The preliminary hearing was scheduled in county court. The courtroom was small, paneled in dark wood, smelling faintly of floor polish, old paper, and coffee that had been burned for too many hours. The judge was Honorable Elaine Porter, a woman in her early sixties with sharp eyes and the tired patience of someone who had heard every possible version of “I thought it was mine.”
Brent wore a tailored suit. Laurel wore cream linen and sat perfectly upright. Their attorney did most of the talking, using words like good faith reliance, modern survey methods, improvement value, and ambiguity. Ruth Ann let him talk. Harold testified with the dry precision of a man more interested in being accurate than impressive. He explained the historic boundary, the stone fence, the survey markers, the county records, the errors in the Whitakers’ GPS-based survey, and the contractor’s failure to reconcile the old physical monuments with the newer approximation.
The judge listened without much expression.
Then she asked Brent’s attorney three questions.
“Did your clients have notice of the historic fence line before excavation?”
He hesitated. “They were aware of a fence, Your Honor, but disputed its legal significance.”
“Did the survey they relied upon reference the 1871 boundary record?”
“I would have to review—”
“That means no?”
A pause. “Not explicitly.”
“Did they continue construction after receiving certified notice from Mr. Mercer?”
He glanced back at Brent. “Some previously scheduled work continued.”
Judge Porter leaned back. “That means yes.”
