Photo by Alesia Exum
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Whose House Is It Anyway?
By Barry Yeoman, May & June 2005
When a city's quest for renewal means the death of an old neighborhood
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Wilhelmina Dery has lived her entire 87 years in a blue sea captain's
house near the banks of Connecticut's Thames River. From the ground floor,
her family ran a grocery where the neighborhood's Italian women congregated
Saturday mornings, buying freshly stuffed sausage and wedges of Parmesan cut
from large wheels. Across the street, the river was thick with traffic:
swordfish, tuna, and lobster fishing boats; Coast Guard ships; and, during
Prohibition, the rum-running vessels that gave New London its reputation as a
crossroads of the illegal liquor trade.
Wilhelmina met her husband, Charles, now 85, at a USO dance during World War
II, just before he shipped out to the South Pacific with the Merchant Marine.
Of their four kids, only the youngest, Matt, survives. He lives next door with
his wife and teenage son in a three-story house with skylights and oak trim,
converted from the brick-oven bakery where Wilhelmina's immigrant father
once worked. Several times a week, Matt or a family member carries a heaping
plate of homemade pasta across the driveway. Charles likes this balance of
intimacy and privacy. "He has his space and I have mine, you know?"
the older man says of his son. "I love him to death, but I realize that
you've got to let him breathe a little."
The Derys' neighborhood, Fort Trumbull, has never been a tidy suburb. It
butts up against a train yard, and until recently reeked from a nearby
wastewater treatment plant. But it was close-knit nonetheless, a place of
nighttime basketball games, Easter dinners, and huge funerals where the whole
small community turned out. "Nobody locked their doors," says Matt,
who is 48 and works as a sales manager at New London's daily newspaper.
"You just walked in and yelled. You'd get fed wherever you went."
In 1976, Matt took over the family grocery, by then a sandwich shop where
employees of the Naval Undersea Warfare Center came for grinders filled with
chicken Parmesan and teriyaki rib eye. He eventually gave the store to his
brother, who ran it until he died in a 1994 fire. (Another brother died
accidentally as an adult, and a sister died in infancy.) When the Warfare
Center closed in 1996, it spelled an end to the family business.
In the late 1990s, Fort Trumbull residents suddenly noticed real estate
agents poking around their rutted streets. The neighbors suspected something
was in the works, and in December 1999 the news hit: the city of New London
planned to acquire all 90 acres of Fort Trumbull and turn the land over to
private developers. Spurred by the imminent opening of Pfizer Global Research
and Development's $300 million headquarters next door, the city envisioned
a "waterfront urban village" of offices, luxury condominiums, and a
four-star hotel with river views.
About 80 property owners, many of them elderly, voluntarily sold their homes
when the city came knocking. The remaining seven, including the Derys, refused.
In response, the city-chartered New London Development Corp. (NLDC) seized the
remaining houses through a process called eminent domain, which allows
governments to buy property from unwilling owners. The houses are currently
occupied, but their future remains in legal limbo—at least until the U.S.
Supreme Court rules on Fort Trumbull's fate.
The court's decision, expected by the end of June, could set a sweeping
precedent concerning the rights of governments to buy people's homes for
private redevelopment. To property-rights advocates, a ruling in New
London's favor could mean open season on older neighborhoods—and the
older Americans who frequently inhabit them. According to Chip Mellor,
president of the Washington, D.C.-based Institute for Justice, a libertarian
law firm representing the Fort Trumbull neighbors, the retirement plans and
life savings of people 50 and older "can be shattered in an instant"
when a government has the right to take their property and give it to another
private party.
But some local officials have a different perspective. They say that a city
has rights too—particularly the right to control its own destiny for the
common good. Cities and towns have many tools to do this: zoning laws,
billboard regulations, historic preservation rules, building codes. While
eminent domain is a drastic tool, they say, it's sometimes necessary in
places that are suffering from chronic unemployment, underfunded schools, and
shrinking tax bases.
"For many communities to be sustainable, they need to redevelop,"
says Jeffrey Finkle, president and CEO of the Washington, D.C.-based
International Economic Development Council. Converting land to denser uses
beefs up the tax base, which helps pay for the police department, fire
department, roads, and social programs. When houses and businesses stand in the
way of these efforts, Finkle says, cities need the power to obtain the
properties. "Poor land-use judgments 40 years ago should not dictate the
survivability of a city in 2010," he says.
The battle over Fort Trumbull is not a tale of villains looking for personal
gain. "Really what is involved is conflicting dreams," wrote the
Connecticut Superior Court in a 2002 decision. Fort Trumbull's residents
dream of living peacefully in their own homes, the court said, and "any
threat to that dream is understandably forcefully and emotionally opposed as it
should be in a free society." On the other hand, the court wrote, New
London's leaders have their own dream, "to provide an economic and
social uplift for their city." However the U.S. Supreme Court rules, this
much is clear: only one of those dreams can come true.
Traditionally, we associate eminent domain with road building, school
construction, and other tax-funded projects. If the government wants to run a
highway through your neighborhood, it can seize your home without your consent;
this happens all the time. In exchange, the U.S. Constitution promises
"just compensation" when your property is taken for "public
use."
The controversy arises when your land is to be turned over to a for-profit
business. What if a city decides that it needs a sports arena, a shopping mall,
a handsome new downtown? What if a major employer wants to build a factory that
will provide hundreds of jobs? Do these needs constitute public use? This is
what the Supreme Court has been asked to determine.
The U.S. Constitution promises "just
compensation" when your property is taken for "public
use."
In the past half-century, the courts have ruled that under some
circumstances—clearing slums or breaking up land monopolies—a
government can indeed seize property and turn it over to private interests. But
the issue is far from resolved. In 1981, the Michigan Supreme Court ruled that
Detroit could condemn the working-class neighborhood of Poletown for a General
Motors plant, in order to preserve jobs in the beleaguered city. In 2004, while
reviewing another eminent domain case, the court decided to revisit the
Poletown case—and, in a surprise move, overturned the earlier decision.
By then, of course, it was too late for 4,200 Poletown residents, whose homes
had long since been bulldozed for a plant that produced far fewer jobs than
expected.
At the same time, some of the nation's most stellar urban-revitalization
projects have also relied on private redevelopment. Baltimore's
Harborplace, which turned crumbling docks and warehouses into a waterfront
shopping and dining mecca, required the seizure of private property. So have
stadiums throughout the United States.
While individual redevelopment projects have been controversial, the eminent
domain issue itself attracted little national attention—until the
Institute for Justice rallied to the defense of an Atlantic City, New Jersey,
widow whose home was threatened by Donald Trump's plans to build limousine
parking for his casino. (The institute prevailed in 1998.) In a hefty report
published in April 2003, the institute identified 3,700 properties across the
United States that were condemned for private use over a five-year period.
Though there's no reliable historical data, some experts believe these
takings have become considerably more commonplace. Jeffrey Finkle estimates
they doubled during the 1990s.
What has definitely become more commonplace is criticism by legal activists
who believe that when the Founding Fathers said "public use," they
weren't referring to stadiums and shopping centers. "The Constitution
has a limitation. To say 'We have a great need; let's suspend the
Constitution' is not a great argument," says Gideon Kanner, professor
emeritus at Loyola Law School in Los Angeles. When influential land developers
convince governments to use eminent domain on their behalf, he adds,
"it's a form of civic corruption. This is really raw power when people
are kicked out of their homes."
Even supporters of eminent domain agree that it's sometimes misused. But
focusing on the abuses, they say, misses the bigger issue: elected officials
have the right and responsibility to shape the way their communities grow. If
they neglect that responsibility, city centers will die while farmland morphs
into miles of traffic-choked highways sprouting fast-food restaurants and
big-box retailers.
Lost in this rhetoric is the human struggle that has repeated itself across
the United States. One side fails to acknowledge the suffering of families like
the Derys, who have lived in their neighborhoods for decades and can't bear
the thought of relocating. The other side dismisses civic leaders, like New
London's, who grapple daily with shrinking tax bases and underfunded
schools, and who can't envision any solution that doesn't uproot people
from their homes.
At its peak as a 19th-century whaling port, New London was a curious mixture
of aristocratic mansions and rough-and-tumble establishments catering to
sailors on shore leave. These days, New London has a split personality of a
different kind. On the south end of town, elegant shingled homes sit on private
beaches with 180-degree views of Long Island Sound. Downtown, though, antique
shops alternate with empty storefronts. Since 1960, the city has lost almost
one quarter of its population, shrinking from 34,000 to 26,000.
"We have terrible economic woes," says Ed O'Connell, an
attorney who represents the New London Development Corp. Unemployment is high.
Tax revenues have been stagnant, forcing the city to cut back the police and
fire departments and lay off literacy tutors.
Hemmed in by water and more affluent municipalities, New London has no place
to grow. To expand its tax base, it must make better use of the six square
miles that make up the city. Otherwise, says O'Connell, the city will
continue its downward spiral and plunge deeper into poverty.
That's why, when Pfizer announced it would locate a global research
facility on a trash-strewn peninsula next to Fort Trumbull—the largest
in-state business expansion in Connecticut's history—the plan was
viewed as a singular triumph. The new complex, where scientists would design
and manage clinical drug trials, would employ more than 1,500 people. Pfizer
spokesperson Liz Power insists that the drug firm's only preconditions for
moving to New London were a cleanup of a waterfront park, odor reduction at the
wastewater treatment plant, and citywide infrastructure improvements. Internal
Pfizer documents, however, suggest the company's "expectation"
for Fort Trumbull included upscale housing and a hotel and conference
center.
Whatever the extent of Pfizer's demands, New London's leaders
envisioned turning Fort Trumbull into an urban showpiece. Along with the
townhomes and hotel, there would be office buildings, marinas, a river walk,
and possibly even a Coast Guard museum. As many as 1,400 jobs could be created,
the city predicted, along with $1.2 million in annual property tax revenues.
"This was a chance the city of New London would have once in its
history," says O'Connell.
There was, however, the matter of evicting the neighborhood's existing
residents.
If New London's dire straits lent its leaders a certain moral high
ground, the city's actual tactics squandered any chance of winning Fort
Trumbull's goodwill. From the start, the neighbors felt bullied into
selling their homes. They claim that NLDC's agents phoned at night and
visited during Sunday dinners, contracts in hand. "They started calling my
parents at all hours of the day, saying, 'Listen, you need to sell this
property. If you don't take what we're offering, we're going to
take it [for less money] by eminent domain,' " says Mike Cristofaro,
whose family had had another home seized in the 1970s to make room for a
seawall that was never built. "To me, that's harassment."
O'Connell, NLDC's attorney, says it's normal for real estate agents
to conduct business at night and on weekends.
The Supreme Court could limit the government's power
to buy private homes without their owners' consent.
NLDC began seizing title to holdout properties starting in 2000. Around the
same time, demolition crews came into Fort Trumbull with excavators that looked
like dinosaurs, leveling the houses the owners had sold to the city
voluntarily. Amid the dusty cacophony, Byron Athenian, a retired body shop
owner who helps care for his severely disabled granddaughter, found his house
cut off from the street by barricades and a ditch. Now Athenian and the
wheelchair-bound girl must enter the building through a side door at the end of
a pothole-ridden path. "It's like living in a bunker," he
says.
One clear day in November 2000, a brick wall from a house being demolished
next door crashed into Matt Dery's yard, destroying the garage and all its
contents. "It was like an airplane had struck my house," recalls
Matt's wife, Suzanne. "The whole house shook." When Matt tried to
rebuild the structure, the city denied him a permit.
The neighborhood grew tenser. Two months after the garage incident, police
were summoned to a brick apartment building, where NLDC padlocked some of
landlord William Von Winkle's tenants into their homes and ordered others
into the street. O'Connell calls the evictions legitimate, explaining that
Von Winkle had defied a city order to keep the apartments vacant. (NLDC later
agreed to permit Fort Trumbull's landlords to rent on a month-to-month
basis.)
Meanwhile, a lawsuit filed by the Institute for Justice wended its way
through the courts. In March 2004, Connecticut's Supreme Court ruled in the
city's favor, noting that the rebuilding of Fort Trumbull would create
hundreds of jobs. While NLDC was still temporarily barred from bulldozing the
houses, it did the next-best thing: it sent the Institute for Justice a notice
that the institute's clients owed back rent for living in their own homes.
Von Winkle owed $301,756 for his house and rental units. The Derys owed
$229,900. "If we stay here much longer, we'll have to give them a dog
and maybe some furniture," Matt Dery says sardonically.
Ed O'Connell, the attorney, says the city and NLDC were just trying to
safeguard the public purse. Since New London owns the houses, he argues, its
officials have a responsibility to earn money from the buildings.
"It's not like we charged them rent as a way of grinding salt into
their wounds," he says. "There's taxpayer dollars
involved."
In reality, there's been plenty of salt grinding, intentional or
otherwise. Twice, The Hartford Courant quoted former NLDC president
Claire Gaudiani as saying, "Anything that's working in our great
nation is working because somebody left skin on the sidewalk."
("It's fine to say when it's not your skin," Matt Dery
grumbles.) Gaudiani's husband, a Pfizer executive, made matters worse when
he publicly declared, "Pfizer wants a nice place to operate. We don't
want to be surrounded by tenements."
With the Supreme Court about to rule in the New London case, cities across
the United States are wondering whether their own redevelopment projects will
be allowed to move forward—and homeowners in the path of those projects
are wondering whether they'll be allowed to stay put. "There are dark
clouds on the horizon for cities," warned Utah's Salt Lake
Tribune last December, hinting that if the Derys win, the city of Ogden
might find it harder to condemn 34 homes for a planned Wal-Mart superstore.
Other places awaiting the high court's decision include Bowling Green,
Kentucky; Camden, New Jersey; New Brighton, Minnesota; and Liberty,
Missouri.
However the court rules, though, it'll be too late to save Fort
Trumbull. These days, where neighborhood kids once romped, there are mostly
rubble-strewn lots pocked with the occasional holdout house. One salmon-colored
cottage, dating to 1893, is adorned with birdhouses and folk art and a sign
that says "not for sale."
If you walk around Fort Trumbull, it's hard not to think of war zones.
But the remaining residents don't think of their neighborhood that way.
They want to stay. It's their home. At night it's quiet enough to feel
like the countryside, dark enough to see the stars. Besides, they say,
there's the principle. "If this all goes through, any house, anywhere,
can be taken for higher tax dollars," says Von Winkle. "No house is
safe."
The residents say they're willing to coexist with the new development.
O'Connell says that's out of the question. The older houses
wouldn't be in keeping with the planned development's character.
"You can put up a hotel," he says, "but you're not going to
get a guest to pay $150 to look out at isolated buildings."
Besides, O'Connell adds, Fort Trumbull's residents romanticize their
neighborhood. "This is not a garden spot," he says. "It was not
some old Italian neighborhood. They were not passing cannolis across the fence
to one another. It was one of the nondescript areas you see along the side of
railroad tracks."
Matt Dery begs to differ. Friends still come by unexpectedly, then stay for
a beer and a bowl of his wife's seafood-tomato soup. And the cross-driveway
pasta shuttle continues. Says Matt: "As long as there's one
16-year-old kid ferrying a big tray of ravioli over to his grandparents and
telling his grandmother that he loves her and getting a hug and a kiss, this is
still an Italian neighborhood."
Barry Yeoman wrote about hospice care in the
January & February 2005 issue.
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