HOA Karen Burned Black Man’s House to the Ground — Then Walked Into His Courtroom the Next Week

The Arsonist on the Bench: An American Collision

 

The small courtroom in the New Hanover County Courthouse fell silent, a palpable hush settling over the packed gallery. Outside, the familiar summer humidity of Wilmington, North Carolina, pressed against the walls, but inside, the air was sharp, charged with static electricity. This was not a trial; it was a confrontation, a collision between unchecked neighborhood obsession and the unflinching face of justice.

The bailiff’s voice cut through the silence, ringing like a final bell: “All rise.”

The heavy oak doors at the back swung open. Shackled at the wrists and wearing a county-issued orange jumpsuit, the defendant was escorted inside. Colleen Markham shuffled forward, her eyes darting nervously across the room, searching the gallery for any sign of the allies she had cultivated during her reign as the tyrannical HOA president.

But what she saw instead stopped her cold, the paralysis of disbelief locking her knees.

Sitting tall in his high black robe, positioned as the singular, unassailable authority, was Judge Andre Colston. Calm, severe, and utterly unsmiling, he was the very man whose home she had burned to the ground just days earlier.

The realization struck the packed room like a thunderclap. Gasps erupted in the gallery. Neighbors—who had once debated the height of Andre’s hedges and the color of his mailbox under Colleen’s obsessive scrutiny—now stared at the grotesque twist of fate that placed the victim of an attempted murder charge on the judge’s bench.

Colleen’s legs gave way, and a deputy had to steady her as she was guided to the defense table.

Andre’s eyes met hers. They were steady, unreadable, but behind them, she could see the vast, hollow space where his life had been: the crackling flames, the choking smoke, the total collapse of his sanctuary. He had lost his home, his memories, his sense of safety, all because of the woman now sitting directly in front of him.

After a moment of profound silence, Andre’s deep, authoritative voice broke the tension. “Be seated.”

The benches creaked as the gallery complied. The room was so quiet that the faint click of reporters’ pens sounded like gunshots. Colleen’s attorney leaned in, whispering harshly, “Don’t look at him! Keep your eyes on me!”

But it was too late. The damage was done. The entire courtroom had witnessed the moment the judge recognized the defendant as the woman who had tried to erase him.

The surreal nature of the moment was profound. Just a week ago, this community was consumed by trivial disputes over porch lights and parking. Now, they were staring at the raw aftermath of a hate-fueled crime. Andre, battling the images of that night—the flames, the collapse, clutching his briefcase as his life turned to glowing rubble—struggled to maintain his composure. This was the woman who had started with petty complaints about mailbox colors, who had sneered when he waved, who had ultimately decided that arson was the only permanent solution to her anger.

Colleen, despite the tremor in her hands that betrayed her fear, forced a look of stubborn defiance.

The judge folded his hands on the bench. Colleen’s lawyer stood. “Your Honor, my client pleads not guilty.”

The denial hung in the air, a final, stinging insult. Everyone knew what the investigation had found: the gasoline can, the surveillance footage of her car. Andre felt the sting of the lie, the rejection of obvious truth.

For a second, Colleen’s eyes flickered up, and Andre saw something terrifying: a flicker of satisfaction, as if forcing him into this position—the ultimate ethical dilemma—was, in itself, a final victory.

“Very well,” Andre spoke, his voice even and controlled. “Plea has been entered. We will proceed.”

In that moment, the entire courthouse understood: this was not just another case; it was a collision of personal loss, raw hatred, and the ultimate question of what justice truly demands when the victim is the one tasked with maintaining the law.

The Seed of Malice: HOA to Harassment

 

The road to the courtroom fire had been paved not with violence, but with paperwork. It began in the quiet, tree-lined streets of a comfortable neighborhood in Wilmington, North Carolina. This was the peace Judge Andre Colston, a man who believed deeply in order, thought he was buying when he moved into his brick two-story house. He was a man who kept his lawn trimmed and his porch swept, but who also believed a home was a sanctuary, not subject to constant surveillance.

Enter Colleen Markham, the HOA president. To some, she was the guardian of neighborhood standards; to many others, she was a petty tyrant who treated the HOA handbook like scripture. Her early complaints were banal: short grass only, mailboxes one specific shade of black, no porch lights past eleven PM.

Her first encounter with Andre, in fact, was over that porch light.

“Judge Colston,” she said, briskly approaching him as he watered his plants, her clipboard tucked under her arm. “Your porch light. It stays on too late.”

Andre set down the hose. “Evening, Miss Markham. It’s for security. Shuts off around midnight.”

“The bylaws state 11,” she countered, her lips pressed into a tight, self-righteous line. “You’re disrupting the neighborhood.”

Andre, who had dealt with angry defendants for decades, noted the personal edge in her tone. “Noted,” he said calmly. “I’ll look into it.”

The exchange should have ended there, but Colleen wasn’t interested in resolution; she was interested in control. Soon after, Andre received a series of escalating letters: hedges above regulation height, mailbox color inconsistent with the approved palette.

He laughed it off to his friend, Marcus Lee. “Man, she sounds like the type who measures grass with a ruler,” Marcus chuckled.

“I think she does,” Andre conceded. But the laughter didn’t soothe the growing tension.

Neighbors began to notice the imbalance. Linda Garvey, a retired teacher two houses down, whispered to Andre, “She doesn’t bother anyone like that except you. It’s strange.”

Colleen’s fixation grew obvious. If Andre parked his car slightly too close to the curb, she snapped photos. If guests visited, she timed their stay. Her obsession with rules began morphing into something personal, something hateful. She accused him of hosting “unauthorized gatherings” when his sister, Sharon, visited. She even filed a noise complaint when his nephew, Julian, practiced the saxophone for his school band on a Saturday afternoon.

Andre finally confronted her directly. “Miss Markham,” he said, standing on her porch, his voice low and even. “This has gone far enough. Your constant complaints are harassment. This isn’t about rules anymore.”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “You think this is about you? I treat everyone the same.”

“Then why is my mailbox the only one you check twice a week?” Andre pressed.

Her eyes flickered, and she said flatly, “Because you don’t belong here. Not the way you think you do.”

As he turned to leave, her voice followed him: “You can wear your robe in court, Judge, but it won’t protect you here.”

Andre knew then the line had been crossed. He began documenting everything, at Sharon’s urging. He didn’t want his home to become another courtroom, yet Colleen was forcing his hand.

The public turning point came at an HOA meeting. When a neighbor praised Andre for shoveling snow, Colleen cut in sharply: “Good deeds don’t excuse violations. This community has standards, and some people think they can ignore them because of who they are.“

Andre didn’t respond, but the room fell silent. The whispers that followed were no longer about rules, but about Colleen’s accelerating hostility. Unbeknownst to the community, Colleen was already moving from annoyance to annihilation.

The Collapse of Sanctuary: Arson

 

Andre, a judge who balanced complex cases daily, valued his home as a place of rest—a sanctuary where he shed the weight of the robe. His house was filled with memories: the hydrangeas his late wife, Janice, had planted; the spot in the driveway where his nephew learned to ride a bike. Colleen, with her constant complaints and glares, was systematically invading that peace.

His friend, Victor Daniels, saw the toll it was taking. “Drey, I’ve seen you handle murder trials without blinking,” Victor told him on the back porch. “But this lady, she’s under your skin.”

“She’s not just nitpicking, Vic,” Andre admitted. “There’s something in her eyes. It’s like she’s trying to break me down, piece by piece.”

Andre installed security cameras, not out of belief in the extreme, but for peace of mind. The cameras only recorded more: Colleen lingering on the sidewalk late at night, staring into his yard. “She’s losing control,” Andre told Victor.

Victor’s reply was prophetic: “She already has. Now the question is, what’s she willing to do about it?”

The answer came on a humid Thursday night in late July. Andre was upstairs, having just finished reviewing files.

At 2:00 a.m., a faint crackle was followed by the sharp, undeniable smell of smoke. The moment he stepped into the hallway, the reality hit: thick, gray smoke was already filling the staircase. The security alarm blared. Andre grabbed his phone, dialed 911, and stumbled toward the front door.

By the time he reached the night air, the flames were visible, roaring along the walls, engulfing the home.

Neighbors rushed out. Linda Garvey screamed his name, pulling him toward the curb. Within minutes, the sound of sirens filled the night. Andre stood barefoot, shaking, clutching his briefcase—the only thing he managed to salvage. Inside, case files. Nothing more.

Victor arrived fifteen minutes later. “My God, Dre. You okay?”

“She did this,” Andre whispered, watching his home collapse into a blackened skeleton. “I know she did.”

Fire investigators worked until dawn. “Preliminary signs point to arson,” the fire marshal confirmed. “Accelerants near the fence line. This wasn’t an accident.”

Two days later, detectives knocked on Colleen Markham’s door. Surveillance footage from Andre’s and two neighbors’ cameras had caught her SUV circling the block just before the fire. When officers searched her garage, they found a half-empty gas can containing traces matching the accelerant used at the scene.

When officers led Colleen away in handcuffs, she didn’t hang her head or cry. She stared straight ahead, chin lifted. She looked, horrifyingly, proud.

Andre stood watching, hollowed out. It wasn’t just his house that burned; it was the trust that a neighborhood represented.

Detective Ortiz called with an update: “The DA’s office is moving fast. Felony arson, possible hate crime enhancements. And Judge… given the docket rotation, it could be you who presides.”

Andre closed his eyes. Justice was never supposed to be personal. But for him, it already was.

The Verdict and the Weight of Justice

 

The confrontation in the courtroom was the climax of that personal tragedy. Colleen’s stunned face upon recognizing her victim, Andre’s steel-willed refusal to step down despite the obvious conflict—it all underlined the stakes.

“This is not just another defendant,” Sharon pleaded with her brother in his chambers. “This is personal.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But if justice isn’t tested when it’s hardest, then what’s it worth?”

The trial moved quickly. The evidence was overwhelming: security footage, the gas can, the testimonies of neighbors like Linda and Victor, who spoke of Colleen’s escalating, palpable hatred. The defense, which relied on denial, crumbled.

The jury returned their verdict after only four hours of deliberation.

The foreperson rose. “We the jury find the defendant, Colleen Markham, guilty of felony arson, guilty of destruction of property, and guilty of aggravated harassment with hate crime enhancement.”

The room exhaled.

Two weeks later, the courtroom filled for sentencing. Colleen stood before the bench, no longer defiant, but small and defeated.

Andre removed his glasses, looked at the woman who tried to destroy him, and spoke slowly, his voice measured: “You burned down my home. You destroyed years of memories. You endangered my life and the lives of my neighbors. And for what? Because you could not see me as your equal.”

He continued, his voice steady but carrying the full, painful weight of his conviction. “I believe justice should be blind, fair, and unwavering. Today, I am reminded that justice is not about vengeance; it is about truth. And the truth is simple: You chose hate. You chose violence. And now you must live with the consequences of those choices.“

The sentence was delivered: 22 years in prison.

Outside, surrounded by microphones, Andre offered a final, profound reflection: “I lost a house, but what we all risk losing is bigger than wood and brick. We risk losing the idea that neighbors look out for one another. Hate begins small—petty complaints, sharp words—and if it’s left unchecked, it grows into something destructive. We cannot ignore it when we see it. We have to confront it.“

Andre stood on the sidewalk that night, looking at the charred frame of his house, ready for reconstruction. His home was gone, but his integrity remained intact. He had not let fear chase him from the bench. He had endured.

The story of Colleen Markham became a warning: obsession fueled by prejudice can destroy, but dignity and justice can rebuild what hate tries to erase.

Hatred grows when good people look away. Don’t look away. Stand up. Speak out. Protect what’s right, even when it costs you something.

If you want to hear more stories that challenge, unsettle, and remind us what’s at stake when we choose justice over hate, make sure you subscribe and stay with us, because these aren’t just stories—they’re warnings, lessons, and glimpses of what it means to be human.