Cold.
Expensive.
Dangerous.
The hearing officer, Patricia Wells, called the room to order.
Vivian presented photographs of my machinery.
Then soil reports.
Then charts.
Finally, she introduced Dr. Helena Frost.
The woman entered wearing a spotless white laboratory coat.
"This operation presents serious environmental risks," she announced.
She described chemical runoff, groundwater contamination, machinery hazards, and psychological instability.
The last phrase made my jaw tighten.
"The operator's recent bereavement," she continued, "may have impaired his ability to make safe agricultural decisions."
Sarah's voice came back to me.
When someone lies to your face, Ezra, make them prove it where everyone can see.
I looked at my phone.
I had spent the previous evening checking the state's professional registry.
I raised my hand.
Officer Wells nodded.
"Mr. Caldwell."
"Dr. Frost, may I ask about your professional credentials?"
She smiled confidently.
"Certainly."
She listed degrees, certifications, consulting experience, and years of environmental work.
I waited.
Then I held up my phone.
"According to the state registry, you're a licensed landscape architect."
Her smile disappeared.
"You specialize in golf course design."
A murmur passed through the courtroom.
I continued.
"You don't have an environmental science degree. You don't hold the certification you claimed. And according to your professional history, your primary expertise is designing sand traps."
Someone laughed.
Vivian turned red.
Officer Wells demanded silence.
I presented the actual soil tests.
Clean.
The water tests.
Clean.
The noise measurements.
Within legal limits.
Then I presented the 1962 aerial photograph.
The boundaries were unmistakable.
My land had existed decades before Pines Ridge.
Officer Wells looked at Vivian.
"Mrs. Thornridge, this complaint contains fraudulent evidence."
Grim immediately objected.
But Wells wasn't finished.
"The environmental complaint is dismissed."
The courtroom erupted.
As I walked outside, I heard Vivian whispering to Grim.
"The boundary lawsuit goes tomorrow."
I stopped.
Then my phone rang.
Delores.
Her voice was shaking.
"Ezra, I've found something."
"What?"
"An old development agreement from 1985."