Little Pink House Part 29

"That guy is a real jerk," she said.

When Kathleen Mitch.e.l.l read Goebel's statements, she knew they had to hurt. She called Susette to try to buoy her up.

"I don't give a s.h.i.t what he says," Susette said.

But Mitch.e.l.l knew she did care. Beneath Susette's hard-edge exterior she had a compa.s.sionate heart. She hadn't gone into nursing to get rich. She hadn't abandoned Tim LeBlanc when an accident turned him from a lover to a patient. And she had never gotten paid a dime to lead the fight in Fort Trumbull. She didn't deserve to be smeared by the agency that resented her for trying to stop them from seizing her home. Mitch.e.l.l said that Goebel had gone too far.

"I know what he was trying to do," Susette said. "Instead of taking so much time to try and make me look dirty, why not just tell the truth?"

"Let's go get him," Mitch.e.l.l said.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and Dave Goebel had family and friends over for a backyard cookout. All of a sudden, it sounded like a parade pa.s.sing by out front. But it wasn't a holiday. Goebel checked to see the source of the commotion. In front of his house he spotted Mitch.e.l.l and Susette, who was holding a sign that read, "Goebel Minister of Propaganda." Members of the Fort Trumbull coalition and nurses who worked with Susette at the hospital marched behind them on the sidewalk. Pounding on makeshift drums that Mitch.e.l.l had made out of empty cat-litter containers, many protestors had their own signs: "It's abuse and the abuser lives here" and "'She is not a good woman,' said the man who kicked the woman when she is down."

All together, they started chanting: "Dave is a bad man. Dave is a bad man."

As the crowd swelled, Susette spotted an authentic military Humvee coming down Goebel's street. Painted in camouflage, the oversize vehicle bellowed smoke from the rear exhaust. The driver had on a World War II military helmet and was puffing on a big cigar. It was Billy Von Winkle looking like General George Patton.

The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers as Von Winkle blasted his horn and parked right in front of Goebel's house, revving up the protestors to chant even more loudly.

Susette didn't know how she would have survived the eight-year struggle without Mitch.e.l.l and Von Winkle. Every time she had felt ready to give up, they had shown up to steady her with their audacity.

Von Winkle hadn't come alone. John Steffian emerged from the pa.s.senger seat, carrying his own sign, which quoted the English poet John Milton: "A dismal universal hiss, the sound of public scorn."

Mitch.e.l.l loved it. Only John Steffian would bring Milton to a street fight in a Humvee operated by a cigar-chomping funny man dressed up like Patton.

"We need to make more noise," one of the protestors shouted.

Cars pa.s.sing by started honking while people yelled out the windows, "Give them back their houses!" and, "Eminent domain sucks!"

A lazy Sunday afternoon in New London's most upscale neighborhood had turned into an irreverent street exhibition. Since the demonstration remained peaceful and didn't damage property or obstruct traffic, the police let it proceed without interference. Before long, press photographers showed up on Goebel's lawn to record the spectacle, and a reporter knocked on his door, seeking his reaction. "It was a very good lesson for my grandson in const.i.tutional law," he told the reporter.

The retired admiral did not look amused.

42.

BLINDSIDED.

September 13, 2005 Rich Beyer was working when he got a call from his tenant in Fort Trumbull, reporting he had received a notice from the NLDC indicating he had to vacate his apartment. "What is this?" the tenant asked.

Beyer dropped what he was doing and drove to the apartment building to examine the doc.u.ment. It was an eviction notice. Beyer's tenants had ninety days to vacate.

Beyer called Von Winkle and asked if his tenants had received eviction notices. Von Winkle checked and confirmed they had not. But the Cristofaro family and Byron Athenian had.

Beyer got the picture. The three property owners on Parcel 3 of the NLDC's development plan had been targeted. But what about Governor Rell's moratorium? Per request of the governor, all eminent-domain actions in the state were supposed to be on hold until the legislature completed its review. The eviction notices strongly indicated to the homeowners that the NLDC no longer cared what the governor or the legislature said.

Beyer was furious. He and Von Winkle agreed it was time to get Bullock involved. Beyer called him.

At first, Bullock thought Beyer had to be mistaken. But when Beyer read Bullock the notice, he realized it was true. On top of serving eviction papers, the NLDC was also demanding monthly occupancy fees and liability insurance during the interim.

Bullock calmly a.s.sured Beyer and the others that the inst.i.tute would fight the evictions. Then he grabbed Berliner and stormed into Kramer's office and blew his stack. "These b.a.s.t.a.r.ds never cease to amaze me," he said, insisting it was time to drop the hammer on Goebel and Joplin.

The three of them quickly worked up a press release and sent it off to all the Connecticut media. "The NLDC's actions are breathtaking in their arrogance and defiance of the wishes of Governor Rell and Connecticut's legislature," Bullock said. "The NLDC is an unelected, unaccountable body that has been given the government's eminent domain power and is out of control. It is time Connecticut's political leaders at the state and local levels reel in this group."

Joplin and Goebel didn't appreciate the inst.i.tute's attack. Goebel implied that the moratorium pledge his agency had taken applied only to new condemnation actions-not the ones involved in the Supreme Court case. "There are no new takings," he told the press. "All this was done five years ago, and now the Supreme Court has ruled. The city has been extremely patient waiting for this to go through the court system. Now that this is done, we're implementing the decision."

Joplin echoed Goebel. "Now we've won," he said. "We've reached the end of legal arguments. It's time to move on and push this project forward."

The next day, news of the evictions and the NLDC's decision to break the moratorium splashed across the front pages. Everyone from the New London City Council to the governor was blindsided. They were shocked that the NLDC would take such a drastic step at such a sensitive time.

The news sparked a backlash against City Hall. The city council looked inept. The NLDC looked ruthless. And the governor's wishes looked irrelevant. The Coalition to Save Fort Trumbull Neighborhood issued a statement calling on the city council to disband the NLDC once and for all.

Indeed, the city council appeared ready to do just that. Just twenty-four hours before the NLDC issued its eviction notices, City Hall officials had met with them on the status of negotiations with the homeowners. No one had said boo about resorting to forced eviction. Now the city council had egg on its face. Tired of looking foolish, some members of the council called for a vote of no confidence in the NLDC.

From the governor's mansion, the situation in New London looked like a never-ending train wreck. The longer the standoff continued, the more publicly embarra.s.sing it became. It was bad enough that Tom Londregan had taken the governor to task in the state's largest newspaper. Now the NLDC had squeezed the property owners, validating the perception that the agency was out of control and out of touch.

Governor Rell was at wits' end. But it was hard to know where to direct her anger. She couldn't go after the city; it had nothing to do with the eviction notices going out. And she couldn't just pound on the NLDC. The agency was a creature of the state, set up by her predecessor to serve as a blunt instrument to allow the state to get its way in New London without interference from locally elected officials. The state had pa.s.sed $70 million through the NLDC to carry out the project. If the state walked away from the NLDC now, it would be kissing a mighty big investment good-bye.

Angry and embarra.s.sed, Governor Rell huddled privately with her legal counsel Kevin Rasch; her chief of staff, Lisa Moody; and Ron Angelo, deputy commissioner of the state's Department of Economic and Community Development, which had more direct contact with and oversight of the NLDC than any other state agency.

The governor felt like telling the city to simply incorporate the holdouts' houses into the development plan or else. But she wasn't sure the city would comply.

Instead, Rell decided to appoint a special mediator in hope of getting the parties to sit down and find a way to resolve the dispute once and for all without resorting to forced evictions. In the meantime, she dispatched her chief counsel, Rasch, to New London to tell the NLDC to rescind the eviction notices at once.

John Kramer was in his office at the inst.i.tute in Washington when he read online that Goebel and Joplin had denied breaking their moratorium pledge. Smelling blood, Kramer called Bullock on his cell phone in Baltimore, where he had traveled to give a speech. Bullock took the call on a crowded train platform.

"They are now claiming the pledge only applied to new eminent-domain actions," Kramer said, before reading Goebel's exact quote.

"He's lying!" Bullock shouted into the phone, oblivious of the fact that he was surrounded by commuters. "We have to doc.u.ment their lies. I know there are news stories where they are quoted on this."

While Bullock ranted, Kramer did a quick search on his computer and pulled down an a.s.sociated Press story from late July that quoted Joplin saying that the NLDC would allow the houses in Fort Trumbull to stand while the legislature took up the eminent-domain issue. "We are going to abide by the moratorium," Joplin told the press at that time.

"We have to do a news release," Bullock said. "We have to destroy whatever shred of credibility these people have left."

Kramer hated to hesitate when he saw an opportunity to bury an adversary. He kept Bullock on the phone and ripped off a release right on the spot. "NLDC LIES CONTINUE: a.s.sociated Press Report Impeaches NLDC Claims That Moratorium Promise Now Only Applies to New Takings." As if writing a criminal indictment, Kramer doc.u.mented one conflicting statement after another by Joplin, attaching dates and putting the most glaring inaccuracies in boldface.

He read the release back to Bullock. Then Bullock dictated a quote for the end. "The NLDC's claim that the moratorium on eminent domain applied only to new cases and not to the homes in New London is a blatant lie," Bullock said. "Now the NLDC is not only breaking its word and defying both Governor M. Jodi Rell and the Connecticut legislature, but it is outright lying to the media and the public."

"Got it," Kramer said. He hung up and sent off the press release, copying the governor's staff.

When NLDC attorney Mathew Greene learned that the governor's chief counsel, Kevin Rasch, was on his way to New London to meet with NLDC officials he figured heads would roll. Greene had weathered many public-relations storms during his seven-year stint as the agency's in-house counsel, but none of them seemed as threatening as this one. The inst.i.tute was applying intense public pressure on Goebel and Joplin, and the city council had upped its plans from a no-confidence vote to a demand that the NLDC's senior leadership resign. In a matter of forty-eight hours, the city's plans had gone from merely publicly slapping the NLDC's wrist to cutting off its head.

When Rasch arrived at the NLDC's office, he did not mince words. He said that the governor had lost confidence in the agency and that Goebel and Joplin were on thin ice. The governor wanted the eviction notices rescinded immediately.

Goebel and Joplin agreed to comply. Greene also agreed with the decision to rescind.

Following Rasch's visit, Greene met privately with Joplin and suggested a plan to try to fend off the city council's plan to sever ties with the NLDC. Greene still had the trust and respect of the city council, and if there was any way of working out a compromise, Greene had the best chance of facilitating it. "Utilize me," he told Joplin.

Joplin agreed to have Greene see what he could do.

The same day that the NLDC agreed to rescind the evictions, Susette received a letter from Senator Arlen Specter, chairman of the U.S. Senate Judiciary Committee. It read, "Dear Ms. Kelo: On Tuesday September 20, 2005, the Senate Committee on the Judiciary will hold a hearing ent.i.tled 'The Kelo Decision: Investigating Takings of Homes and other Private Property.' I invite you to testify at the hearing, which is scheduled to begin at 10:00 a.m. in Room 226 of the Dirksen Senate Office Building." Specter informed her that she would need to provide seventy-five copies of her written testimony and her curriculum vitae for distribution to the committee and the press.

"My G.o.d, when is this going to end?" she said out loud.

The demands on her time were overwhelming her. Everyone, it seemed, wanted her attention. Despite the NLDC's doing everything in its power to wipe out her address-tearing down street signs and refusing to recognize the street addresses in the Fort Trumbull area as valid-the mail carrier knew who lived where and continued to deliver mail. In Susette's case, that meant hundreds of letters from supporters around the country. Unsure of her address, many writers put down only sketchy information on the mailing envelopes, hoping it would be enough to reach Susette.

"Mrs. Susette Kelo, Fort Trumbull Neighborhood, New London, CT 06320," read one envelope from a man in Greenville, North Carolina.

"Susette Kelo & Family, New London, CT 06320," wrote a person in Honolulu.

A man from Waterbury wrote, "Mrs. Susette Kelo at the 1893 John Bishop House, Fort Trumbull, New London, Connecticut 06320."

"Susette Kelo, New London, Conn. 06320," a person from Hollywood, California, wrote.

Some mail didn't even have a zip code, like the letter from Savannah, Georgia, addressed to "Ms. Susette Kelo, Eminent Domain Displaced, New London, CT." Somehow, all these letters of support reached her home. Every letter emboldened her to keep on fighting.

With help from Bullock and the inst.i.tute, Susette got busy preparing her testimony for the Senate Judiciary Committee hearing.

Behind closed doors, Londregan and the city council met to decide what to do about the NLDC. The councilors remained adamant that the agency had to be reined in. A message had to be sent. The best way to do it was to remove the leadership.

Londregan agreed. From the day Claire Gaudiani had been appointed head of the NLDC, the agency had consistently failed to keep the city in the loop on its decisions. This had been going on for years, and it was time to put a stop to it.

Londregan and the city council agreed that the NLDC needed an ultimatum: either the NLDC would remove Goebel and Joplin at once, or the council would dissolve the entire agency.

September 19, 2005 In damage-control mode, the NLDC rescinded its eviction notices. Nonetheless, the city council convened a public meeting at City Hall to vote on whether or not to cut ties with the agency. All the people who had fought to protect the Fort Trumbull neighborhood showed up beforehand for a ma.s.sive rally to protest eminent domain. The holdout homeowners attended, along with many of the original members of the Save Fort Trumbull Coalition, including Professor Fred Paxton and Steve and Amy Hallquist. The reunion resembled a revival.

Yet times had clearly changed. Instead of a few dozen supporters from New London, hundreds of newcomers had come from outside the city to show solidarity with the holdouts. When the rally ended, they all tried to pack the council chamber. Throngs of people jammed the lobby and the stairwells leading to the chamber, making it impossible for two of the councilors to get to the meeting.

In the chaos, the fire marshal ordered the crowd to clear the building, declaring that the number of people exceeded that permitted by the building's fire code. Other than those in the chamber, everyone else had to evacuate. That didn't sit well with the crowd. Tempers flared. Policemen formed a barricade outside the chamber. Those stuck in the halls and stairwells began shouting.

One councilor emerged from the chamber to a.s.sure everyone outside that the meeting would not go on without them.

n.o.body believed it. Fort Trumbull holdout Michael Cristofaro, who had received one of the eviction notices, started shouting at the councilor, demanding a chance to address the council.

Emboldened by Cristofaro's fiery words, the crowd began yelling louder.

"You're inciting these people," the councilor said. "Stop yelling!"

Democracy-messy and volatile-had shown up at City Hall and the politicians didn't know how to handle it. The scene around the chamber was teetering on anarchy.

The city council decided to abort the meeting and postpone the vote. Clearly they needed a bigger venue to accommodate the public.

The police ordered everyone to clear the building.

Susette missed all the commotion. She had flown to Washington to get ready for her appearance the following morning before the Senate Judiciary Committee. Her situation was on the minds of many in Washington. And the outrage over the Supreme Court's decision hadn't died down. A group in Los Angeles had started a national campaign to have Justice David Souter's home in New Hampshire condemned and taken by eminent domain.

In her Washington hotel room, Susette panicked. In twelve hours she'd be testifying before the U.S. Senate and she didn't have her opening statement written. She had already submitted carefully prepared written testimony, but she wanted to make a separate, personal statement when she appeared before the committee.

With so much going on at once, she couldn't think straight anymore. Desperate, she telephoned Mitch.e.l.l back in New London for help.

"All right, calm down," Mitch.e.l.l said. "I'll dictate something to you."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

"What?"

"I don't even have anything to write on."

Mitch.e.l.l couldn't help laughing.

"Wait, I've got a napkin," Susette said. "Okay. I'm ready. I'm ready."

Over the next thirty minutes, Mitch.e.l.l helped her craft an opening statement. Susette thanked her, promising to call her after the hearing.

Before Susette fell asleep, Von Winkle called. He had just returned from City Hall. "You missed the show of the year," he told her. "The place was packed."

"I'd rather be there than here right now," she said.

Von Winkle a.s.sured her she'd do just fine in front of the senators. "Go get 'em, Red," he said.

43.

LIVING PROOF.

September 20, 2005 As a little girl, on her first day of elementary school, Susette had been surprised when her cla.s.s went to a cafeteria at lunchtime. She hadn't known what lunch was. In her house she had had only two meals a day, breakfast and dinner. She liked school because it offered a hot meal every day.

Entering the U.S. Capitol for the first time, she felt a little like a child all over again. She never realized that people like her-a working-cla.s.s nurse without a college degree-could get an audience with senators. "Boy, there sure are a lot of people here," she said, taking a deep breath as Scott Bullock ushered her into the hearing room. She took her place at the witness table beside the mayor of Hartford, who had come to testify in favor of eminent domain.

Proud to be on the other side, Susette figured she owed it to millions of other working Americans to do her best to convince the senators that politicians like the one seated next to her didn't care about the little guys.

Susette looked over her shoulder and smiled nervously at Bullock. He gave her a look of confidence. The Susette Kelo in front of him wasn't the same Susette he had met the first time he visited her home, in 2000. During five intense years of ups and downs, victories and setbacks, she had evolved into the leader of a national movement. She wasn't polished and programmed. But that was what made her so effective. You couldn't stage genuineness.

Susette didn't need notes to tell the senators how she found her house and fixed it up on her own, met Tim LeBlanc and fell in love, and thought she was on her way to living happily ever after until she discovered a condemnation notice taped to her door on the day before Thanksgiving 2000. "We did not have a very pleasant holiday," she said, "and each Thanksgiving since has been bittersweet for all of us. We're happy that we are still in our homes but afraid we could be thrown out any day."

Though often distracted at hearings, the senators couldn't help focusing on Susette. Unlike the suits that so often parade before committees-corporate executives, lawyers, lobbyists, and special-interest representatives-she was was the people, a plain-talking woman with a story that was too infuriating to be made up. the people, a plain-talking woman with a story that was too infuriating to be made up.

"My neighborhood was not blighted," she said. "None of us asked for any of this. We were simply living our lives, working, taking care of our families, and paying our taxes. The city may have narrowly won the battle on eminent domain, but the war remains, not just in Fort Trumbull but also across the nation. Special interests who benefit from this use of government power are working to convince the public and legislatures that there isn't a problem. But I am living proof that there is. This battle against eminent domain abuse may have started as a way for me to save my little pink cottage, but it has rightfully grown into something much larger-the fight to restore the American Dream and the sacredness and security of each one of our homes."