounting errors? My voice stays level. Calm. You stole $147,000. You forged signatures. You committed arson. I didn’t. She stops. Breathes. The fire was an accident. I just wanted to scare you. I didn’t think it would spread that far. There it is, she just confessed on camera.
You wanted to scare me, I repeat, making sure it’s clear for the recording. By setting my house on fire, she realizes what she said. Her eyes go wide. I didn’t mean that’s not Brin. You need to leave now and you need to get an attorney. A criminal defense attorney. Not the guy handling your defamation suit.
Someone who specializes in felonies. You’re ruining my life, she’s yelling now, mascara running, voice echoing in the hallway. Over a fire. Your insurance paid for it. It was just property. It was my wife’s dream, I say quietly. And you burned it to the ground because I asked for an audit. And she starts crying.
Then the crying turns to screaming. You think you’re so righteous? You think you’re better than me? You’re just a I think you should go. She sees the camera clipped to my shirt, reaches for it. I step back. Don’t. She freezes, stares at the camera at me. And then she runs down the hallway through the stairwell door. Gone.
I go back inside, lock the door, sit on my couch, download the video to three separate drives, and wait. The next morning, July 8th, 11 a.m., Brinn is arrested at her real estate office. Charges: arson, class 3 felony. Evidence tampering, class 6 felony, criminal trespass, attempted bribery ofa public official, theft of HOA funds, the bail money.
She used $80,000 from a slush fund account to post her $75,000 bail. Then the treasurer realized the account had been emptied. bail hearing that afternoon, set at $75,000 cash. Her husband doesn’t show up, files for divorce the same day. She posts bail using what’s left of the HOA slush fund, which means they add another theft charge 48 hours later.
The local news runs the story. HOA president arrested for arson embezzlement. It’s the lead story. 6 p.m. broadcast. They interview Moren. She’s calm, articulate. This isn’t about petty HOA disputes. This is about a public official who abused her position, stole from her community, and committed arson when someone asked questions.
They interview Detective Ortega. He holds up a still image from my security footage. Brin standing in the burned out ruins taking the copper pipe. Evidence speaks for itself, he says. They try to interview Brin. Her attorney issues a statement. Miss Castellane maintains her innocence and looks forward to her day in court. That night, I drive out to the house.
Reconstruction’s almost done. Insurance money came through, contractors worked fast, the additions rebuilt, new framing, new windows. The bedroom that Iris sketched is taking shape. I stand in what will be the living room and try to feel something. Triumphant, vindicated, satisfied. I just feel tired.
Iris would have handled this differently. She would have been graceful, diplomatic. she would have found a way to resolve it without anyone going to jail. But then I remember the other 11 homeowners, the ones whose reserve fund Brin stole, the families she threatened, the culture of fear she created, and I realize justice isn’t revenge.
It’s making sure she can’t do this to anyone else. My phone buzzes. Court clerk, reminder, traffic docket tomorrow, 9:00 a.m. Castellane case. I read it three times. Tomorrow, July 11th, 8:45 a.m. I’m in my chambers putting on my robe. Black polyester, zipper up the front, Colorado state seal on the left breast. I’ve worn this thing a thousand times.
It should feel normal today. It feels like armor. I checked the docket one more time. Case number 24, TRC 8844. City of Denver versus Brin Castellane. Reckless driving 93 and a 55. School zone adjacent. Ticket issued April 19th. 8 days after the arson, I walk into courtroom 3B at 8:58. The gallery is packed. Municipal traffic court doesn’t usually draw crowds.
Most days there are maybe five people, defendants waiting for their cases. Occasionally a family member. Today there are 32 people in the gallery. I recognize faces. Moren, Gil, Pod, eight other HOA homeowners, the reporter from the local news with a photographer. Detective Ortega in the back row, arms crossed watching.
And at the defense table, Brin Castellane and her attorney, not her criminal attorney. A different one. This is just a traffic ticket, so she hired cheaper representation. A guy in a wrinkled suit, probably 2 years out of law school, looks nervous. Brin’s facing away from me when I enter. The baiff calls out, “All rise.
Court is in session. The honorable magistrate Declan presiding.” She stands, turns, and sees me. The color drains from her face and stages. spray tan orange to pale pink to courthouse marble. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. No sound comes out. I take the bench, sit, arrange my papers.
The courtroom smells like floor wax and old legal briefs. The air conditioning hums. I can hear Brin’s shallow breathing from 15 ft away. Good morning, I say. My voice is neutral. Professional. Court is in session. Case number 24, TRC8844, City of Denver versus Brin Castellane. Defendant present. Her attorney stands. Yes, your honor.
Miss Castellane, you’re charged with reckless driving exceeding the posted speed limit by 38 mph in a school zone. How do you plead? Her attorney tries to speak. Your honor, given my client’s current legal circumstances, we request a continuence to denied. I don’t let him finish. This court’s jurisdiction is limited to traffic matters.
Your client’s other legal issues are irrelevant to today’s proceeding. Ms. Castellane, how do you plead? Brin’s voice is barely audible. Not guilty. Thank you. Prosecution, you may present. The city attorney, a woman named Sarah Tatum, smart, efficient, no nonsense, stands up. Your honor, the people submit dash cam footage from Officer Rodriguez’s patrol vehicle time
stamped April 19th at 2:47 p.m. She plays the video on the courtroom monitor. It’s crystal clear. Brin’s white Lexus SUV doing 93 in a 55. The speedometer in the patrol car is visible on screen. Kids are visible on the sidewalk near a school crossing. The video also shows Bin throwing a lit cigarette out her window, littering. And when Officer Rodriguez pulls her over, she makes an obscene gesture at him before stopping. The gallery murmurs.
Sarah sits down. The people rest. I look at the defense attorney. Your witnessmay testify if she wishes. He stands, clears his throat. Your honor, my client admits she was speeding, but maintains the speedometer in her vehicle was malfunctioning. She was unaware of her actual speed.
Miss Castellane, I say, looking directly at her. Did you not notice that you were passing other vehicles traveling at normal speed? She stares at me, doesn’t answer. Ms. Castellane, I I was distracted. Were you aware you were in a school zone? Signs are posted 500 ft in advance. I didn’t I don’t remember.
Did officer Rodriguez inform you of your speed at the time of the stop? Yes. And what did you say when he told you? Her attorney stands. Objection. Relevance. Overruled. Miss Castellane. Answer the question. She looks at her lap. I told him I had personal problems and he should leave me alone. What personal problems were distracting you on April 19th? Long silence. Miss Castellane.
I was dealing with Jim. Issues at work. Issues serious enough to endanger children’s lives, but not serious enough to prevent you from driving. No answer. I let the silence hang for 10 seconds. 20. Miss Castellane, I find you guilty of reckless driving is charged. Fine of $1,200. Six points on your license.
Mandatory driver improvement course for the littering offense. Additional $500 fine for reckless endangerment in a school zone. 40 hours of community service. Brin stands up. Her voice cracks. This is bias. You’re punishing me because of the HOA. The courtroom goes silent. I lean forward, keep my voice calm. Miss Castellane, I have presided over 1,400 traffic cases in this courtroom.
Every defendant who endangered children in a school zone receives this penalty. You are not special. You are not exempt. You are not a victim. I pause. The difference is most defendants show remorse. Her face twists with rage. You think you’re so righteous? You’re just a My gavel comes down once. Sharp crack. Contempt of court. Additional $500 fine.
Deputy, please escort the defendant out. Officer Caitlyn, same deputy from the false police report months ago, walks over. Brin’s crying now, shoulders shaking. Caitlyn takes her arm gently, leads her toward the door. The gallery sits frozen. As the door closes behind Brin, there’s a beat of silence. Then quiet applause breaks out.
I don’t acknowledge it. Just gather my papers, rise, and exit through the side door. The crack of the gavl still echoes in my ears. October 15th, 6 months after the fire, Brin takes a plea deal. Her attorney calls it pragmatic. The DA calls it justice. She pleads guilty to arson and evidence tampering. The other charges get dropped as part of the agreement.
Sentencing, four years in prison, three suspended, one year served, then 3 years probation, 800 hours of community service after release. Full restitution to me. $127,000 payment plan over 10 years. Permanent restraining order keeping her away from Ponderosa Bluffs. The Colorado Real Estate Commission revokes her license permanently. No chance of reinstatement.
The HOA’s civil lawsuit settles out of court. Brin’s sister’s management company pays $183,000. The company’s LLC declares bankruptcy. The sister’s personal assets get seized to cover the judgment. The HOA gets its money back. New board elected. Moren as president, Pota as treasurer. First order of business, slash the management fee from 8,500 to 2,000 a month.
Hire a reputable firm with zero family connections to board members. Dues get reduced 40%. The neighborhood feels different now, lighter. People actually wave to each other. There’s a community garden going in where the old management company used to store equipment. My house gets finished in February, 10 months after the fire.
I’m standing in the entryway holding a brass plaque that says, “Iris’s house, built with love, restored with purpose.” I mount it next to the front door. The first resident moves in 3 days later. Her name is Shayla, 34 years old. Breast cancer survivor, stage three, finished chemo 6 months ago. Single mom, two kids, a 10-year-old boy named Marcus and a 7-year-old girl named Lily.
They get to live here rentree for 12 months. That was always the plan. That was Iris’s dream. Shayla cries when she sees the house. Walks through each room touching the walls like she can’t believe it’s real. You’re sure? She keeps asking. You’re sure this is real? It’s real. I tell her. Take your time. Heal. That’s what this place is for.
Over the next few months, something unexpected happens. The house becomes a gathering place. Moren starts hosting her book club there. Shayla likes the company. Gil runs chess lessons for neighborhood kids in the living room on Saturday mornings. Marcus, Shayla’s son, starts learning carpentry from me.
Basic stuff. How to use a tape measure, how to drive a screw straight. He calls me Uncle Deck. I didn’t plan for that, but I’ll take it. With the restitution money from Brin, $127,000, I do something Iris would have loved. I create a nonprofit, the Iris Fund.Mission: transitional housing assistance for cancer survivors in the Denver metro area, rent subsidies, home modifications for accessibility, legal advocacy when insurance companies deny claims.
First year, we help 14 families stay housed during treatment. We launch an annual fundraiser, the Ponderosa Hope Festival, summer block party, food trucks, live music, craft vendors, raised $38,000 the first year. Brin’s crime, her arson, her theft, her cruelty, ended up unifying a community and creating lasting good.
There’s an irony there that I think Iris would appreciate. People ask me sometimes if I feel bad that Brinn went to prison. Honest answer, no. She had a 100 chances to stop, 100 opportunities to admit fault, to apologize, to make it right. She chose escalation every time. But I do think about her.
Wonder if she understands what she destroyed. Not the house that got rebuilt. But trust, safety, the idea that communities can be places where people look out for each other instead of tearing each other down. I’m sitting on the porch of Iris’s house at sunset. Shayla’s kids are playing in the yard. Moren’s inside making dinner.
