TAMPA - Lee Robbins, a reasonable man, came to Tampa from Orlando in 1998 looking for a reasonable place to live.

He and his wife looked in Cheval, the faux polo community in Lutz, but it was pretty far from his office. They didn't much care for the older homes in South Tampa. But when they found Westchase, a 3,500-home master-planned community carved out of the cattle pastures of northwest Hillsborough County, they stopped looking.
 

"We built things into that house like we were going to live there for the rest of our lives," Robbins, the 62-year-old president of a dental supply company, said of their $400,000 dream home. But the dream went south. In 2002, an observant property manager noticed something amiss at their home and reported it to the small but powerful Westchase Covenants Committee, which enforces the community rules.

Shane Bridwell sets up a swing for his 3-year-old daughter,    Lauren, less often since he was fined $1,000 for leaving it hanging.

"It was not supposed to be white," Robbins said. "It was supposed to be black."

The 4-foot-high fence surrounded his pool cage. For privacy, Robbins had planted a hedgerow that obscured the fence. But even shrouded from view, the fence was against the rules.

Facing a hefty fine, Robbins lawyered up. He had a court stenographer record his four appearances before the committee. After months of wrangling and $3,000 in legal fees, Robbins proved that another committee had approved the white fence years earlier.

Although exonerated, he was soured on Westchase. He sold the dream house and escaped to the more lenient Mandolin Estates less than a mile away.

Still, Robbins benefitted from Westchase's stringent restrictions: Four years after moving in, he cleared a $135,000 profit on the sale.

Was the windfall worth the aggravation?

"I would live in a double-wide before I would live in Westchase again," Robbins said. "And that's not to offend anyone who lives in a double-wide."

The price of rules 

Such is the price of living in Westchase, a suburban oasis seemingly sprung from the dreamy sleep of a Zen master planner. Home buyers can pony up $130,000 for a two-bedroom, 11/2-bath condo to $625,000 for a 4,300-square-foot estate on the golf course. The median home price is about $260,000, up 42 percent from four years ago.

To keep those dollar signs rising, Westchase relies on rule books as thick as small town phone books. Houses must be painted in calm hues, mailboxes uniform. Chinaberry, jacaranda and rosewood trees are forbidden. "Garden ornaments described as "kitsch' are not acceptable in yards within public view," the rule book says. 

Deed restrictions also prevent the guy down the street from parking a 20-foot recreational vehicle in the driveway. They forbid a shade-tree mechanic from opening a muscle car fix-it shop in his back yard. They ensure the status quo.

It's not much different in Tampa Palms and FishHawk Ranch of Hillsborough or Lansbrook of Pinellas County. As growth continues in the nation's suburbs, more families are choosing to live under these forms of microgovernment.

To maintain a state of strident sameness, Westchase turns to the committee, its council of elders.

Its six members include a computer engineer with a military background, a retiree from the actuarial division of a life insurance company, a Mercedes-Benz service technician who stayed too late at a community meeting and got drafted and a retired supermarket executive who felt he got a raw deal from another committee. That's how people wind up here: Somebody talks you into it, or you want to right a wrong.

Or, in the case of member Bob Argus, you care deeply about your community and your investment.

"One of the strong points of a deed-restricted community is that enforcement helps to maintain property values as well as upholding community standards," said Argus, former president of the larger Westchase Community Association.

They gather on the fourth Wednesday evening of every month in a clubhouse meeting room. Although dressed casually in polo shirts and shorts, they adhere to parliamentary procedures and record each voice vote in writing.

For intelligence, they rely on an assistant property manager who drives the curvy streets and cul-de-sacs looking for violations She takes photographs. She sends homeowners sternly worded letters. If one or maybe two missives don't get the job done, the homeowner is summoned to face the committee.

That's no casual invitation. An offender who ignores the warning letters and doesn't pay the fine faces a lien that will prevent selling the home.

Committee chairman David Love opened a recent meeting by explaining the group's purpose: to reach agreement about violations and how to fix them, "unless, unfortunately, we'll have to fine you into submission."

A man accused of having dead grass produces photos of a healthy lawn and is off the hook. Another asks for more time to deal with a $9,000 fence that was made of a prohibited material: vinyl.

A plumber says he almost never leaves his van in the driveway and has built a special garage for it. He thinks a disgruntled neighbor is tattling on him and, worse, exaggerating. The committee agrees.

They ponder the case of a house painted "scented valentine," a rogue shade of pink. But the homeowner is in poor health and cannot afford the $4,600 for a professional paint job. The committee gives him a 60-day reprieve.

On this night, all avoid the dreaded fines. But each man had to plead his case, prove his innocence or defend the state of hearth and home. Some guys, though, just aren't cut out for that.

Swinging the blues

On another evening before the committee, Shane Bridwell's language is not for children.

The 34-year-old area vice president for Strategic Outsourcing Inc. is up on charges that he left a child's swing hanging from a tree in his front yard while not in use. He purchased the red plastic number for his 3-year-old daughter, Lauren.

The committee sent Bridwell warning letters. When that didn't work, Bridwell received the dreaded notice to appear. They could fine him $1,000.

Bridwell wonders how the alleged swing was even noticed.

Easy, Love says. Love drives by Bridwell's home every morning on the way to work. He has taken pictures of it.

"You have too much time on your hands," Bridwell quips.

When Argus proposes a $1,000 fine, Bridwell erupts. He tells the committee members where they can shove their fine and their homeowners association.

"I was so mortified with their kangaroo court," Bridwell said later.

He removed the swing when Lauren wasn't using it, as the rules state. But apparently, he didn't do it often enough.

"I think they overstep their bounds," Bridwell said. "I suppose there's some value that comes from the organization, but I think the things they focus on don't really affect property values. And they make it feel unfriendly to live here."

Now that he's paid the fine, does he still put up the swing?

"Sadly enough, no. At least not as much as before. My daughter will ask me to put it up, but I don't want to absorb another $1,000 fine for a swing," Bridwell said.

Gopher tortoise defense 

Kevin Stein once was cited for parking his car across the sidewalk. Another time, the committee got him for letting his kids shoot off fireworks on the Fourth of July.

Then there is his lawn. Love has pictures of it, with large bare spots and dead grass, on display.

Stein had been fined $1,000 from a previous lawn violation, but it still is a mess.

"I'm here to address dead grass that's been there a number of months," Love says.

Stein blames his troubles on a large oak tree that provides too much shade and drops too many acidy leaves. He asks to appeal the fine. Not going to happen, Love says.

"If I don't get a check real soon, I'm going to put a lien on your house," Love warns.

Facing additional fines, Stein plays his hole card: A gopher tortoise, legally considered a protected species, has made a habitat in his yard. No way could he start ripping up weeds and resodding around the turtle's home, Stein argues.

Argus wants to give Stein time to document the existence of the tortoise and his attempts to landscape around it.

But he still has to pay the $1,000.

"Way overboard' 

Although some cases might seem nitpicky and some decisions heavy-handed, this is no arbitrary star chamber.

Homeowners associations have a legal responsibility to their members and can be sued if they don't enforce their rules.

Everybody who buys a home there agrees to the rules, technically called "covenants, conditions and restrictions," when they close on a house.

But it's no fun being on the receiving end of the enforcement process.

"In a way, it's way overboard," said Lorraine Faedo, a homeowner who handles multimillion-dollar accounts for a large bank.

Faedo was close to tears the night she appeared before the committee to explain why a motorcycle trailer had been in her driveway for a week.

Deed restrictions do not allow motorcycle trailers overnight, let alone for a week. The notification process normally takes more than a week to play out, but trailer violations are fast-tracked, along with boats, portable storage units and basketball goals.

Faedo tells the stone-faced panel: "We had two deaths within a week." They lost a grandfather and the family dog.

She catches a break. The committee members soften. She assures them the trailer is gone and will not be back. They wish her well and end the matter.

Faedo likes living in Westchase. Overall, she approves of deed restrictions.

"But I think they could let up on some of the restrictions, and it would still be a fantastic community," she said.

The party house 

Woodbay Drive is a street where neighbors don't worry about keeping up with the Joneses. They'd actually prefer it if the Joneses would just keep it down.

See, Clarence Jones' house has the unwelcome notoriety of being Woodbay's party house. Committee member Rob Lambert has heard blaring music and young people shouting profanities late at night. Street racers roar in and out of the subdivision.

Loud party noise is a no-no in Westchase. And so the committee has summoned Jones to appear at a meeting.

Love, who also lives on Woodbay, tells how he came home at 3 a.m. to find cars everywhere. Member Don Costello chimes in that he heard about the party the next day in the aisles at Publix.

Jones, a research chemist, consults a calendar. He was away on business. His high school- and college-age sons were home alone

"It's embarrassing to me that my sons have caused problems in the past," Jones says, his shoulders slumped, voice low.

Love proposes a $300 fine, suspended for six months if Jones can keep the noise down. Chastened, Jones collects his belongings and goes quietly.

But things don't stay quiet on Woodbay Drive.

In the wee hours of Jan. 10, sheriff's deputies answer a call from Jones' next-door neighbor. It seems party guests have wandered over there by mistake, breaking open a door and surprising the 57-year-old homeowner in his front hallway.

"My oldest son had another party and apparently the word had gotten out to a lot of people that it was going to take place," Jones said later. "I have been so horrified by the thought of that. I haven't talked to my neighbor since then, but I feel like somehow, some way I haven't answered for that one yet."