35
From the August 9, 2008, edition of the New York Journal:
AS HOUSING PROJECT PREPARES FOR TRANSFORMATION, CONTROVERSY SWIRLS AROUND RECENT EVICTIONS By
Candace Snow
Seventeen-year-old LaShonda Jennings thought the security guard who she claims planted marijuana on her was playing some kind of prank. But it’s no laughing matter now that her entire family is facing eviction because of her arrest.
The Jennings family is not alone. The city’s Housing Authority is evicting at least a dozen families from a housing project based on accusations of drug possession that are allegedly fabricated.
The Jacob Riis project is being transformed into mixed-income housing in a pilot program. Critics of the plan have long pointed to a problem of simple mathematics: in order to include all of the new residents, there would not be room to return many of the existing ones.
Indeed, city records show that over the past six months the Housing Authority has commenced over two dozen eviction proceedings involving more than 75 existing Riis residents—a far greater number than at any other public housing complex of similar size. In 2006, before the transformation of Riis began, the city instituted just 7 eviction proceedings there.
In at least a dozen of the recent cases, private security guards employed by the developer behind the project have claimed to catch young project residents—usually teenagers—openly possessing or smoking marijuana. If one member of a household in public housing is arrested for drug use, the entire family can be evicted. But many of the teens tell the same story: that they were framed by the security guards, and then pled guilty to disorderly conduct—a mere violation, not a crime—simply to avoid the hassle and risk of fighting a misdemeanor charge, not realizing that such a plea would potentially open the door to their families getting evicted.
LaShonda’s story is typical. She claims that she was chatting with a friend on a bench outside her building when she was approached by a security guard who claimed to have just seen the two of them rolling a joint. “He just straight-up planted drugs on us,” LaShonda said. “It was crazy. I didn’t understand why he would do that, not until we got a letter saying we were being evicted.”
Another teenager who was allegedly caught by the private security guards is Rafael Nazario, 19. Nazario was supposedly busted smoking pot by a policeman turned security guard named Sean Fowler. After pleading guilty to disorderly conduct, Rafael and his grandmother found themselves facing eviction. Nazario has since been arrested for fatally shooting Fowler.
Darryl Loomis, a former police lieutenant and the head of the security company involved, did not respond to repeated requests for comment. A spokesman for the Housing Authority said that while eviction decisions were made on a case-by-case basis, generally any drug-related arrest of a public housing resident leads to the eviction of their entire household. “Nobody ever told me that we’d get thrown out of our home because of the guilty plea,” LaShonda Jennings rejoined. “I only took the plea because my lawyer said if I fought it I could end up with a real criminal record.”
According to LaShonda’s mother, if they are evicted from public housing the family will not be able to afford to stay in New York, and will instead move in with relatives down south. “This project may not be much,” her mother said. “But it’s where I raised my children, and it’s my home. The city is trying to take that away from me, based on a lie.”
THE SIGHT of Henry Tacy—her paper’s bellicose editor in chief—bearing down on her in the newsroom struck fear in Candace, as it did in every reporter at the paper. Her first thought was that there was a problem with the story she’d published that day, or else with the Serran story that she was now finishing up. Not even the fact that Tacy was smiling mitigated her rush of nerves.
“I come bearing glad tidings,” Tacy announced in his booming voice. Everyone within thirty feet who hadn’t already been watching his approach now turned to him. “You, my dear, are no longer a defendant in a lawsuit.”
It took a moment to sink in. “The libel suit’s over? What happened?”
“Roth agreed to drop it. I guess he saw the error of his ways.”
The idea of Simon Roth simply walking away from a lawsuit seemed completely out of character. “I didn’t see that coming,” Candace said.
“Maybe his lawyers convinced him he couldn’t win. Maybe he thought he’d made his point, such as it was.”
“Gift horses, I guess. That’s really great news. It’s a weight off.”
Tacy nodded. “Of course, we were never worried about actually losing, but it could have dragged on for a couple more years, cost us God knows what in legal bills.”
“I’m just happy I can go back to concentrating on doing my job.”
“By all means,” Tacy said, offering her a slight bow. “Be my guest.”
CANDACE WAS still buzzing with relief a couple of hours later when Brock Anders came over to her cubicle. “I just heard,” he said, kissing her cheek in greeting. “Congratulations, ex-defendant.”
Candace thanked him, allowing herself to express some of the relief she felt at not having the lawsuit hanging over her. It’d felt like a black mark next to her name, an unresolved accusation that she’d f*cked up a story.
“We must celebrate, darling. Tonight?”
Candace hesitated. It wasn’t like she was going to be fielding any other offers for her evening. She’d never even properly broken things off with Gabriel; she’d simply stopped calling, and he’d either taken the hint or been equally indifferent. “Only if you promise not to keep me out too late,” she said.
“I’m absolutely not going to promise that,” Brock replied. “You deserve a late night. I want you crawling in here at noon tomorrow, wearing sunglasses.”
“I’m too old for midweek hangovers.”
Brock shook his head. “I swear, it’s like this isn’t even a newsroom anymore. Where are all the drunks?”
“Laid off,” Candace replied.
“It’ll be work too, tonight. I’ve got a de la Renta event we can start off at, over in the Meatpacking District.”
“Why are they always events, these things you go to?”
“That’s not true,” Brock said. “Sometimes they’re premieres.”
Candace’s phone rang. “I’ll get back to you,” she said to Brock, before answering.
The caller turned out to be William Stanton, who demanded to see her right away. Stanton refused to talk on the phone, or even explain what was so urgent. Candace didn’t feel like dealing with him right now, but it was obvious that William was upset: there was a tremor in his voice, an edge to his insistence.
Stanton had last called her a couple of weeks ago, right after he’d gotten a deposition subpoena from Duncan’s firm. It hadn’t been a pleasant conversation, Stanton insisting that she do something to prevent him from being deposed. Candace had promised she’d talk to her lawyer, but she’d already been virtually certain there wouldn’t be any way to stop it. Stanton had lost his temper, raising his voice at her, reminding her that she’d promised to keep his identity confidential.
Candace had spoken to Rosenstein about it, but he’d told her there was nothing he could do. Rosenstein had called her after the deposition, so she knew that Stanton had outed himself. She had little doubt that he was even angrier with her now, but Stanton had been a good source and she felt an obligation to at least go meet with him, even if it just meant letting him vent.
She met Stanton at a diner on Ninth Avenue in the Forties, a short walk from the Journal’s office, which was a little west of Madison Square Garden. Stanton was already there when Candace arrived, a cup of coffee in front of him on the table. “So what’s up, William?” she asked.
“I just got through meeting with a lawyer,” Stanton replied, his voice worn and scratchy.
“What do you need a lawyer for?” Candace said.
“They fired me,” Stanton said flatly.
“The DOB fired you? Why?”
Stanton barked out a failed laugh, then coughed. “Insubordination.”
Although she found it hard to believe Stanton had been fired for any reason, insubordination did at least sound somewhat plausible. “What happened?”
“What happened is I talked to you.”
Candace winced. “They told you that?”
“They didn’t need to. They benched me months ago, back when they suspected but couldn’t prove I was your source. Now that they knew for sure, it was time to get rid of me.”
Candace was dubious that the city would really fire Stanton just for talking to a reporter, but maybe she simply didn’t want to believe it. “It never occurred to me the department would retaliate against you for talking to me,” she said. “Why would they?”
“I embarrassed the DOB. I called out Durant, who certainly has more powerful friends than I do.”
“And they said this?”
“Lack of discretion, they said. The point was pretty f*cking clear.”
“It’s bullshit, obviously,” Candace said, wanting to soothe Stanton a little, offer him some support. “So you were meeting with a lawyer about suing?”
“He said that I didn’t have a case. I can’t claim they fired me out of some kind of discrimination, so I’d have to say it was retaliation for being a whistle-blower. But as far as the lawyer was concerned, talking anonymously to the press doesn’t count as blowing the whistle. At least, not in a way that gives me any rights.”
“So there’s nothing you can do?”
“You told me that nobody would ever know I’d talked to you,” Stanton said accusingly.
Candace shifted in her seat, feeling defensive but understanding that Stanton had a right to be pissed. “I said I would keep your identity a secret, which I did. When they deposed me I refused to answer any questions about my sources. If there was anything else I could have done I would’ve done it. I never for a moment thought Roth would sue me over an accurate story.”
“What’s going on with the case? Am I going to have to testify at a trial?”
“Actually, I just got word that Roth’s dropping it,” Candace said, careful to keep any enthusiasm out of her voice, sure this news would only further inflame Stanton.
He looked stunned. “They find out I was your source, I get fired, and then that’s game over? Was the whole thing just a witch-hunt to get me?”
Candace didn’t blame the man for his paranoia under the circumstances, but she also didn’t see any reason to encourage it. “I can’t imagine that this was all done just to uncover you,” Candace said. “Besides, it’s not like it was Simon Roth who fired you.”
“He could be behind it,” Stanton said. “Of course he could.”
The fact was, Candace didn’t have any idea why Roth had suddenly dropped the lawsuit, any more than she understood why he’d brought it in the first place. She didn’t have a better explanation than that the whole thing had just been to make an example of Stanton.
“Even for Roth, a lawsuit is a lot of money and trouble to go to just to out you as my source,” Candace said. “But I can’t tell you what his plan was here, and I don’t know whether he had a role in your losing your job.”
“What about the role you had?” Stanton said. “I’d still be an investigator if I’d never talked to you.”
He was right, and Candace knew it. “I’m sorry, William,” she said. “I did everything I could to protect you. This is the first time in my career that I’ve had a source get outed; believe me, I feel like shit about it. But we did do some good, didn’t we?”
Stanton nodded reluctantly. “Word around the DOB campfire before I got shit-canned was that there’re indictments coming down out of the Aurora investigation. You heard that?”
Candace had been hoping to hear of a criminal prosecution arising from her reporting on the Aurora. She tried to tamp down her excitement, wanting to make sure she didn’t push too hard, keep Stanton from telling her what he knew. “I hadn’t heard that. What kind of charges?”
She clearly hadn’t been subtle enough; Stanton glared at her balefully. “Christ, is that all you can ever think about? Getting the damn story in your paper? It was just rumors, nothing solid.”
Candace wasn’t going to press it, but made a mental note to follow up, though she didn’t have any immediate thoughts about how she’d do so. She also knew there was no point in continuing to defend herself, that Stanton had gotten screwed over and that nothing was going to change that. “I don’t know what to say, William. If there was anything I could’ve done to protect you, I would’ve done it. But there would never have been any indictments coming down if you hadn’t talked to me.”
“Well,” Stanton said, “doesn’t that make me feel better.”
CANDACE LET Stanton talk out his anger, feeling like he’d earned that, even though it was clear there was nothing she could do. When he was done she headed back down Ninth Avenue toward the newsroom. Her earlier good mood was a dim memory: so much for her story in today’s paper and the end of the libel suit; both were trumped by how bad she felt about what had happened to Stanton.
Lost in thought, Candace registered the steps of someone running up behind her only when they were fast approaching. She started to turn, but before she could she found herself falling to the ground.
She was on her hands and knees before she had any idea what was happening. Someone had gone charging into her full speed, and now that same man was grabbing at her shoulder. Candace’s arm gave way and she collapsed to the sidewalk.
He was stealing her purse, Candace realized. He’d plowed right into her, then snatched away her purse while she was down. By the time she looked up, the man was sprinting away. Candace picked up jeans and a baseball cap but nothing of the actual person.
Candace’s pants were torn at one knee; both her palms were scraped and bleeding from breaking her fall. A couple of people had stopped, one of them helping her to her feet while another called 911. But the thief was well in the wind.
TWO BLOCKS away, Darryl Loomis was in the driver’s seat of a battered and idling Ford Taurus. He saw Asante Webber as soon as he came running around the corner toward the car. Asante had been a confidential informant of Darryl’s for a number of years, during which Darryl had rescued him from three separate collars: two B and Es and a purse snatching. Asante wasn’t quite finished paying off his debt.
He was sprinting down the sidewalk, a red purse slung over his shoulder. Darryl looked past Asante to see if anybody was chasing. When he’d run halfway down the block with nobody coming after him, Darryl gunned the engine, the signal for Asante to get in the car. Once he was in, Darryl started driving, turning south on Eleventh Avenue, planning to double back onto the West Side Highway, but for now taking it nice and slow. There was no reason to hurry; it was already clear to Darryl that they’d gotten away with it.