Story Time: The Lone Voice and the Lawyer’s Shield

In the dusty backroads of rural South Dakota, where gravel crunches under tires and neighbors wave from porches, the Willow Creek Road District had long operated in its own quiet way. The board of trustees—three men who’d held their seats for years—made decisions on grading, snow removal, and the occasional special assessment for “improvements” with little fanfare. Public meetings were sparsely attended, minutes were brief, and notices to property owners? Often an afterthought, scribbled on a single sheet posted at the county courthouse or buried in the local paper.

Sarah Whitaker had watched this for too long. A single mother living on a modest parcel along the district’s main stretch, she’d seen her taxes creep up with special assessments for projects that seemed to benefit only a few. She’d attended meetings, politely asked questions about missing hearing notices, absent resolutions of necessity, and incomplete assessment rolls—things required under SDCL 31-12A-23 and the cross-referenced procedures in Chapter 9-43 for special assessments. The board nodded, promised to “look into it,” and moved on. Emails went unanswered. Her concerns were dismissed as “nitpicking.”

Sarah tried everything short of legal action: petitions circulated among neighbors, letters to the county auditor, even a quiet chat with the state’s attorney. Nothing changed. The assessments kept coming, the shortcuts persisted, and the board grew bolder, certifying levies without full documentation. Finally, fed up with being ignored, Sarah decided the only way to force transparency was through the courts. She filed a pro se civil complaint in circuit court—not in small claims (since government entities often have sovereign immunity hurdles and the issues went beyond simple money damages), but a straightforward declaratory judgment action seeking to declare certain assessments invalid for procedural violations and to compel the board to follow the law. Her filing fee was modest, her paperwork meticulous: exhibits of public records, cited statutes, and a clear request for the judge to get the facts on record.

Sarah felt a flicker of hope when the board responded by hiring an attorney. “Good,” she thought. “A real lawyer will see the problems and advise them to correct course. Maybe this will finally get them to do things right.” She pictured the attorney reviewing the statutes—SDCL 31-12A outlining road district powers and duties, including strict procedural safeguards for special assessments like public hearings, mailed notices, and benefit determinations—and concluding the board had cut corners. Perhaps the lawyer would push for compliance, avoiding escalation.

But the responses that arrived dashed those hopes. The board’s attorney filed a motion to dismiss on technical grounds, arguing sovereign immunity shielded the district from certain claims, that Sarah lacked standing as an individual taxpayer, and that any issues were “political questions” better left to the board. Discovery requests were stonewalled with objections. Motions for summary judgment followed, packed with affidavits from board members claiming “substantial compliance” despite missing records. Nowhere in the filings was there an admission of error or a proposal to redo the processes properly. Instead, the strategy was clear: defend at all costs, delay, and keep the case from reaching a full evidentiary hearing where a judge might scrutinize the shortcuts.

Sarah pored over the documents late at night, her kitchen table covered in printouts. It hit her then—the lawyer wasn’t there to fix the board’s practices. He was there to protect them from consequences.

That’s the hard truth about a lawyer’s role, especially when defending a public entity like a road district. An attorney is not a neutral arbiter of right and wrong, nor a reformer hired to enforce the law on their client. Under South Dakota’s Rules of Professional Conduct (mirroring the ABA Model Rules), a lawyer’s primary duty is to zealously represent the client’s interests within the bounds of the law (Rule 1.3 Diligence and Rule 1.2 Scope of Representation). When a public board hires counsel in litigation, the lawyer’s job is to defend the board’s actions—whatever those actions were—and to minimize liability, costs, and exposure.

The attorney doesn’t get paid to tell the client, “You broke the law; fix it now.” Instead, the focus shifts to legal defenses: procedural bars, immunity doctrines (under SDCL 3-22 for certain governmental claims), arguments that violations were harmless, or that the plaintiff can’t prove harm. If the board was skirting requirements—like failing to hold proper hearings under SDCL 31-12A-23 or not determining “special benefits” accurately (as courts have struck down assessments that don’t tie to actual private benefit, per constitutional takings principles)—the lawyer’s toolkit includes motions to dismiss, protective orders, and settlement offers that avoid admitting fault.

In Sarah’s case, the lawyer did exactly that. He advised the board on how to frame their affidavits to downplay omissions, how to argue that “substantial compliance” sufficed, and how to push for dismissal without a trial. The goal wasn’t compliance; it was winning—or at least surviving—the lawsuit with as little damage as possible. Settling quietly or mooting the case by quietly adjusting future practices might happen, but only if it served the client’s defensive position. Admitting systemic issues? Rarely, unless forced by a judge.

Sarah realized this dynamic explained why so many public bodies dig in rather than reform. The lawyer acts as a shield, not a mirror. If the client is breaking the law, the best defense is often to keep the matter out of court altogether—or, if it gets there, to bury it in procedure so a judge never reaches the merits. Public entities have deep pockets (taxpayer-funded) and access to defenses unavailable to private parties, making litigation an uphill battle for individuals like Sarah.

Undeterred, Sarah pressed on. She responded to motions, requested discovery, and prepared for hearings. The case dragged, but each filing put more facts on the public record. Neighbors started asking questions again. The board’s arrogance softened slightly under the pressure—not because the lawyer urged reform, but because the light of scrutiny hurt.

In the end, Sarah didn’t “win” a sweeping judgment. But the lawsuit forced changes: better notices appeared, a hearing was actually held for the next assessment. The board grumbled, the lawyer billed hours, and the district moved forward a little more carefully.

Sarah learned a bitter lesson: one voice can start the process, but real accountability often requires the slow grind of the system—and even then, the law’s guardians defend the status quo first. Still, she kept going, because ignoring the law isn’t an option when it’s your money and your roads at stake.

The prairie is vast, but persistence can carve a path through even the thickest brush of bureaucracy.