by Matthew Iden
He leaned back and crossed his legs. “We’ll be here all day, then. DC is unlike any other municipal government in the country, especially when it comes to real estate. It’s like a city in some ways, like a state in others, and like a medieval fiefdom the rest of the time. Tell me what part interests you and I’ll know where to start.”
I gave him the high-level of what I’d found on Wendy’s case so far and how, with Alex Montero’s murder—as a former Detective of the Year—my intuition told me there was a good chance that the killings led back to the business they both worked in.
“Does that help at all?” I asked. “I’ve got some potential, er, informants who might produce some good intel, but I’m afraid I won’t even understand what they bring me. I need to get a handle on how this thing works beforehand.”
He thought about it. “If your friends are checking email and dipping into paperwork, they’re going to find loan applications, LDAs, TIF and PILOT requests, pleas for tax exemption or abatements, those kinds of things.”
“In English?”
“They’re all incentive deals of one kind or another,” Faraday explained. “Everything starts with the LDAs, the land disposition agreements, but a PILOT might be easier to explain.”
“Okay.”
“PILOT stands for payment in lieu of taxes. Sometimes as a concession, sometimes as an incentive, a property owner pays the city cash instead of taxes. And that includes the Fed. Like…let’s say the Department of Energy takes over the block between Eleventh and Twelfth along E Street for a new expansion,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder. “The DOE would pay the city once for the sale—and that’s swell—but DC would never see another cent from some of the most valuable tourist property in the country, because a local municipality can’t collect taxes from a federal agency. See the problem?”
“The same block could house restaurants, shops, and an office building,” I said. “All of which would normally send tens of thousands of tax dollars to the city. But now it can’t.”
“Right,” Faraday said as he watched pigeons swirl around the base of the Longfellow statue. “So the Fed generously pays a cash amount to the city as a consolation prize for all those juicy tax dollars it will never see. Payment in lieu of taxes. The kicker is that it’s never as much as the taxes would bring in, which is a permanent sore point between the Fed and the city.”
I worked that over for a second. “Okay, a PILOT for the Fed makes sense, but why would a developer get that kind of break instead of being forced to pay taxes like anybody else?”
Faraday said, “The incentive part, remember? Let’s say there are two empty parking lots, one in Southeast DC, one ten miles away in Fairfax County. Both locations are practically begging for a big-box store that’s going to bring in two million dollars a year, cut local unemployment by two percent, and revitalize a neighborhood. A developer is ready and willing to build the property that will bring in the store…but he doesn’t care where it goes. What do the municipalities have to tempt him with?”
“A tax break.”
“Right, and they can do that in a bunch of different ways, from a partial tax abatement to full exemption. But one of the most popular is a PILOT.”
“Because,” I said, the dawn starting to break, “by making the developer pay something, even a pittance, it looks like the city council is holding the developer accountable. Voters don’t like a freeloader.”
“Yup. In reality, though, the builder is saving tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of dollars on taxes each year. That’s money that stays in their pocket. While they’re also raking in rent from those big-box stores or mega office complexes.”
“How much are these token payments the developers make to the city?” I asked, curious.
“With other incentives and financing…” Faraday made a show of adding numbers in the air, “…nothing.”
“Nothing,” I said. He nodded. “So, if they’re not paying a dime…”
“…the taxpayers are footing the bill for the development,” Faraday said, then got a toothy, evil grin on his face. “And the city council member looks like a hero because he or she brought another Walmart or Home Depot to the neighborhood. Of course, there’s more. In fact, it’s the more part that’s the real benny. Extra votes are just a nice-to-have.”
“What else?”
“The other side of things. Have you ever donated to a DC election campaign?” When I snorted, Faraday said, “I’ll take that as a no. If you had, you’d know that—as an individual—you are limited to a onetime contribution of five hundred dollars per candidate per election.”
“Okay.”
“But would it interest you to know that if you registered a limited liability corporation, you would also be held to a five-hundred-dollar limit?”
“Big deal,” I said. “I’m limited to giving a thousand dollars. Five hundred as a person, five hundred for my corporation.”
“If you were the head of just one LLC, that would be true.” He looked at me expectantly.
“There’s no limit to how many LLCs can contribute? No matter who owns them?”
“Nope.”
I sat back. “I’m no expert on campaign finance law, but that sounds like a crock of shit.”
“It is. There is no legal limit on the number of LLCs that can contribute to a campaign in an election cycle. Would you care to know how many LLCs most corporate developers control, on average?”
“As many as they need?”
“Exactly,” Faraday said. “Usually, they have a dozen or so already created for each development project. Like, the Eighth Street Renaissance Corporation or The Southwest Wharf Corporation.”
“All of them able to act as a front for a five-hundred-dollar campaign contribution.”
“Hey, you’re catching on. Ever thought about getting involved in DC politics?”
“Jesus, no.”
“Okay. Last question on our quiz. How often do you think corporate real estate donations to city council members’ campaigns coincide with PILOT, LDA, and TIF awards the developers have won?”
“Let me guess…every time?”
“Ding-ding-ding. Or so close to every time that the ones that don’t aren’t worth mentioning.” Faraday raised a finger. “To recap, boys and girls. Someone decides a large slice of District land needs a new mall. A city councilman offers a developer a huge tax break at taxpayers’ expense to build said mall. The developer is awarded the contract as well as the tax break and, magically, several dozen five-hundred-dollar checks marked Campaign Contribution arrive at the councilman’s office the same day.”
I watched as a homeless guy with a long gray-and-black beard and wearing a green army coat checked each of the garbage cans at the points on the edge of the park, then wandered across 18th Street to shake a cup at a lady walking by. “This is a hell of a system they’ve got going. Why hasn’t anyone cracked down on it?”
Faraday tilted his head. “Crack down on what?”
“Ah,” I said. “None of this is illegal?”
“Not in the least. Every bit of what I just described to you has been legislated into being on the up-and-up.”
“To paraphrase someone I heard on TV, we’re not questioning if what you’re doing is against the law, we’re wondering why it’s not.”
“Precisely. This kind of crap is why Rob Rudman lost his bid for mayor.”
“He backed campaign finance reform?”
“Yeah. We ran on a message of anti-corruption and cleaning house on the city council—Rob will rip ’em—but voters got bored ten minutes after the outrage.”
“It’s an old story,” I said.
“True. Rob ain’t no saint, but even he was blown away when he caught on to how development in DC was being handled. He thought he’d be able to make a difference, yadda yadda, but when election season started, his opponent had about twenty times the campaign budget that we did. We were toast be
fore we started.”
“Is there anyone in particular who has all ten fingers in this pie?”
Faraday nodded. “They’re all complicit at some level, but Toby Waites is the master.”
“Waites?” I said. “He’s been on city council since the end of the First World War or something.”
A pretty young office worker in a gray pencil skirt and red blouse sat catty-corner to us and started nibbling at a croissant. Watching her eat, Faraday said, “Twenty-nine years next April. The magic of not having term limits.”
“Are there any developers not in this up to their ears?” I asked.
Faraday tore his eyes away from the girl long enough to shoot me a disappointed look. “And you were shaping up to be such a good student. There are one or two crusaders out there, plugging away on contracts the old-fashioned way—you know, with sterling references and rock-solid track records, that kind of thing. They get a contract here and there, but only once the big dogs have had their chance to sniff it over.”
“That’s crazy,” I said.
“I told you so,” Faraday said, then slapped his hands on his thighs and took a deep breath. “Does that give you a good outline of how things work?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” I said. “Can I call you if I have any other questions?”
“Sure. But if you plan to brace any of these guys, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use my name.”
“Are they that connected? Are you afraid of them?”
“Oh, no,” Faraday said, laughing. He stood. “I just started a one-man lobbying firm and I don’t need to get blackballed before I even open the doors, you know?”
“Joining the dark side, then?”
His smile was resigned. “If you can’t beat ’em…”
“ ‘Virtue is insufficient temptation,’ ” I said.
Faraday looked at me quizzically. “Longfellow?”
“Shaw,” I said. “Longfellow was too optimistic. And this case calls for a cynic.”
Chapter Sixteen
I was in the perfect armchair detecting environment. The problem was, I didn’t feel like detecting.
Pierre was asleep on my desk, John Coltrane—a new discovery for me, the former punk rocker—was on the stereo, and I was going over my notes with a cup of coffee safely within arm’s reach. My foot found it impossible not to tap to A Love Supreme, which would normally distract me, but the intricate pattern and sophisticated repetitions gave me mental elbow room to think.
Until the chanting. Somewhere past halfway through the song, John and his buddies start mumbling the title of the song. I knew that jazz purists thought nothing bad could be said about the piece, but Coltrane’s murmuring made me uneasy. The speakers of my stereo made it seem like his voice was coming from behind the office door and I had to keep myself from checking to see if there was a jazz legend standing in my hallway. I reached over and snapped the stereo off.
I spread out my notes again, trying to reset my brain and my focus. Okay. C. Faraday - city council corruption - campaign donations. My coffee was cold. I clomped downstairs, warmed the coffee, came back. Pierre wiggled in his sleep. Disturbed, maybe, by my moving around. Back to the papers. LDA/PILOT/tax incentives - LLCs: $500 per - Should I paint the living room next?
I sat back in my chair, rubbing my eyes and groaning. I couldn’t care less about what I was reading. It had all seemed interesting yesterday, talking to Faraday. The potential for corruption was enormous, and where there was corruption—and money—people found plenty of reasons to kill each other. It was about as solid a trail as I could ask for, short of the killer’s address and phone number or a crumb trail leading right to his door. I’d needed some background on the whys and wherefores of corporate real estate and had gotten it in spades from Faraday. What more could I ask for?
My phone went kerplunk, drawing me out of my funk for a second. It was the sound Amanda had chosen for my email notifications. She had suggested that it was appropriate since I read my email so infrequently that it was like throwing the message down a well, ha-ha. The email was from Caitlin and had been sent, thankfully, from a personal and not a work account. I opened the email and scrolled through her message.
The girl had been busy. While Gerson and Montero had both been involved in a scattering of deals in various stages of closure, she wrote, the one that had caught her attention was an investment proposal for a large plot in Southeast called the Quarters. It was by far the largest and costliest deal of the bunch, and the one that seemed closest to getting the green light. I was surprised. I knew the Quarters. While the neighborhood had always had a rough-and-tumble reputation, it was an active, densely populated community and not one I would’ve thought as a good candidate for plowing under and starting over. There had to be a thousand people living in low-income housing there.
Caitlin ended the short email by apologizing that, since she was cobbling her information from emails and loose notes, she couldn’t find the name of the developer. She suggested that, with the name of the location, finding who that was should be a piece of cake.
I slipped my phone back in my pocket and leaned back in my skuzzy office chair again. I laced my fingers together and looked at the ceiling. Piece of cake, huh? Okay, so time to head out the door and chase down the lead or call someone for more information. Caitlin had handed me a bona-fide clue and, while it didn’t answer anything by itself, with Faraday’s information it was exactly the kind of thing I’d sought out when I took on the Gerson case.
But what I actually wanted to do was ignore her email. The thought of this information leading to another clue and that one leading to a third tidbit, and so on, exhausted me. I tried to imagine how I’d feel if her information pointed me directly to Wendy’s killer—no paper chase, no hours of endless legwork, just BOOM, the case finished off in one easy snap…and I realized it barely even mattered to me. I had to fight the urge to go downstairs, flop down in the living room easy chair, and watch TV until it was time for bed. I hadn’t felt this unmotivated and lethargic since my days of heavy chemo.
I did get up and go downstairs, where I poured myself another cup of coffee, but I intentionally avoided looking at the TV or the chair as I went through the living room. As I sipped, I leaned with my back against the sink, which put me facing the refrigerator and staring straight at the little white postcard Dr. Demitri’s office had sent for my checkup. Irked, I ripped the card off the fridge, crumpled it into the size of a golf ball, and threw it into the trash. I grabbed my coffee and started back to the office. Halfway through the living room, I swore, turned on my heel, and marched back to the kitchen to fish the postcard out of the garbage.
I jammed the wadded paper into a pocket and retreated to the office, where I flattened it out on my desk and stared at it for ten minutes. I put it to one side, then sifted through my accumulated mail from the past week. Midway through the stack was a large white envelope from Dr. Demitri’s office. I made a face, then opened it. It was the anxiety diary Nurse Leah had promised to send me. It had come days ago, but I’d slipped it to the bottom of the stack and tried to forget about it.
I leafed through the guide. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen pages long and I was done reading it in less time than it had taken to heat my coffee. It was full of the sanctimonious self-help crap that had always made me cringe whenever I’d been unlucky enough to see it on TV or in a glossy magazine. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to read through it again.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I said out loud, unable to help myself. The guideline wanted the reader to ask themselves questions and answer them on paper. What makes me worry? How do I feel when I get worried? On a scale from one to ten, how worried do I get? Communicate your answers with someone you trust.
I looked at Pierre. “Can I talk to you about my anxiety?” My cat opened his eyes at the noise, yawned big enough for me to fit my fist in his mouth, and went back to sleep.
Sighing, I p
ulled out a sheet of paper and started jotting down the questions, giving myself five or ten lines in between each. Then I went back and started filling in the answers, starting with my typical smart-ass replies. I slowed down, however, as I got away from the fuzzy-wuzzy questions and on to more open-ended, thoughtful ideas. Identify a moment when you were worried. What set you off? Can you pinpoint it?
That newspaper report I’d seen at the Starbucks, I thought. I’d been engaged, eavesdropping on Caitlin and her friends, thinking about the case, then out of nowhere I saw the stupid article about celebrity deaths and it had felt like a bruise since then, a nagging ache just under the skin. Leah had warned me to not watch the news and to not take other people’s fights—or results—as my own. And then Dods, in the garage, asking how I was doing. Meaning well, naturally, but that didn’t make talking or thinking about the checkup any easier.
I filled out the rest of the questions, getting less cynical with each one, until I looked at my watch and realized I’d been writing for almost an hour. My confession covered about three pages of a legal pad. I put down the pen and rubbed my wrist; it had been ages since I’d written anything longhand except my signature. I couldn’t say I felt better, but that was the nature of a diary—I’d have to keep at it to see any results. That’s what the guide said, at least.
For the time being, though, I was done. My head felt like it was stuffed with hay and my feet were falling asleep. I went to the bathroom and splashed and scrubbed my face with cold water, trying to force some energy into my body. I was toweling off when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I answered without looking, my voice muffled as I continued to dry off. There was no reply and I said hello again, then looked at the screen, trying to place the number.
“Singer?” It was a woman’s voice.
I froze, towel held in midswipe. “Julie?”
“Yes.”
I straightened, fumbling for something to say. “How are you?”
She cleared her throat. “Fine. You called me?”
