Harold secured a 48-hour emergency federal stay to pause the demolition. I used that time to prepare. I didn’t want to stop Dexter. I wanted to build an ironclad cage of liability around him.
First, I called Dr. Sarah Martinez at Colorado State’s hydrology department. I handed over my great-grandfather’s 1924 engineering notes and asked her graduate students to run a computer simulation of what would happen if the dam vanished during the coming snowmelt.
Two days later, Dr. Martinez showed me a color-coded flood map. It was terrifying.
“This isn’t just flooding, Ezra,” she said, pointing to bright red zones on the map. “This is a relocation event. Forty-seven houses will be under three to six feet of water for almost a month.”
I took that map to an environmental lawyer in Denver named Rebecca Torres. She specializes in federal water rights violations.
“Ezra, this document is legal dynamite,” Rebecca told me, tapping the 1953 contract. “When officials act outside their legal authority, they lose qualified immunity. Anyone who destroys your dam will be personally liable for every flooded basement and every dollar of property damage. We’re talking tens of millions.”
I had the science. I had the law. Now I needed to warn the innocent people caught in the crossfire.
I formed the Millbrook Safety Coalition with three former HOA board members who were sick of Dexter’s corruption. We printed hundreds of flyers featuring Dr. Martinez’s flood map.
I went door-to-door in Dexter’s neighborhood. People who had cursed my name a week ago stared in horror as I showed them exactly where the water would pool in their living rooms.
“My great-grandfather’s dam has been protecting your property since 1924,” I explained to a terrified homeowner named Mrs. Patterson. “Dexter wants to blow it up for a golf course. If he succeeds, your house is gone.”
