by Neil Turner
“We’re pleased to have Hernando Mendoza here,” Zaluski says. “Hernando is a partner with Cormier, Marr, and Mendoza, the architectural consulting firm Three Streams Development engaged to prepare an updated urban renewal study.”
Mendoza gets to his feet. He’s not a tall man, but there’s a presence about him. Nice suit. Meticulously groomed. A confident air bespeaking cockiness. Hernando Mendoza wouldn’t have been out of place in the Sphinx boardroom. I distrust him on sight.
A video screen glides down from the stage ceiling and a graphic appears, entitled: Independence Park/Liberty Street Urban Renewal Study. This is followed by a slide containing dense columns of numbers. “As you can see,” Mendoza says, “municipal expenses are rising steadily. Experience teaches us that they will continue to escalate as long as this neighborhood remains in its existing configuration. Experience also tells us that once a neighborhood is in decline, crime gains a foothold and then runs rampant. Law enforcement costs rise in step with the breakdown of order, and public works costs skyrocket as vandalism explodes.”
Mendoza turns a smile upon the Village Board as a new slide appears. “Fortunately, we can see in Table Two that Cedar Heights has an opportunity to turn the situation around before this neighborhood reaches the point of no return.”
Table Two illustrates revenue numbers skyrocketing while expenses slide down the scale, turning the Independence Park/Liberty Street neighborhood into a fiscal Shangri-La. Disney couldn’t script a happier ending. I’m reminded of Mama’s old saying: “Figures don’t lie, but liars figure.”
Pictures of Independence Park pop onto the screen. Dilapidated. Forlorn. An eyesore without question. Used condoms carelessly discarded inside what remains of the change rooms. Feces litter the interior floors as well as the crumbling pool and surrounding concrete terrace, whether human or animal isn’t clear. Drug paraphernalia is also present—used needles, the stubby roaches of joints.
Mendoza scrolls through picture after picture of the trio of rental houses on Liberty Street, cleverly multiplying the effect with shots from various angles—front, back, side views, even a couple of aerial shots. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the whole street had gone to the Rottweilers.
“Don’t be fooled, those pictures show only three houses,” Mr. Rosetti booms angrily.
I’m relieved to see some feistiness from him, but cringe when the next pictures show the crushed corner of our garage with shredded black plastic sheeting flapping in the wind. Mendoza fails to mention that the village bears none of the cost of repairing our home while it reaps one hundred percent of the negative PR value from the situation.
Mrs. LaSusa gets to her feet. “I wish to speak about this.”
“In just a few more minutes, Mrs. LaSusa,” His Honor says with an indulgent smile.
I chuckle softly. Mrs. L, our neighborhood busybody, is apparently known at Village Hall.
“At least three indications of blight must be present for an afflicted neighborhood to meet TIF standards,” Mendoza continues. “The area identified in The Independence Park/Liberty Street Redevelopment Plan has no less than six of the blight factors we were asked to investigate for.”
Peter Zaluski gets to his feet. “Thank you for an excellent presentation, Hernando.”
Mendoza beams and sits down; yet another corporate whore heard from. Tricia Dix leans over to whisper in his ear and places a hand on his arm as she does so. His grin widens. I imagine the conversation: “That was great, Hernando! Exactly what we paid for.”
Mayor Brown also thanks Mendoza, then invites the public back into the discussion. I’ve been scribbling questions in a notebook and have distributed a few to neighbors.
Mr. Rosetti is first in line at the lectern. “How many properties show evidence of blight?”
His Honor looks to Zaluski, who looks to Mendoza.
“I don’t recall the exact number,” the architect replies, “but almost every house on Liberty Street was identified as a blight risk.”
“Are you suggesting my home is an eyesore?” Mr. Rosetti asks indignantly.
Mendoza shakes his head. “Blight isn’t only about appearance. We do an in-depth analysis in which many factors come into play.”
“If I may,” Trustee Smith interjects, not waiting for a reply before carrying on, “perhaps Mr. Mendoza will be kind enough to list the factors his study used to identify blight.”
Mendoza shoots Zaluski a concerned look. The village manager in turn looks to the mayor for guidance. When His Honor gives Mendoza an almost imperceptible nod, I inch forward to the edge of my seat. So do my neighbors.
“We’ve seen some of the factors,” Mendoza says, “such as increased crime evidenced by rising calls for police and fire department services.”
“Does that include 9-1-1 calls?” Trustee Smith asks.
Mendoza nods.
Smith raises his eyebrows. “It seems to me that somebody calling 9-1-1 to report a fire or medical emergency is a pretty weak indication of blight.”
“It’s part of a pattern—” Mendoza begins.
Smith cuts him off. “How many of these calls to the police and fire department concern criminal activity, as opposed to citizens seeking medical assistance or a little help keeping their properties from burning to the ground?”
Mendoza’s eyes cut to the mayor.
“I’m sure Mr. Mendoza will be happy to make that information available to us in due course,” Brown says.
Mr. Vaccaro replaces Mr. Rosetti at the podium. “Independence Park has been rotting for years. Who will stop the crime when the police never come? Are we to suffer because the police don’t do the work we pay them for? How much of this crime you speak of takes place in Independence Park?”
Once again, Mendoza has no details. Smith asks that they be made available. Mendoza promises they will be. This broken record could get monotonous.
Mr. LaSusa steps to the microphone clutching one of my notebook pages. Mr. L. is a smallish man who seems to be growing smaller still as the years pass; a quiet man who worked in the Marshall Field’s furniture warehouse for years, loading and delivering. I’ve always liked him. He always had an encouraging word or some simple kindness for the kids on the block. “The village stopped fixing anything around Independence Park and Liberty Street years ago, yet most of Cedar Heights’ other streets and sidewalks are kept in good repair,” he says.
“Do you have a question?” His Honor asks.
Mr. L. nods. “When and why did the village instruct public works to stop doing maintenance work on Liberty Street and Independence Park?”
The mayor looks to Zaluski for an answer.
“Unfortunately, budget constraints don’t allow us to do all we’d like to,” Zaluski says. “Increased revenue from this redevelopment will help alleviate that problem.”
Uh-huh. That’s what this is all about.
“Has the village instructed Public Works not to make repairs on Liberty Street?” Trustee Smith asks.
“Certainly not,” Zaluski replies tartly.
I guess they just decided to stop on their own.
A man I know only as Joe shuffles to the microphone to ask another of my questions. “What tax incentives and/or financing guarantees are we offering these people?”
“Negotiations on financial matters are confidential,” Zaluski replies.
I’m overcome with a case of the warm fuzzies at this display of open governance.
I find Trustee Smith’s thoughtful eyes on me. He offers the faintest suggestion of a smile before looking away. “Mr. Mayor, I hope Mr. Zaluski or one of your other friends is taking note of all the questions we’ll be needing answers to.”
Brown studiously ignores Smith and calls on another neighborhood old-timer.
“Why don’t you tell us why our houses ain’t worth keeping?” the man asks Mendoza.
“A prime focus of urban renewal is addressing imbalances between revenues and expenses,” the slick prick replies
.
And here I used to think urban renewal was about making our inner cities livable.
Mendoza continues, “We compare the neighborhood with others in the municipality in terms of average revenue generated per parcel of land in the subject area. Smaller, older homes simply don’t generate as much tax revenue as newer and larger homes do, let alone commercial projects.”
“That’s a blight factor?” Trustee Smith asks as a current of repressed anger surges through the public seating area.
“We look at houses falling beneath minimum square footage parameters, those with a limited number of bedrooms and bathrooms, those without attached garages, the age of the houses,” Mendoza explains. “These are key components of the study.”
I stand up. “I have another question.”
“Haven’t all of your questions already been answered?” Mayor Brown asks me with exquisite sarcasm. He’s apparently aware that many of the evening’s queries came out of my notebook. “You’ve already spoken, Mr. Valenti. Be seated.” The mayor stares me down for a moment before turning his gaze to the next person in line. He breaks into an enormous, shit-eating politician’s grin as he booms, “Hello again, Mrs. LaSusa!”
She replies with a cursory nod and turns her attention to Zaluski. To scattered snickers from her neighbors, Mrs. L. announces that she’s “not nosey or anything, but I walk my dog every day and I notice things. The pictures of the Valenti garage?”
Zaluski nods uncertainly. “Yes?”
She waves her cell phone. “I just saw a story about that on WGN.”
Her words freeze me in my seat. I notice a little smile on Pat’s face, a rather smug smile.
“What story is that, Mrs. LaSusa?” Zaluski asks anxiously.
“I’ll get to that. I saw that truck smash into the garage.”
I didn’t know. I doubt anyone did. Why the hell hasn’t she mentioned it?
“I went and talked to the truck driver so Francesco and Maria would know who should pay for the repairs,” she continues. “The men said they were from the village, so I thought it would be taken care of. Why didn’t you fix it?”
What the hell? We thought it was a hit and run—probably some kids or a drunk, maybe drunk kids. The police report recorded it as a hit and run.
The question clearly discomfits Zaluski. “We weren’t doing any work there at that time, Mrs. LaSusa. Perhaps you’ve confused a village work crew with someone else.”
Mrs. L. crosses her arms and glowers at Zaluski. “I am not confused, young man. I know what I saw out there and I remember speaking with your people.”
“What date was this?” Trustee Smith asks.
“In the spring,” she replies with a shrug, then searches the audience and meets my gaze. “Anthony probably has the date.”
I nod back at her. “Late April. I’ll get the exact date.”
“You mentioned the news a moment ago?” the mayor nervously asks Mrs. LaSusa.
“WGN says someone at the village took a bribe not to give Francesco the building permit so he could fix his garage. They said Anthony had to take the village to court and get a judge to order you people to issue a building permit. Why did he have to do that?”
While Zaluski and the mayor start to squirm, I see that Pat is still smiling. The Tribune was until recently the owner of local television station WGN. The ties between some of the former colleagues remain tight, especially with long-running stories that predate the sale. I suspect Pat knew this story was breaking tonight. When she catches my eye and winks, I smile back.
“It’s wrong that you people kept Francesco from fixing his garage,” Mrs. LaSusa lectures, getting increasingly worked up as she goes. “What business do you have doing that? Now you show all these pictures pretending people in our neighborhood don’t take care of their homes. You are a disgrace!”
The mayor looks mortified.
Mrs. LaSusa turns back to glare at Zaluski. “I’d like to know what you people were doing out there! Some sort of funny business is going on, isn’t it?”
“All I can do is check with our Public Works Department to see if they had a crew there,” Zaluski replies.
Having spoken her piece, Mrs. L. shakes her head in disgust, then turns on her heel and stalks back to her seat.
Pat steps to the lectern and digs a sheaf of papers out of her back pocket. “Pat O’Toole of the Chicago Tribune. I have here a copy of the minutes from the November fourth in camera executive meeting that was held after the regular board meeting.”
The eyes of both Zaluski and Mayor Brown widen as they absorb the news that Pat has a source within the village administration. His Honor’s icy eyes shift to the pack of village staffers, as if he’s wondering which thumbscrew wasn’t sufficiently tightened down. I hope Pat’s source covered their tracks very, very well.
Pat continues with her eyes locked on the mayor’s. “I’m told that this was a rather exclusive meeting, so exclusive that only a select few trustees were invited—just enough to achieve a quorum. Is that true, Mr. Mayor?”
“I don’t recall the details,” His Honor replies.
Pat glances between the mayor and village manager. “You told us earlier that you decided to proceed with the original Liberty Street redevelopment plan. That decision was taken during the November fourth in camera meeting. Why isn’t it in the minutes?”
“I haven’t seen a copy,” Brown says.
“Would you like to see my copy before you answer?”
“We’re not in court, Miss O’Toole,” Mayor Brown retorts. He’s losing his patience and his temper is fraying. This evening’s meeting isn’t going as planned.
Pat presses the point. “Who was present at your secret session on November fourth, Mr. Mayor?”
Trustee Smith taps his microphone for attention. “I would also like to know that. I was at the regular board meeting that night. This is the first I’ve heard about an in camera session.”
“Do you recall Miss Dix and Mr. Mendoza being there?” Pat asks the mayor.
“I’ve spoken to Miss Dix and Mr. Mendoza a number of times. I wouldn’t venture a guess as to when and where each of those encounters took place.”
“You see a lot of them, do you?” Trustee Smith suggests acerbically.
“I’m told that Miss Dix and Mr. Mendoza were present at the in camera session and that discussions were held about how to sell this project to the public,” Pat adds.
“The names of the people in attendance at that meeting, plus everything that was said, is a matter of executive privilege,” the mayor snaps.
“So, you’re telling us this plan was hatched behind closed doors with the hope that the voters of Cedar Heights would be none the wiser?” Pat asks.
His Honor looks away from her. “I’d like to thank everyone who took the time to participate this evening. Question period is over.” The mayor looks to Zaluski and makes a cutting motion. A sharp crackle echoes through the speakers when Zaluski gets up and pulls the plug on the public microphone.
“I think we can proceed to a vote on this matter,” the mayor announces, catching everyone by surprise. A rumble of angry voices rolls through the crowd.
Trustee Smith is on his feet. “No motion for a vote is on the floor at this time, Mr. Mayor. I move that the trustees discuss this matter before a vote is called.”
His colleagues stare down at the incensed voters glaring back up at them. Three nod in agreement. Along with Smith, the trio constitutes a majority.
The math isn’t lost on Mayor Brown. “One minute each,” he snarls.
Smith instantly seizes the floor and cites a litany of what he considers deficiencies in Mendoza’s report. “You’re making a mockery of this board, Mr. Mayor. We shouldn’t bring this matter to a vote until we have answers to every question the people of Cedar Heights have raised here tonight. Until then, we can’t possibly make an informed, intelligent decision. I, for one, would welcome the return of a little democracy around here.”
&
nbsp; Heads nod in agreement, both along the row of trustees and in the public seats.
“Time’s up, Trustee Smith!” the mayor snaps. Then he turns to a woman who has her arm in the air. “Go ahead, Trustee Myers. One minute.”
The waif of a woman the mayor has spoken to nods but refuses to meet his gaze. “I yield my time to Trustee Smith.”
“Why, thank you, Trustee Myers,” Smith purrs while Brown glowers at her. Smith pauses long enough to attract the mayor’s attention, then stares straight into His Honor’s eyes. “I move that the board defer consideration of any and all measures pertaining to The Independence Park/Liberty Street Redevelopment Project until our February fourth meeting.”
Trustee Myers, perhaps still smarting from the visual darts His Honor fired her way, seconds Smith’s motion. The mayor’s smoldering eyes signal that he intends to make her pay for her impertinence.
“Please call the roll, Madam Clerk,” Smith commands, all folksiness gone as he usurps the mayor’s prerogative to call matters to a vote.
Faced with a fait accompli, Mayor Brown nods grimly to his clerk, who polls the trustees. The motion carries by a vote of four to two.
Trustee Smith has bought us a few weeks. It’s all I can do not to run up front and hug the guy. Instead, I stroll over to shake his hand and congratulate my newfound ally on his success. His political clout will be a welcome addition in the struggle to save Liberty Street.
Chapter Twenty
I’ve just pressed the brew button on the coffee maker when the doorbell rings. Mike has invited himself over to deliver trial news and to do a little Monday night “underdog strategizing.” When he walks into the front room, he stops to look around and nods with appreciation. It’s his first time inside our home. “Place is looking mighty fine for a condemned dump.”
