Little Pink House Part 13

24.

BLURRED VISION.

Admiral David Goebel came across as a guy who liked rules and obedience, not exceptions and excuses. That was only natural. He had spent his career in the military, a world that simply didn't work if the rules weren't clear and followed clearly-by everyone.

The deal Jay Levin had cut with the Italian Dramatic Club wasn't something Goebel would go for: exempting the men's club from demolition posed a conflict. The NLDC had a mandate to present a developer with a peninsula free of all buildings, and the NLDC had the power of eminent domain to achieve its mandate. To Goebel it was simple: if the Italian Dramatic Club refused to sell and relocate then it should be subjected to the same treatment as any other holdout in Fort Trumbull. Goebel urged his fellow board members not to make an exception.

Others at the NLDC saw the wisdom in Goebel's position and agreed with him. Attorney Tom Londregan sided with Goebel too. For Londregan it came down to a simple a.n.a.lysis: a secret deal that exempted one building-a private men's club, no less-had legal danger and political controversy written all over it. Londregan suspected a lawsuit over eminent domain might be brewing. A runner, Londregan had found that legal disputes were a lot like races. Reaching the finish line was hard enough, and facing hurdles would only make it harder. The same holds true for lawsuits. Making an exception for the Italian Dramatic Club, Londregan argued, would create an unnecessary legal hurdle for the city and the NLDC.

Besides, Londregan figured, the Italian Dramatic Club wasn't a strong-enough political force to oppose the NLDC. The fallout for forcing the club to move would be little to none.

But Jay Levin had political clout. And Levin had promised the club's president, Aldo Valentini, that no one would touch his club. Claire was caught in the middle. She liked and respected Levin, but she had no idea why he had made such a promise to the club. And she understood where Goebel was coming from. With pressure mounting to take the club down, Claire agreed to revisit the subject with Levin.

A proposed compromise emerged: the NLDC would pay for the club's relocation to another site outside the development-area footprint. That meant either physically moving the building to a new piece of real estate or simply constructing a brand-new building at a new location. Valentini said he'd consider it. He agreed to host a meeting at the club to discuss the particulars with Claire and Levin. Intent on protecting his interests, Valentini decided to call an old friend to advise him during the negotiations.

Judge Angelo Santaniello had unparalleled stature in New London. At age seventy-six, he had been on the bench longer than most attorneys in the city had been practicing law. Besides presiding over hundreds of trials and mediations, Santaniello had a long history of involvement in the Republican Party. Prior to becoming a judge in 1965, he had served as legal counsel to the Connecticut State Senate for the party. Later, Republican governor Thomas Meskill elevated him to the bench of the Superior Court. He then became chief administrative judge of the civil division of the Superior Court for all of Connecticut. If Judge Santaniello called John Rowland, the governor would take the call.

Santaniello also had special standing among Italians in New London, where he had been a pioneer in the legal profession. He had been a friend and a patron of the Italian Dramatic Club. When Aldo Valentini called him asking for help, Santaniello agreed. Valentini told him that the NLDC wanted the club's land and that Claire had floated the idea of paying the club to relocate its building.

"Before you start talking about moving, let's talk about the finances," Santaniello told him. He asked Valentini the value of his building.

Valentini said the NLDC had appraised his building at $170,000.

Santaniello a.s.sured him that was nowhere near enough money to build another building like the one the club had. "So you better know where you're heading and what you're going to do before you start doing it," Santaniello advised. Valentini wasn't sure what Santaniello meant, so the judge cut to the bottom line: "They are not going to give you enough money to rebuild and buy the land."

Valentini asked Santaniello to intervene. Santaniello agreed to call Claire.

David Goebel felt his discussions with Jay Levin over the Italian men's club had been progressing toward a favorable resolution. Then Goebel got an unexpected call from Claire, who had heard from Judge Santaniello. She told Goebel to collect all the doc.u.ments involving negotiations with the club.

Goebel didn't appreciate the judge's sudden intervention. Nonetheless, at Claire's request, he had paperwork and engineering plans put together for the judge, along with a list of available buildings and parcels of land for the men's club to move to or build on. He had all the information delivered to Judge Santaniello.

After Santaniello reviewed the doc.u.ments, he attended a meeting at the club with Claire, Levin, Valentini, and a couple of others. Santaniello and Levin knew the club well; Claire didn't. When she arrived, a couple of members met her outside. "We can't bring you in the front door," one told her.

"Oh," Claire said, a.s.suming the front door was broken or otherwise impa.s.sible. "I don't mind." They led her in through a bas.e.m.e.nt door.

Inside, one of the men leaned toward her. "You know," he said, "you couldn't come in the front door because women never enter that door." Valentini entered the room. "But don't tell him I told you," the man whispered to Claire.

Unfazed, Claire got down to business.

"Where will you find suitable land?" Santaniello asked her.

Claire rattled off a few possibilities.

"What makes you think you could raise this building without it falling apart?" Santaniello asked.

She had no answer.

"Who is going to foot the bill?" Santaniello pushed.

Claire had no answer for that either.

Santaniello figured Claire didn't like having him involved, since power brokers usually don't get along with other power brokers. But Santaniello wasn't in a popularity contest. He wanted to know where the money would come from. Levin indicated he might be able to get $300,000 in federal money.

Santaniello had his doubts. To him, Pfizer represented the most logical source for funds. After all, it was Pfizer that wanted the land cleared. It was Pfizer that had a big financial stake in what transpired next door to its new facility. Yet Pfizer was not at the table. To Santaniello this was a mistake.

Valentini liked the prospect of getting Pfizer money in the mix. The group needed to determine whether Milne would consider financing the preservation of the Italian Dramatic Club. The meeting ended with the group committed to feeling Milne out as a possible source of funding.

Ever since meeting John and Sarah Steffian, Susette had more confidence that she'd be able to keep her home. The Steffians were smart, wealthy, and very generous. Their willingness to engage an attorney had Susette antic.i.p.ating good news when she arrived at the coalition meeting.

But Steve Hallquist had bad news. He had approached many top lawyers and law firms in the city, and they all said no. None of them wanted to sue the city on behalf of the coalition. Some simply said the case could not be won. Others said they had a conflict of interest due to ties to city officials, Pfizer, or Connecticut College.

Mayor Beachy had a suggestion. He had been privately talking to lawyers in the city too. One had recommended Scott Sawyer, a young lawyer with a solo practice. Beachy said he didn't know Sawyer but that he seemed like someone the coalition should pursue.

"Amy and I know Sawyer," Steve Hallquist said. A year earlier, Sawyer had helped them resolve a simple property-line dispute. "We'll call him."

The private off-campus meeting held by Connecticut College faculty ended up being a planning session to oust Claire as president. She was criticized for everything from finances to her leadership style. Some faculty were so angry they wanted to go directly to the board of trustees with a letter spelling out the school's financial woes and demanding Claire's resignation. Others suggested a less confrontational approach-sending a small group of respected senior faculty to talk with her directly and encourage her to step down voluntarily. This approach would spare Claire any public embarra.s.sment and keep the school's financial woes out of the newspapers.

The more diplomatic approach prevailed. But the half dozen senior faculty who enjoyed good relations with Claire failed to make the kind of headway their colleagues wanted to see. And with only a few weeks remaining before the end of the spring semester, a small group of professors drafted a pet.i.tion calling on Claire to resign. Mobilized and energized, the leaders of the pet.i.tion drive needed only two weeks to get 78 of the school's 105 tenured professors to sign it. Before submitting it to the board of trustees, one of the professors tipped off the Day Day. On May 7 the newspaper broke the news of the pet.i.tion.

The news was stunning. The college president who had used her clout to spearhead an economic revival in New London had suddenly become vulnerable. It was the talk of the town from the Fort Trumbull neighborhood to City Hall. It was hard not to suspect that her extensive time commitment to the city had led to her neglect of the campus.

Two things were clear: the gloves had come off, and Claire was challenged with a revolt. Her personal secretary, Claudia Shapiro, couldn't believe the faculty had actually gone public against Claire. Shapiro, soft-spoken and in her sixties, had started working for Claire the year she became the president. She found Claire very demanding yet irresistibly likeable. On birthdays and Jewish holidays, Shapiro always discovered a gift from Claire hidden in her desk drawer, usually signed "Aheba, Claire," Hebrew for "Love, Claire."

Shapiro saw sides of Claire that few people saw. She acknowledged that Claire's dominant personality surely had its flaws. "She had a habit of offending people," Shapiro said. "Then people forget the good parts about her and they hold grudges."

But to Shapiro, Claire's qualities far outweighed any imperfections. "She was a workaholic, very driven and very aggressive," she said. "People loved this when she started. But after she made a few mistakes, these same qualities were disdained." And certainly she didn't deserve to be run out, Shapiro felt.

Privately, some professors agreed. "For all the criticism of Claire," one senior professor told Shapiro in confidence, "when a parent brings a child to our campus, all the things we brag about were brought in by Claire."

None of that mattered now. There was blood in the water and the notion of a faculty revolt against a college president immediately attracted national attention. The Chronicle of Higher Education Chronicle of Higher Education, the leading periodical for academia, ran a two-thousand-word story t.i.tled "A Promoter of Town-Gown Cooperation Finds Development May Be Her Undoing." It outlined the dispute between the faculty and Claire, quoting professors who had turned solidly against Claire. The Chronicle Chronicle also reported that it had obtained a videotape of Claire speaking at a black Baptist church in New London right around the time she was trying to garner support for the NLDC's plan to demolish the Fort Trumbull neighborhood. In her speech, Claire likened her leadership at the NLDC to the social-justice movements led by Jesus Christ and Martin Luther King Jr. also reported that it had obtained a videotape of Claire speaking at a black Baptist church in New London right around the time she was trying to garner support for the NLDC's plan to demolish the Fort Trumbull neighborhood. In her speech, Claire likened her leadership at the NLDC to the social-justice movements led by Jesus Christ and Martin Luther King Jr.

"Like them," the Chronicle Chronicle reported Claire's saying to the Baptist congregation, "I'm operating outside my specialty. Does that mean I'm going to make mistakes? Yes." But in her speech Claire urged the congregation to support her work. "Jesus is calling us in this city to witness," she said. "You and I are called to be transforming interveners, like the Messiah, like Martin Luther King." reported Claire's saying to the Baptist congregation, "I'm operating outside my specialty. Does that mean I'm going to make mistakes? Yes." But in her speech Claire urged the congregation to support her work. "Jesus is calling us in this city to witness," she said. "You and I are called to be transforming interveners, like the Messiah, like Martin Luther King."

The board of trustees had a huge problem on its hands; its financial woes and the internal battle between Claire and the faculty had oozed into public view.

Shapiro instantly saw the change in Claire. One of the things she most admired about Claire was her physical beauty and her fearlessness about showcasing it through a bold wardrobe. Suddenly, Claire was showing up for work looking terrible, after staying up until four in the morning each night dealing with a crisis. "She had such a vision," Shapiro lamented. "In many ways it may have been unrealistic."

25.

TIME IS NOT ON OUR SIDE.

Steve Hallquist had secured an appointment with Scott Sawyer. John and Sarah Steffian planned to attend. But other members of the coalition feared that a local lawyer wouldn't have enough firepower to stop the city. "This is bigger than us," said Peter Kreckovic, a local artist who had joined the coalition. "We need outside help."

No one disagreed. Yet no one knew any out-of-town law firms that specialized in personal-property rights. Plus, the cost of landing that kind of firm seemed prohibitive.

Suddenly, someone in the group brought up a public-interest law firm-the Inst.i.tute for Justice-that handled property-rights cases. Based in Washington, D.C., the firm operated as a nonprofit that did not accept legal fees from its clients.

It had been in the news for helping an elderly widow fend off the State of New Jersey from taking her home. The state had planned to condemn the widow's home and a couple of neighboring properties in order to sell the land to Donald Trump, who planned to convert it into a limousine waiting area and a lawn for one of his Atlantic City casinos. Legal experts had given the widow no chance of prevailing. The case had made national headlines when a Superior Court judge ruled against the state, saying that any public benefit from condemning the properties was far outweighed by the overwhelming private benefit being pa.s.sed on to Trump. The victory inspired the inst.i.tute to start a major campaign to revive the public-use requirement in eminent-domain takings, which land-use lawyers and judges had considered a lost cause for decades.

To the coalition, New London's attempt to take land for the benefit of Pfizer sounded a lot like the New Jersey case. Everyone agreed it would be a coup to get the inst.i.tute engaged in the fight in New London. It all sounded good to Susette. But she had never heard of a law firm that didn't collect legal fees, and she figured the chances of getting the inst.i.tute to help were probably slim to none.

Hallquist and Steffian insisted they'd press on with trying to retain Scott Sawyer.

"Well, are we going to contact the Inst.i.tute for Justice?" Peter Kreckovic asked, looking directly at Fred Paxton.

"Why don't you do it, Peter?" Paxton said. Others nodded in agreement.

Shy and self-conscious, Kreckovic doubted he was the right person to contact a Washington law firm. But he feared no one else would get to it. So that afternoon he sat down in front of his manual typewriter. "Dear Sir, I am writing to you on behalf of the Coalition to Save Fort Trumbull Neighborhood," he began, explaining that the state had given millions of dollars to the NLDC to redevelop the neighborhood. "Their plan is to demolish all the houses and commercial buildings to give a clear field to the developers, who can then build high-income condominiums, a hotel and health club on the site. These would support the 220 million dollar research facility being built by Pfizer Pharmaceutical next door."

Efforts by the gra.s.sroots organization to seek justice had been ignored. "Demolitions are slated to begin in mid-June," he typed. "We wonder if your organization would be willing to help us."

Three hours later, Kreckovic finished and took the letter to the post office.

Late May 2000 As soon as he had pa.s.sed the bar exam in Pennsylvania, Scott Bullock had headed to Washington, D.C., in the summer of 1991, to take a job at a start-up legal organization. Bullock's mind had been set on changing the way large ma.s.ses of people think. He had considered becoming an economist or philosopher, but that, he figured, would limit him to merely speaking and writing. He had something a little more action oriented in mind: using the Const.i.tution as an instrument to alter how others act.

Attorney and entrepreneur Chip Mellor had just founded the Inst.i.tute for Justice with civil-rights attorney Clint Bolick. Before launching the inst.i.tute, Mellor had spent five years developing litigation blueprints and strategies for the Pacific Research Inst.i.tute in San Francisco, where he had become friendly with Milton Friedman. At Pacific, Mellor focused his legal research on property rights, economic liberty, free speech, and school choice. He designed the Inst.i.tute for Justice to focus primarily on those four issues.

Scott Bullock didn't know Chip Mellor then. But, as a law student, Bullock had interned for Clint Bolick at the Landmark Center for Civil Rights. Bullock jumped at the chance to rejoin Bolick and work alongside Mellor as the third attorney in a nonprofit law practice dedicated to protecting people's rights. It fit his personal philosophy, which was that people ought to be free to do as they wished unless they were harming someone else.

Bullock's view of the world was formed early. Born in Guantanamo Bay, where his father served in the navy shortly after the Cuban missile crisis, Bullock got an early education in personal liberties and what happens when governments suppress them. After his father retired, Bullock moved with his parents and brother back to Pittsburgh, where his larger family had lived for generations. Unlike many Washington lawyers, Bullock didn't come from a high-powered background. He was the first in his family to graduate from college. Most of his relatives worked in Pittsburgh factories. His brother was a mechanic.

But Bullock was influenced early on by the writings of Thomas Paine, Thomas Jefferson, and Milton Friedman, especially Friedman's book Free to Choose Free to Choose. At the inst.i.tute, Bullock started representing private-property owners facing eminent-domain takings by local and state governments. Private law firms thought the inst.i.tute was wasting its time on eminent-domain cases, taking the view that virtually anything goes when it comes to government taking private property for public use. The inst.i.tute was determined to change that.

Single, with short hair, wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, and a baby face, Bullock sat down at his desk in the firm's Pennsylvania Avenue office in late May 2000 to go through his mail. Facing an etching of Thomas Paine and a picture of jazz musician John Coltrane, he discovered a letter postmarked New London, Connecticut.

Bullock and his partners routinely received letters from strangers around the country seeking help. In any given week, a dozen letters or more might arrive. Few ever got beyond a quick read by Bullock, because most of the letters raised legal questions not suitable for the inst.i.tute's intervention.

Bullock opened the letter from New London. "Many homeowners in the neighborhood have already sold, unable to deal with the uncertainty in their lives of losing their homes," he read. "But there are some twenty families as well as a number of businesses that are holding out and who are faced with eminent domain."

The story sounded very familiar. Bullock read on. "Many families face considerable financial and emotional damage if eminent domain is used-basically to demolish a working cla.s.s neighborhood to build more expensive housing," the letter said. "Some of these people have lived in these houses all their lives, and are elderly. Some are in their nineties."

Bullock put the letter down. Well written, it concisely described government abuse of the eminent-domain power. The role of Pfizer and a development agency in seizing homes on behalf of the city intrigued him. Right away Bullock saw the two key elements his firm looked for before accepting a case: a cutting-edge legal issue and outrageous government behavior. Bullock wondered whether the property owners would make sympathetic plaintiffs.

Intrigued, Bullock shared the letter with Mellor, who agreed it had potential and deserved a follow-up phone call.

Peter Kreckovic got nervous when he heard Bullock's voice on his answering machine, saying he had some questions. Kreckovic hadn't really expected a response. Encouraged, he called Bullock and introduced himself. He found Bullock talked more like an activist than a lawyer. The conversation quickly focused on Pfizer and the property owners whose homes were at risk. Kreckovic described Susette and her elderly neighbors.

Bullock liked what he heard. He asked Kreckovic to gather more information and get back to him.

At the end of her nursing shift, Susette paid a visit to a nursing home in the area. Her elderly neighbor Daniel Anton had recently been transferred there from his Fort Trumbull home. The fear of losing his house had led to a rapid decline in his physical health.

Many of Susette's elderly neighbors were succ.u.mbing to anxiety attacks about the uncertainty of their future. Susette blamed Claire, who had sent one elderly neighbor, Walter Pasqualini, a letter. "I would like to apologize for any confusion or anxiety that may have occurred regarding NLDC and the potential acquisition of your home," Claire told Pasqualini. "It is not the desire of the NLDC to disrupt the quality of life you enjoy in your home. However, we are moving forward with our plans and as you are aware, our development plans may include the parcel of land that your home is situated on. But again, we are not asking you to move."

Susette peeked in Anton's room. Barely awake, he motioned for her to come in. She clasped his frail hand and glanced at his medical chart. It indicated his vital signs were poor. She figured he had little time left.

"What is going to happen to my home in Fort Trumbull?" he whispered.

"I don't know," she said.

Anton worried about his older brother, Albert, who still resided in the house they had shared together. "Where will my brother go?" he said.

"We're going to try and make it all right," she said. She looked up at the ceiling to keep from crying.

That night she sent an e-mail to her neighbors and to members of the coalition, reporting on her visit with Anton and his question. "I am sorry to say," Susette wrote, "that I don't believe Mr. Anton is going to live long enough to find out."

A few days later Anton died.

June 8, 2000 It was 8 a.m. when Sarah Steffian trailed her husband and Steve and Amy Hallquist into Scott Sawyer's office. The exceedingly tall former college-basketball player led them into a conference room and invited them to sit down.

Determined to retain a lawyer, the group had one overriding question for Sawyer: was he willing to go against the establishment?

Sawyer had just finished bringing a series of environmental lawsuits against the U.S. Coast Guard. But he didn't know enough about the situation in Fort Trumbull to weigh in just yet. The group gave him a brief summary of the dispute. "We're finding resistance from every lawyer we've approached," Steve Hallquist explained. "n.o.body wants to touch this."

"Well, let me tell you a little bit about me," Sawyer said. Rather than discuss his professional credentials, Sawyer told the tragic story of his sister's accidental death years earlier. In the fall of 1988, Jill Sawyer, then a college student, and three friends had disappeared one night after visiting a juice bar in New Haven. Five days later, the girls were p.r.o.nounced dead when the car they had been in was pulled from a river. At the time of the accident, the City of New Haven had been repairing the Chapel Street Bridge, which was closed to traffic. A gap existed between the roadway and the bridge, but the Jersey barriers around the drop-off did not completely block access. In the darkness, the girls had driven through the opening in the barriers and plunged into the water.

Scott Sawyer was a graduate student at the time, and he and his family sued the City of New Haven. Ultimately, the city settled, but not until after seven grueling years of litigation had pa.s.sed. The experience inspired him to become a lawyer and open up his own practice.

"I've gone against the current," Sawyer told the group. "I've taken on City Hall. Why don't you tell me the main points of contention here," he said.

John Steffian and Steve Hallquist hit him with a litany of facts. Amy Hallquist raised a series of legal questions. Sawyer took notes: taxpayers, property owners, compensation, and legal standing were his primary concerns. Then the question of legal fees arose.

Sarah Steffian asked to speak with Sawyer in private. The two of them walked away from the group. The Hallquists later realized they were discussing a fee arrangement-attorney fees would come from Sarah and would remain confidential.

Before the group left, Sawyer told them what he told all his clients: "I'm a lawyer who has been a client in a very high-profile case, and I certainly understand that I shouldn't say to anybody 'I know how you feel,'" he said. "I can work with you. But you need to talk to me, and you need to fire me if you're uncomfortable."

After leaving Sawyer's office, Steve and Amy Hallquist met with Sarah and John Steffian to compare notes. They all agreed that Sawyer represented their best hope at bringing a lawsuit, since getting the Inst.i.tute for Justice looked unlikely. They agreed to retain Sawyer.

"We have fought many battles and lost time and time again," John said. "But by G.o.d, we're going to win this time, and we're going to win with you guys." He patted Steve on the back.

Later that night, Sarah wrote Sawyer a letter telling him to forget about issues like taxation and to focus on the most important issue. "Legal action should be taken to contest and stop the eminent domain process," she wrote.

David Goebel checked his e-mail in-box. He saw this: "Dave: Please call Aldo/Judge Santaniello/Jay Levin to tell them that George needs to start the meeting at 4PM at IDC, not 3PM. We're sorry. Our team (besides George, who really isn't available until 4) should gather at NLDC at 3PM to touch heads." The e-mail had come from one of Claire's a.s.sistants.

"The judge and Jay have been called," Goebel responded. "The judge will notify Aldo."

The next day, the group a.s.sembled at the Italian men's club for a final meeting on the future of the building. Claire thought she had it all figured out. She suggested erecting a monument to Italian heritage and relocating the club to a side street, closer to the waterfront. She even had the perfect spot picked out, right between two quaint houses.

It sounded great to Valentini. Santaniello took a practical approach. "It's always nice to have ideas," he said, "but you have to have money to put them into effect. So where is the money going to come from?"