Blind Man's Alley (23 page)

28

T
HE ALPHABET
City Community Coalition operated out of a tiny storefront on the west side of Avenue D, across the street from Jacob Riis. There were a half dozen desks jammed haphazardly around the main front room, only two of which were occupied when Candace arrived for her meeting with Keisha Dewberry, the organization’s executive director. One of the two people in the front was talking on the phone; the other was playing online Scrabble on Facebook.

Candace had expected the head of an activist nonprofit that was going up against the city and a billionaire developer to be falling over herself to talk to a reporter. Instead it’d taken three days for Dewberry to return her call. It might mean nothing—for all she knew Dewberry had been out of town—but it made Candace wonder.

Dewberry was in her mid-forties, with short dreadlocks, dressed in an African print shirt. She had the sole private office, in what looked to be a converted storage space. It was cramped, with barely enough room for the desk and chair.

“So you’re doing some kind of thing on the switch over to mixed-income at Riis?” Dewberry asked.

Candace nodded. “How did you come to be involved in the issue?”

“I’ve been active in public housing for a long time,” Dewberry said. “I’d been at ACORN for about a decade before taking this position. What’s your angle here?”

“I don’t know that I have one,” Candace said. “I’ve done prior reporting on the developer, Roth Properties, particularly the accident at the Aurora Tower last year. What’s your organization’s view on the transition to mixed-income?”

“We’re not actually categorically opposed to it. For one thing, once you have middle-class tenants in these buildings, they’re not going to stand for the crap that goes on in this city’s public housing these days. Elevators that don’t work, graffiti in the hallways, vermin. Not to mention that the buildings themselves are falling apart. So if transitioning to mixed-income means better conditions for everyone, great. The concern, of course, is how you make the change without completely disrupting the lives of existing residents. Is this just a smoke screen to displace them, move them out to less desirable neighborhoods?”

Candace thought that a good question. “Is it?”

“That’s certainly something we’re keeping an eye on,” Dewberry said. “It’s in the developer’s interest to get as much market-rate housing into the new buildings as possible. Our priority is protecting the existing tenants.”

“Do you oppose having private companies involved?”

“Trying to stop the current plan isn’t really an option at this point—the construction’s already under way. So our focus is on doing what we can to ensure that the process is as fair as possible to the current tenants.”

“Inevitably there will be some displacement of existing residents, won’t there?”

“The city claims not, but common sense says yes. We’ll fight it every step.”

“What about all the drug evictions? Are you involved in fighting those?”

Candace was surprised to see confusion cross Dewberry’s face. “Drug use is an unfortunate fact of life in public housing,” Dewberry said, falling into rehearsed patter. “That’s what happens when you take away opportunity, take away hope.”

“I’m sure there is drug use at Riis,” Candace replied. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. Have you heard accusations from people about the private security companies planting drugs on kids as a way to evict their families?”

“It certainly sounds like something we should look into,” Dewberry replied after a moment. “We don’t have lawyers on staff, so we don’t have direct involvement with any legal issues involving residents.”

This didn’t add up to Candace. The eviction issue would be gold for an organization like the ACCC, and if they had their ear to the ground in the project they should’ve at least heard rumors about it. There was something so fly-by-night about the whole operation that Candace wondered if it was actually doing anything at all.

“You haven’t heard about the private security guards causing problems?” Candace asked.

“I’ll definitely ask around,” Dewberry said. Rather than trying to make her case through Candace, Dewberry was clearly counting the seconds until the interview was over. “Glad you brought it to my attention.”

Candace didn’t want to be giving Dewberry information; it was supposed to be the other way around. “I assume you’re familiar with the recent shooting of the security guard?”

“A tragic situation,” Dewberry said blandly.

“I understand that the young man charged with the shooting is accusing the guards of previously planting drugs on him. Has your organization had any dealings with the Nazarios?”

“Not that I know of.”

Candace, growing frustrated, decided there was no reason to keep things friendly. “I noticed that one of your directors was named Antonio Serran. He wouldn’t happen to be related to Karla Serran, the city councilwoman, would he?”

Dewberry frowned, fixing Candace with a suspicious look. “Why does it matter if Antonio is related to a councilwoman?”

“I’m not saying it does. But it looked from your last year’s tax filing like most of your funding came from the city, specifically from the Housing Authority.”

Dewberry, already tense, turned actively hostile. “How did you get our tax forms?” she demanded.

Candace was amazed how frequently people failed to realize what you could dig out on the Internet these days. “Your filings as a registered nonprofit are available on the state AG’s Web site,” she said.

“And why were you looking at them?”

Candace offered a smile, wanting to defuse at least a little of the tension. The small room was a claustrophobic setting for the conversation they were having. “Following the money is pretty much Journalism 101.”

Dewberry was clearly not appeased. “Most nonprofits get significant funding from the government,” she said tartly.

“Of course. But I was curious about how your funding came from the Housing Authority, given that they’re the city agency running the changes to Riis. So I spoke to someone there, who explained to me that the money isn’t really coming from the Authority, that it’s actually city council discretionary spending, which then passes through the most relevant agency when it’s allocated out. So my understanding is that Karla Serran is your actual rabbi, in terms of funding.”

Dewberry looked about ready to throw Candace out of her office. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I didn’t say there was,” Candace said calmly. “Are you denying that Councilwoman Serran is who directed the money your way?”

“It sounded like you were suggesting something improper, in terms of Antonio and his sister.”

Progress, Candace thought. Baby steps, but progress. “So they are brother and sister?”

“Is that what you’re really here about? Trying to suggest there’s something wrong about our funding?”

“Not at all,” Candace protested, but she could tell that Dewberry had already shut down.

“I’m afraid that’s all the time I have, Ms. Snow,” Dewberry said.

CANDACE SPENT
the subway ride back to the newsroom trying to figure out how she could nail this down. She’d been suspicious of the funding even before her meeting with Dewberry—ever since she’d noticed Antonio Serran on the organization’s staff. But Dewberry’s defensive response—coupled with her lack of even basic knowledge of what was going on at Riis, and the bare-bones nature of the ACCC’s office—made Candace wonder about the organization’s legitimacy.

Back in the newsroom, Candace opened the folder of material she’d assembled on the ACCC. She always went back and reviewed everything in her files after an interview; often connections appeared that had been missed the first time.

Nothing leaped out at a glance. But Candace felt sure there was something she wasn’t seeing, something that Dewberry was worried about.

She pulled up a list of Serran’s political contributors, information that was available online for all city politicians. What she’d said to Dewberry about following the money was true; it was something she always looked at, especially when dealing with politics. She skimmed the list, not looking for anything in particular.

The first thing that caught her eye was a two-thousand-dollar donation from Antonio Serran. Most of Serran’s donors gave a good deal less than that, so his contribution stood out. Of course, there was nothing suspicious about a family member giving money to a politician.

But there was something about the donation that nagged at her. She turned back to the ACCC’s tax form, checking the date on which the Housing Authority’s money had been dispersed to the agency. The brother’s donation had been made the following week.

And not just his: there were a whole cluster of donations made that week, probably close to a hundred thousand dollars’ worth, far more money than Karla Serran had received in the surrounding weeks. Keisha Dewberry had given a maximum donation the day after Antonio Serran.

Candace made a list of everyone who had given Karla Serran money that month, planning to dig into each one of them, see if she found a connection to the ACCC. Was this how Simon Roth had arranged to buy the councilwoman’s support? Candace had that feeling she got maybe once or twice a year, a tightness in her chest that made it hard to breathe. It was the feeling of being on the verge of breaking open a big story.

29

T
HANKS FOR
seeing me, Mr. Loomis,” Duncan said.

From across his desk Darryl Loomis fixed Duncan with a level gaze. After a moment he offered a slight shrug. “You’ve got friends in high places,” he said.

Duncan smiled in response, though doing so didn’t cause Darryl’s expression to change. “We’ve got friends in common, yes,” Duncan said. “And in that spirit, let me tell you exactly why I’m here.”

Darryl gestured for Duncan to continue. The two of them were in Loomis’s corner office eighteen stories up in an Avenue of the Americas skyscraper just a few blocks from Duncan’s firm. It was filled with plaques and photos of its occupant with a wide range of boldfaced names, from the mayor and the chief of police to business moguls and hip-hop stars. Duncan thought it looked more like the office of the head of a record label than the mental image he had of a private investigator’s workplace.

But nothing about Darryl was in keeping with the stereotype of a down-at-the-heels private eye, and as Duncan understood it, actual detective work was only a small part of what the company did. Darryl employed over one hundred people, many of them ex-cops. They did a mix of corporate investigations, security work for clubs, celebrities, and VIPs, as well as more prosaic security work, such as on construction sites.

“As I’m sure you understand, part of my firm’s defending Rafael Nazario involves looking into the victim, Mr. Fowler, and the witness, Mr. Driscoll, both of whom work for you. Were the two of them friends?”

“They were friendly enough, far as I know.”

“Was Fowler having any problems with anybody that you know of?”

“He had some back-and-forth with his ex, but just the usual nonsense.”

“Meaning what?”

Darryl shrugged. “He was divorced with kids. Weekend visitations, vacations out of state, alimony—shit never ends.”

“How long ago did he get divorced?”

“Couple of years. Probably past the point where Liz would shoot him. Plus I don’t think Chris would ID her as a teenage male Hispanic.”

Under the circumstances, Duncan viewed Darryl’s sarcasm as progress, and so pretended to be amused by it. “What about problems at Jacob Riis?”

“Nothing that ended up on my desk. Chris would’ve been the person for you to ask that.”

Duncan had expected Darryl would know that he’d already spoken to Driscoll. He also wasn’t surprised by Darryl’s sullen attitude: he couldn’t blame the guy for not wanting to help him. Leah Roth’s intercession was no doubt the only reason Darryl was speaking to him at all. “I assume you know that Sean Fowler had allegedly caught my client smoking pot, which is what led to his eviction?”

“I do now, yeah. It wasn’t anything I paid attention to when it happened. The eviction part didn’t have anything to do with my people.”

Now or never, Duncan thought. “What about all the other evictions?” he asked.

Darryl shifted slightly in his seat, but his gaze didn’t leave Duncan. “Evictions are done by the city,” he said.

Duncan studied Darryl, looking for signs of unease. “But your guys have caught at least a dozen different people at Riis with drugs, and those all led to the city seeking to evict their families.”

“And your point?” Darryl said brusquely.

Duncan wasn’t getting a read on Darryl’s response one way or another. It could just be vexation at hearing the accusation, or it could be something else. “Word on the street is that the drug busts are a way of getting the Riis numbers down, so the city doesn’t have to move everyone back.”

“You here to teach me something about word on the street?” Darryl said, smiling but not in a way that took the edge off. “Word on the street is conspiracy shit, way to keep people from owning their fuckups. You got any proof?”

“Do you?” Duncan said immediately, smiling as he said it, though that didn’t blunt Darryl’s angry response.

“I was a cop for twenty years,” Darryl said, speaking slowly. “I’ve dealt with a lot of lawyers. I know what a defense lawyer does—tries to put together some kind of story out of whatever rumors they can find.”

“I’m not talking about rumors. I’m talking about the fact that there’s a consistent story out there that your guys are planting drugs on people and busting them, with an eye toward evictions.”

Darryl’s expression turned harsh. “You’re accusing my people of a crime? Based on what some project kids they caught with drugs are claiming? Negro,
please.”

Duncan was caught off guard by the last bit, Darryl catching it and smiling. “I don’t think even I would’ve have been able to tell,” he said.

Duncan wondered if there was any way he’d misunderstood. “Tell what?”

“If I hadn’t seen a picture of your dad.”

So much for any misunderstanding, Duncan thought. He tried to tamp down his reaction, not wanting to give Darryl too much of an upper hand. It wasn’t that Darryl had discovered something Duncan tried to keep hidden—although the man seemed to think he had—it was just that Duncan didn’t understand why Darryl had been poking into his personal life. “Why were you looking at a picture of my father?” he asked.

“We run background on anybody before they set foot in my office. Can’t be too careful, know what I’m saying? And you never know what you’re going to find out, not until you find it. Don’t worry, my brother; your secret’s safe with me.”

AS SOON
as the lawyer had left, Darryl picked up his phone and called Chris Driscoll at home, summoning him to his office. Driscoll arrived forty-five minutes later, looking bleary-eyed. He worked nights, had sounded like he’d been sleeping when Darryl called. Not that Darryl gave a shit.

“That lawyer handling Nazario was just here,” he said as Driscoll sat down across from him. “He’s claiming that you and Fowler were planting drugs on kids at Riis.”

Driscoll’s gaze didn’t waver, but Darryl could see the effort behind it. “We were doing like you told us Roth wanted, keeping an eye out for criminal stuff we could turn over to the housing cops, helping trim down how many people they had to bring back.”

“I know what I told you to do,” Darryl said. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Were you guys actually planting shit on folks?”

Driscoll hesitated, but he knew better than to lie to his boss. “It was Sean’s idea,” he said. “You know he was always on the make for extra money. He said since Roth was going to throw us a couple grand for anybody we got rid of, we shouldn’t wait for the opportunity to present itself.”

Darryl couldn’t believe the stupidity of it, the unnecessary risk. “And you went along with this nonsense? And then you didn’t tell me, even once we had problems with that motherfucker?”

“I didn’t see how it would ever come out. We weren’t going crazy with it, and we were focusing on teenagers, so it’s not like anybody would believe them.”

“You don’t make that call,” Darryl said. “You follow orders here, my orders. This shit’s trouble enough without you keeping something like that from me.”

Driscoll nodded, his gaze downcast. “I fucked up; I’m sorry. What can we do about it?”

“Nothing we can do now but gut it out,” Darryl said. “And know that the only reason I’m not firing your ass is because I can’t.”

“Got it,” Driscoll said.