Little Pink House Part 10

MacCluggage smiled. "There's no use talking any more because we don't get the straight story. So we're just going to the commission. We're going to get a ruling." He walked away.

Inside the hearing room, reporter Judy Benson testified first. Brief and to the point, she recounted how the NLDC had denied her access to meetings and doc.u.ments.

The NLDC had a tougher task. The commission had a simple question to resolve: was the NLDC a public agency subject to freedom-of-information law? The burden fell to the NLDC to prove it wasn't. As its primary witness, the agency sent its brand-new chief operating officer, Navy Rear Admiral David Goebel, who had joined the NLDC board of directors back when Jay Levin and Claire had revived the agency, over a year earlier. Not long before the hearing was scheduled, the NLDC had hired Goebel as a full-time executive working directly under Claire.

A former deputy director for international negotiations for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Goebel was all business when he stood to be sworn in. Tall and imposing, he raised his right arm, forming a perfect right angle, and promised to tell the truth. Then, in an authoritative, no-nonsense way, he succinctly answered questions from his lawyer.

"Does the State of Connecticut determine what your tasks will be?"

"No," Goebel testified.

"Does the DECD or any other part of the state provide you with any direction on your day to day activities?"

"No, they make a specific point not to."

"Who decides what consultants you will retain?"

"We do, NLDC."

"Do you need permission from the city or the state to get a consultant?"

"No."

"Or to retain a particular consultant?"

"No."

"Who decided what properties the NLDC would buy and how much they would pay for them?"

"The NLDC."

After Goebel's lawyer finished, the newspaper's lawyer cross-examined Goebel.

"Am I correct that the state agency, the Department of Economic and Community Development (DECD), attends your meetings? The NLDC meetings?"

"No, not correct."

"They never attend?"

"They do not attend NLDC meetings," Goebel said. "They do not attend board of director meetings. They do not attend group meetings, to my knowledge."

"Sir, am I correct that Fort Trumbull is part of a munic.i.p.al redevelopment plan?"

"Yes, a portion of that area. Not all of it."

"Am I correct that there are state statutes and regulations which control how that can be done?"

Goebel's lawyer objected. After a brief discussion between the attorneys and the commission, Goebel confirmed that his agency was subject to the laws of the land.

Goebel didn't give an inch, insisting the agency did not take its marching orders from the state. But he couldn't get around the fact that the NLDC got its funding from the state.

In his closing remarks, the newspaper's lawyer took a shot at the NLDC's secretive approach to doing business. "Is there lat.i.tude by this agency that the city government doesn't have?" he asked. "That's exactly why we're here because a lot of the business they're conducting they're conducting in secret without following the rules. It's the business of the city and we want it brought out into the sunlight."

Pleased with the performance of his reporter and his lawyer, MacCluggage left the hearing confident the commission would declare the NLDC a public agency and his newspaper would get the doc.u.ments it had asked for.

The chances of the NLDC's getting a favorable ruling out of the state's Freedom of Information Commission were slim to none, but Claire already had another feud brewing with city attorney Tom Londregan. She ended up firing off a letter accusing Londregan of being unprofessional and uncooperative for refusing to draft a resolution to her liking. Not one to be bullied, Londregan ignored Claire and stuck to the letter of the law. He went out of his way to make sure the resolution Claire wanted got drafted in public at a city-council meeting, a move that resulted in a final product that wasn't exactly what she had in mind.

Once again she wrote Londregan and voiced her displeasure with his actions.

Londregan had heard enough.

"After reading your letter ... I feel that I must respond," Londregan began, before defending his actions and hammering her for wanting to avoid the public process. "You found the City Council meeting confusing with unprofessional moments as the resolution was edited in public," Londregan wrote. "I am sorry that you feel that way about the democratic process." Londregan reminded Claire that he didn't work for her; his client was the City of New London.

After getting Londregan's letter, Claire called him and demanded he come to her office at Connecticut College. Incredulous, Londregan couldn't wait to get there. City officials had been starting to feel that Claire had taken over the city and oversaw their roles in development and planning. In less than a year, she had announced sweeping redevelopment plans for downtown, the waterfront, the state pier, the largest beach in the city, and the Fort Trumbull neighborhood. The state had given her agency close to $100 million while telling the city it couldn't play with the state's money. Londregan's political clients were feeling put upon by Claire, and he wasn't about to let her browbeat him.

He took out some index cards and jotted down what he planned to say. He brought a member of the city council along. By the time Londregan got to Claire's office, he was in no mood to listen.

"What I did at the city council meeting was to answer questions proposed to me by my client," he said, with a bite in his tone. "I gave advice and counsel. If you feel such was unprofessional, then you and I have a difference in what is professional."

Claire had a different point of view. But for each point Claire raised, Londregan had an answer on his index cards. He didn't budge. "Anything else?" he said sarcastically. Then he left.

19.

THE NEW NEW LONDON.

March 8, 1999 Dear Claire."

George Milne didn't usually write letters to Claire on Pfizer letterhead. But circ.u.mstances called for an exception. The NLDC had applied for an economic-development conveyance for the Naval Undersea Warfare Center property. If granted, the NLDC would obtain the multimillion-dollar property at no cost, and Pfizer would secure the a.s.surance that the property would be developed in accordance with its wishes.

"Our New London expansion requires the world cla.s.s redevelopment planned for the adjacent 90 acres in the Fort Trumbull Munic.i.p.al Development plan including the 16 acres of the NUWC property," Milne wrote. "The Fort Trumbull area is integral to our corporate facility."

Milne spelled out his plans for the base property and the neighborhood around it: a waterfront hotel with about two hundred rooms; a conference center and physical-fitness area; extended-stay residential units; and eighty units of housing. "We will use the proposed hotel and conference facility as an extension of our facility committing to 100 of those rooms on a daily basis for visiting international staff and other professionals," Milne said. "In addition we require conference s.p.a.ce and are exploring a 'virtual' Pfizer University to keep our researchers up to date on the most recent breakthroughs in biotechnology. The extended stay housing will provide for researchers who often stay for periods of up to 36 months. Year round quality housing is also crucial to recruiting top scientists. The waterfront residential neighborhood envisioned provides a one-of-a-kind housing option desired by many of our employees. As a result, the NUWC property is and has been key to our investment in the area."

To date, Milne had not been so specific, so blunt, and so clear in expressing Pfizer's desires and motives for the ninety acres of private land around its new facility. He had enough confidence in what he and Claire were contemplating that he was willing to do what corporate executives typically shun: spell it all out in black and white. He even pledged a partnership with the NLDC.

"We are prepared," he told Claire, "to enter into agreements with the NLDC and developers to build the type of facilities we require ... We have also requested the NLDC to expedite the development as quickly as possible to meet our schedule ... for the unveiling of the new, New London."

Milne wasn't telling Claire anything she didn't already know. The real target of his letter was Governor Rowland. Milne sent him a copy. Claire and Milne needed the governor to redouble his support for the NLDC-Pfizer partnership. That meant stepping up the pace of development and squeezing more money out of the state for mounting costs.

The letter worked. Governor Rowland and Peter Ellef agreed to meet with Claire and Milne one month later. In the meeting Milne and Claire made a pitch for more money-a lot more money. It wasn't the first time the NLDC and Pfizer had come back to the Rowland administration for additional cash, but this time the governor had some reluctance. The project had taken on some messy overtones. Between fights with the newspaper and the homeowners, Claire and the NLDC had a black eye, and the governor wanted to avoid bad public relations. Rowland liked Claire's results; he just didn't like the dirty details that produced those results.

Before agreeing to more state funding, Rowland wanted proof that the expenditures represented "real numbers." And he wanted some a.s.surance that there would be no more requests for money. The meeting ended with the governor's demanding answers in writing.

Claire and Milne had reason to be concerned when they left the governor's office: his enthusiasm had clearly slipped; his demeanor had changed. If the governor failed to go any further in his commitment, the plan to overhaul the peninsula might need to be scaled back. They had to convince him to stay on board.

A couple of weeks later they sent Ellef a jointly signed letter. "You challenged us eighteen months ago to deliver New London in the way that the private sector works-on time, on budget, and on goal," Claire and Milne said. "So far, we have not missed a trick. There is a significant risk that delay now will derail the project that you initiated and that we are implementing. We need you to stay with us as we continue to march forward."

Before committing to more funding, the governor now wanted to see proof that other investors were committing money to the plan. But the NLDC had no one to point to. Desperate for credible backers, Claire made a bold decision: she pledged a commitment from the Connecticut College board of trustees. With a little more time and another infusion of state money, she and Milne insisted, other private-sector investors would surface in New London. Reluctantly, the governor went along.

Part of the decline in the governor's enthusiasm stemmed from the fact that many homeowners still occupied homes in Fort Trumbull, and they had shown no signs of leaving. The prospect of resorting to eminent domain to evict them was starting to make the Rowland administration skittish. To keep the governor happy and the development on track, the NLDC had to deal with the holdouts. Claire asked the NLDC's real-estate acquisition team to come up with a recommendation. She received a memo with a plan. "To date," the memo said, "it appears that the process has been to purchase properties throughout the area. We have reached the point in the program where we need to move in a more coordinated fashion. The goal should be to get control of blocks of property."

With entire blocks, the NLDC felt, it could start demolition, wiping out entire rows of houses and buildings. Besides being cost-effective, this approach might dampen residents' desire to stick around in a neighborhood overrun by excavators and dump trucks. "If we can create a sense of inevitability," the memo said, "it may motivate additional property owners to sell."

July 8, 1999 The radio in Susette's emergency-response vehicle reported a fire on Trumbull Street.

"What did they say?" Susette asked her partner.

"There's a fire on Trumbull Street," her partner responded.

"Oh, my G.o.d! There's only one house on Trumbull Street. And it's right behind mine."

They sped to Susette's neighborhood. Smoke billowed from the area of her home. "Oh, my G.o.d, my house is on fire!" she yelled, jumping from the truck.

Firemen on the scene a.s.sured her that the flames had not spread to her house. Smoke had, however. And the heat from the fire had melted the paint on the exterior of her house. The Odessa Rose finish had been ruined. Firefighters were hosing down the outside of the house to cool it off.

"You better go upstairs and shut your windows," the fire marshal told her.

With firemen guiding her, Susette entered her home. It had filled with smoke and the inescapable smell of burning. Water from the fire hoses had seeped inside. The place was a mess.

Exiting the house, Susette looked around and tried not to cry. In one direction she saw cranes and construction vehicles erecting steel girders for the new Pfizer complex. In another direction she saw a burning house surrounded by fire trucks. The house on the other side of hers had been empty since it had been acquired by the NLDC. It all looked pretty bleak.

"This is one way to get rid of her," one fireman joked to another.

The comment left Susette unsettled. The African American family that owned the house behind hers had barely escaped the flames. Now homeless and too poor to find housing elsewhere, they ended up on the street, ultimately moving in to a relative's crowded apartment. The NLDC acquired the burnt home and left the charred structure standing. Susette couldn't look out her kitchen or bedroom windows without seeing it.

Fire officials concluded foul play had not been the cause of the fire. All Susette knew was that one more family that had refused to sell out was now gone.

20.

THE TWEED CROWD.

July 9, 1999 A bunker mentality quickly overtook the NLDC. The state's Freedom of Information Commission had just issued a final order saying the NLDC was a public agency and had to comply with the Freedom of Information Act. The ruling meant a big victory for the newspaper and more headaches for Claire. bunker mentality quickly overtook the NLDC. The state's Freedom of Information Commission had just issued a final order saying the NLDC was a public agency and had to comply with the Freedom of Information Act. The ruling meant a big victory for the newspaper and more headaches for Claire.

For starters, the newspaper was pressing to find out what the agency had done with all the money it had received. One of the NLDC's biggest expenditures was for consultants. The biggest consultant contract involved the Downes Group, the construction firm with ties to the governor. One of the reasons the NLDC had hired Downes was the company's reputation for having the right connections to move a ma.s.sive development project along. Pfizer's deadlines called for a firm that knew how to quickly navigate the state's permit and approval process. But by the time the Freedom of Information Act decision came down, Claire's view of the Downes Group had changed.

With the newspaper questioning the NLDC's finances, Claire decided to question Downes's billing. On July 14, she met with the firm's president, Joe Desautel, and asked for a detailed explanation of the work and services Downes had provided. The next day, Desautel faxed her a two-page memo, listing twenty-four action items. He included the negotiation of a $20 million bridge loan for the agency; acquiring buildings and business for the NLDC; demolishing properties; drafting the munic.i.p.al development plan for the peninsula; orchestrating a $16 million bond issue; and securing approvals and permits for all sorts of construction items, from the sewage-treatment facility upgrade to other developments along the waterfront.

Claire wasn't satisfied. "It didn't say hourly rates," she said later. "It didn't say who performed the work, when it was done, who supervised."

She insisted she wouldn't release payment until the firm sent her a more detailed, annotated bill. Her refusal to pay didn't sit well with the Downes Group. The state didn't like it either. Claire received a call from a member of the Department of Economic Development. She later recalled a very direct, testy conversation.

"You have state money, and we order you to pay the bill," Claire said the state official told her.

"I'm happy to pay the bill," Claire responded. "But I have to sign that I know state money is being appropriately spent. And I don't believe the bills are appropriate."

The governor had been monitoring the freedom-of-information dispute between the NLDC and the Day Day. It didn't take long for word about the tiff between Claire and Downes to reach his administration's attention. Claire appeared ready to fire one of the most powerful construction-consulting firms in the state.

"The governor was furious with me on a number of occasions," Claire later recalled. "It's the old thing: 'Are you going to do exactly as I tell you? Then I'm going to keep liking you.' It got very ugly. I think they thought I'd be dumber than I was because I was an academic."

After lawyers got involved and the standoff was on the brink of spilling into a public dispute that threatened to embarra.s.s the NLDC, the Downes Group, and the Rowland administration, the three sides came to a truce. "They sent a different bill that was more explanatory," Claire recalled. "I paid the bill and I fired them."

But now Claire was clearly on the governor's blacklist.

Connecticut College history professor Fred Paxton had barely returned from a sabbatical in Cairo when he received word that Claire intended to appoint him director of the school's Center for International Studies and Liberal Arts. Paxton had long had his eye on the leadership post at the center, which Claire had founded shortly after becoming president of the college. Under her leadership, the center had quickly emerged as the college's signature program. The directorship promised prestige and a chance to work with top students and scholars.

The appointment surprised Paxton. As the former chair of the faculty steering and conference committee, he had the credentials, but he didn't have a particularly close relationship with Claire, who treated the program like her baby and tightly controlled its leadership reins. Nonetheless, when she asked to meet with him to discuss the position, he willingly agreed.

In his customary tweed blazer over a form-fitting, collarless shirt that matched his stylish corduroy pants and L. L. Bean shoes, Paxton dressed the part of a professor at a liberal-arts school in New England. Yet at forty-eight, he had the looks of a distinguished Hollywood actor. His receding hairline gave way to a modestly tanned forehead and face, along with a neatly trimmed gray beard. He expected Claire to be dressed provocatively for their meeting. Beyond that, he didn't know what to expect.

She did not disappoint on the dress. Claire invited him to discuss his leadership approach for the center. She also asked him to review the other interdisciplinary centers on campus to determine what could be done to improve their performance.

Shortly after taking on the a.s.signment, he reported back to her in a phone conversation and said he had interviewed his colleagues and gathered their input on finances, curricula, and other matters. Paxton wanted to have the benefit of their knowledge and experience. He also wanted the support of his colleagues.

Paxton later remembered Claire saying, "Oh, no, Fred, that's not leadership. That's consultation. Consultation is like foreplay. But leadership is like s.e.x. Then you have the baby down the road."

Paxton didn't know how to respond. But he thought he got the point: there was a long way to go, so he should get to work.

While starting in his new role, he read in the newspaper that the NLDC's munic.i.p.al-development plan for the area around Pfizer's new facility would soon be ready for public review. Since he'd been out of the country on sabbatical, Paxton did not realize how involved Claire had become with the NLDC and in redeveloping parts of the city. Curious by nature and a bit self-interested because he owned a home not far from the Fort Trumbull neighborhood, Paxton decided to find out more about the development plans.

He drove to the NLDC office and asked to see the plan. The receptionist informed him that copies for the public weren't yet available. But she offered him an office copy to review. She handed him a ma.s.sive binder. Paxton took it to a nearby table and began reading. The material was dense and technical. Most people would not have the patience to work through it, much less the knowledge to scrutinize it. But Paxton, a historian, made a living by breaking down long, complex doc.u.ments.

He spotted a wide range of development schemes in the plan. But none of the alternatives included keeping the existing Fort Trumbull neighborhood in the larger redevelopment scheme. How can that be the only alternative that doesn't belong in the plan? How can that be the only alternative that doesn't belong in the plan? he asked himself. he asked himself.

He read through the budget and noted the projected costs to acquire the homes, demolish them, and remediate the land they sat on. It occurred to him that tens of millions of dollars could be saved by simply preserving the neighborhood.

"No need to take this neighborhood," he jotted down on his notepad.

After a few hours, Paxton returned the doc.u.ment. The idea that the president of his inst.i.tution was leading an effort to demolish an entire urban neighborhood didn't sit well with him. With the start of the fall semester still a few weeks off, Paxton figured he had time to find some support for opposing the idea. He drove directly to Landmarks, a nonprofit outfit dedicated to preserving the city's historic buildings and neighborhoods. He asked Landmarks director Sally Ryan if her organization shared his concerns. Ryan said her organization had grave concerns about the NLDC's plans.

Paxton asked what Landmarks had been doing to oppose the plan.

There was little Landmarks could do, Ryan indicated, explaining that Claire had all the momentum behind her.

Having expected to find a ready-made opposition plan, Paxton was disappointed. He thanked Ryan for her time and turned to leave. But before he got to the door, Ryan called Paxton back. "There's this architect who is talking about this and who is also very concerned," she said. Ryan handed him a piece of sc.r.a.p paper with the name John Steffian and his home phone number. Not recognizing the name, Paxton stuffed the sc.r.a.p in his pocket and left.

Instead of calling up a stranger, Paxton telephoned a fellow professor at the college, Jefferson Singer. When reviewing the plan, Paxton had noticed Claire had established numerous committees, some of which were led by faculty from the college. Singer headed up the NLDC's Social Justice Committee.