Last night, like many nights in this neighborhood that some would say is the quietest place they’ve ever lived, I slept poorly. For the last year, the mobbers continue the mob as I lay down to sleep, often waking me multiple times in the night as they raise the volume of what are likely directional speakers to penetrate the layers of sound board blocking the windows.
Acculturated to the harassment, I reach up and push the pillow away from my ear to blunt the sound that must travel by bone conduction, a fact of human anatomy and a topic for explanation in an upcoming entry.
My hope is that the information I’m making available here will help others to recognize a mobbing, give them resources on the techniques used in real estate mobbing, and make it easier to report and prosecute the crime.
The mobbers grow edgy as I write post after post detailing their practices and publish them for authorities and other victims of real estate mobbing to see. At least one of the mobbing houses, the one to my north, has extended construction permits into 2016 and the end of the year is close at hand. Yesterday the owner of the south house pulled into his driveway with his snarky friends and their skis—one of them their attorney whose response to my attempt at a protective order was to co-author a brief laden with misspellings that “reasoned” unprofessionally and without qualification, that I must be a paranoid schizophrenic.
The harassment intensified with their return though the vehicles of the owners remained out of view. Now it’s morning, and the same late model Audi sedan that was here last night and the night before has already departed. The guy with the tribal tattoos and the Crossfit sticker appeared this morning in his red SUV and now the driveway to the south is empty, a common state these days as the harassment progresses and vehicles suddenly emerge from the garage and quickly accelerate away from the house, tires screeching.
From the house to my north, one of the mobbers who seems disturbingly unemotional is chanting in a monotone, What you did to that kid. You’re old and ugly. Give us the bot! And then a pause when my roommate emerges from the basement, gets something from the refrigerator, and descends once more to her concrete bunker. I continue writing, ignoring the voice that sounds strikingly like that of the owner of the house to the north as he intones, You’re old and ugly, a statement that, coming from him, makes me want to roll my eyes. Another voice, likely manipulated to sound like a cartoon character but probably just the girlfriend of the owner of the mobbing house to the south, gives a childish shout, We don’t want you here.
There is momentary silence as the co-captain of the neighborhood watch comes out of her house across the street and bangs the lids of her trash cans closed. And then, the cartoon kid voice from the south mobbing house, Get out!
It’s the tone of the ones like this, combined with the youth of those I’ve seen coming and going from the houses that “triangulate” me, that makes them seem like a bunch of kids from the suburbs who didn’t want a real job so took “easy” jobs harassing legal residents for the scummy real estate companies and speculators willing to engage in such practices.
The rain of the last few days subsided overnight and blue cast clouds stretch across the sky. I’m sitting here documenting yet another day in a crime of years’ duration and hoping that I can still be who I am, that I can still be happy, after the FBI and Seattle Police finally figure out what real estate mobbing is and come and arrest the scum that surround me. I’ll post this writing in a few minutes and then, as the mobbers harangue me from both sides of my house and put their voices over the broadcast of NPR, I’ll begin a series on the close-range technologies of mobbing and will then print a letter I wrote last weekend to the Washington State Attorney General and copy it to City of Seattle officials and police.
After Car Talk and Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me, I’ll go outside and continue my winter work in the garden. Plants that I grew from quart containers are big enough now to have a bushy presence and the garden is taking shape. As I work in the mild winter weather, people who don’t know what it is to be criminally harassed will pass by on their way to the walking trail below. The harassment will become more intermittent and cautious. It will be sent to me by directional speaker and perhaps over radio waves manipulated into faint and ethereal waves that will not be detected by those who are not listening for them. And tonight, having set up this new Mac with vmWare Fusion and programming software, perhaps I’ll finally get the Uniden scanner programmed to listen for close by Citizen’s Band broadcasts, and to record them.
This has been my life here in this reclusive Seattle neighborhood preserved from the hubbub and clatter by the canopy of trees that bend over the Burke-Gilman and by the still waters of Lake Washington. This is what it is to be a good tenant living across the street from a captain of an anti-renter neighborhood watch in a neighborhood overrun with real estate speculation and profiteering. This is what it’s like to wait for the FBI to investigate an organized crime.