A police officer flagged me down, stating they’d received a report of a stolen vehicle. And there she was—Karen, standing smug and self-satisfied on the sidewalk, telling the officers that I had stolen her son's truck and refused to return it. Standing behind her was her son, a lanky kid in his twenties with a cocky grin, already picturing himself behind the wheel.
"Officer, that truck was promised to my son," Karen announced dramatically. "He has the title! This man just won't hand it over."
"Here's the truth," I said calmly, returning from my house with a thick folder containing every receipt, registration slip, and insurance document tied to the Ford. "This truck is mine. Always has been. She's lying."
The officer flipped through the stack, nodding as he verified the VIN. It should have ended there, but Karen screeched, "Those papers are fake! He forged them!"
By now, neighbors were peeking out from their curtains. Seeing the officers caught between verified legal documents and a woman throwing a wild tantrum, I pulled out my phone and dialed my brother-in-law, Daniel.
"Hey," I said loudly enough for Karen to hear. "I need you down here. The neighbor is trying to claim my truck, and the police are involved."
"Ten minutes," Daniel replied.
When I hung up, Karen's expression faltered. "Who was that?" she demanded.