22
THE MAIN office for the city’s Housing Authority was on lower Broadway, steps from City Hall. Candace waited in the ninth-floor lobby for fifteen minutes before Forrest Garber came out to get her, apologizing for keeping her waiting.
“So how’s Ben doing?” Forrest asked as he gestured her to a seat across from his desk.
“I don’t actually much know,” Candace replied.
Forrest looked at her, puzzled. Candace wondered why the hell Ben hadn’t told him. “We’re separated,” she added, not seeing that she had a choice.
Forrest looked even more uncomfortable than Candace felt. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he said.
“Not your fault,” Candace said, looking around Forrest’s office, which was utilitarian in that grim way that only government bureaucracies ever managed.
“So anyway,” Forrest said awkwardly, “Ben told me you were interested in the switch to mixed-income over at Riis.”
Candace nodded, noticing as she did so that Forrest appeared to be checking her out. She pulled out her digital recorder, showed it to Forrest, who gestured his approval. Candace pressed the record button, then placed the recorder on the edge of his desk. “Right. What’s your title here?”
“I’m the deputy manager for policy planning and management analysis. So yes, that does translate into having an active role in the changes to our public housing.”
“I understand the general idea of mixed-income housing, and I understand its appeal to your office. But I guess I’m a little surprised that the Authority chose to partner with a private for-profit developer in putting the plan into place.”
“That’s easy to explain. In a word, money. The Authority is facing a huge budget shortfall, largely because so much of the federal funding for public housing has dried up. Most of our buildings were put up after World War Two, and they were never intended to last forever, or even for as long as they already have. You combine those two things and it becomes impossible for us to do this without the private sector.”
Candace was skeptical. “So we end up with for-profit public housing in this country, just like we have for-profit jails and private military contractors?”
Forrest smiled, not taking the bait. “I assure you there’re easier ways for a New York City developer to make a buck than this. Only a third of the housing will be market-rate, after all.”
“But I assume it’s a lot less risky for the developer than conventional commercial development.”
“Sure,” Forrest said. “But developers are happy making gambles, or they wouldn’t be in real estate.”
Candace nodded, conceding the point. “So I was mainly curious why your office was funding the Alphabet City Community Coalition, given that the point of their organization seems to be to protest the changes at Riis.”
Forrest nodded crisply. “Ben mentioned that, so I looked it up. The money is going through us, but it’s actually been designated by a city councilwoman. The way it works is, the council’s allocations for this sort of nonprofit funding are then administered by the relevant city agency, depending what kind of project it is. The agency has oversight over the nonprofit, making sure the money is used the way it’s supposed to be. But who actually gets the funding isn’t our call.”
“Who on the council allocated the money to the ACCC?”
“Karla Serran. She chairs the committee on public housing, so she’s active on these issues.”
Candace understood, but it still didn’t quite add up to her. “Here’s what I don’t get,” she said. “You basically have the city agency that’s in charge of remaking Jacob Riis also funding a community group whose sole purpose seems to be to protest those changes.”
“I see the irony, or whatever you want to call it. But like I said, we didn’t actually have any role in deciding that the ACCC got the money, and the money doesn’t come out of our operating budget. It’s essentially just funneled through us. This is how all of the council’s nonprofit funding allocations work.”
“Got it,” Candace said. “I don’t suppose you have any role in overseeing the ACCC?”
“None whatsoever. My only day-to-day involvement in what’s going on at Riis took place in the early planning stages. But as far as I know, everything with the ACCC has checked out fine.”
“Okay. The funding was really the part I was curious about.”
“I understand it probably looks a little strange from the outside, but it really is quite common. Anything else I can do for you, Candace?”
“I don’t think so,” Candace said, smiling as she picked up her recorder and turned it off.
Forrest pulled open a desk drawer and took out a business card. “Here’s my info if you want to follow up about anything. And again, sorry to hear about you and Ben. Must be tough, being separated.”
Candace didn’t react, though she was pretty sure she wasn’t imagining that Forrest was trying to see if she’d show any interest. “It depends what you’re comparing it to, I suppose,” she said. “Being married, for example.”
Forrest laughed, Candace noting his wedding ring as he did so. “Like I said, if there’s anything else I can do …”
Candace took his card, offering a little salute with it. “I’ll be sure to tell Ben just how helpful you were,” she replied.
BACK AT her office, Candace turned to looking into councilwoman Karla Serran, curious whether her support of the ACCC was part of a larger opposition to the changes to Riis. The first-term councilwoman had actually grown up in Jacob Riis, something her political biography stressed. She’d gone to Stuyvesant, and from there to Cornell and Fordham Law. She’d spent most of her career working for the city, first as a lawyer, then in policy jobs, before getting elected to the council.
Candace couldn’t find anything linking the councilwoman and the ACCC. On the contrary, Serran was a public supporter of the Riis redevelopment, speaking out on its behalf, talking about the poor condition of the existing project and the dangers of living there when she’d been growing up. So by supporting the ACCC she appeared to be playing both sides of the street.
Candace went back to what she had on the ACCC, looking for something that would connect the agency and the councilwoman. After a few minutes she spotted it: one of the members of the ACCC’s board of directors was named Antonio Serran. Candace pegged the odds of the overlapping last names’ being a coincidence at pretty much zero.
Assuming Antonio was a family member, it was worth noting but hardly shocking that Karla Serran was funding his organization. Even if it was only for the appearance of the thing, a politician’s funneling money to a community group where a spouse or relative was on the board didn’t seem like a great idea. But of course such things happened all the time in politics. It probably wasn’t enough in itself for a story, but it made Candace want to know more about the ACCC. Something wasn’t quite right here; she could feel it.