city limits magazine, september/october 1998 issue

8/3/2019 City Limits Magazine, September/October 1998 Issue

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Party t imethose endless arguments about whether to change the system from the inside or the outside are useless row. In New York in the 1990s, being an outsider is the best way tobecome an insider.Case in point: L i ~ e r a l Party boss Ray Harding, who looks and acts like every characteractor in the Maltese Falcon rolled into aile. Harding used to be a lurking insignificance onthe political periphery ofNew York City. In 1993, self-conscious Democrats were lookingfor a way to choose Giuliani without actually having to pull a GOP lever. That's whenHarding brokered his party's only asset-its capacity to put Rudy Giuliani's name on the

EDITORIAL

ballot under the word "Liberal "-into kingmaker status .Now Ray can get even his dimmest children $100,000 jobs atCity Hall.By owning one tiny column on the ballot, a third party can, indeft hands, become an instant player. To get a piece of this action,you need to turn out 50,000 votes in the statewide governor 's race.The Liberal Party, is, as the saying goes, neither a party nor liberal. But what if an organization came along that was both?Ellter the W o r k i l l ~ Families Party, a novel creation by a coalition of unions andACORN with a hardcore progressive agenda: fairness in workfare, increased economicdevelopment in poor neighborhoods, better schools.Its tactics are sofi,core Harding: Get your name on the ballot, get mainstream politicians to knock on yovr door, get them to carry part of your agenda.The party is backing City Council Speaker Peter Vallone for governor, a controversialmove that has alienated people who think Vallone's leadership in the council is too conser-vative.They Ileed to chill.From a purely tactical perspective, the Vallone endorsement isn't such a bad idea.The speaker has shown sufficient flexibility on the issues and, from their point of view,he's a lot better than Betsy Ross, who made her national fame by calling for an end toworkfare as she knew it.Lots of lefties have created PACs over the years, thinking that they are taking a big,bold step into the world ofpolitics. Dozens ofpotato-chip fundraisers have been thrownand scores of$]0 checks have bounced, and there are a lot of very thin PAC foldersmoldering in state filing cabinets.A political party is, at the very least, a living thing. For the sake of local democracy,let 's hope the Working Families Party doesn't soon become a dying thing. We've alreadygot one of hose: They call it the New York State Democratic Party.

Early Fall

~ Glenn ThrushEditor

What ever happened to August? We don't mean that in the summer-went-by-so-fast way,but literally, what happened to an August/September issue of City Limits? In order to straighten out our distribution system, we've switched to a September/October issue during the summer. But don't worry: We haven't skipped an issue, the magazine will come out the same timeeach month and every subscriber will receive all the issues they paid for. We promise.Cover photo by Gregory PMango

City Limits relies on the generous support of its readers and advertisers, as well as the following funders: The Robert Sterling ClarkFoundation , The Unitarian Universalist Veatch Program at Shelter Rock, The Edna McConnell Clark Foundation, The Joyce MertzGilmore Foundation, The Schenman Founda/ion, The North Star Fund, J.P. Morgan &Co. Incorporated, The Booth Ferris Foundation,The Annie E. Casey Foundation ,The New York Foundation, The Taconic Foundation, M&TBank, Citibank, and Chase Manhattan Bank.

(ity LimitsVolume XXIII Number 7

City Limits is published ten times per year, monthly exceptbi-monthly issues in June/July and September/October, bythe City Limits Community Information Service, Inc., anonprofit organization devoted to disseminating informationconcerning neighborhood revitalization .Publisher: Kim NauerEditors: Glenn Thrush , Carl VogelSenior Editor: Robin EpsteinAssociate Editors: Kemba Johnson, Kathleen McGowanContributing Editors: James Bradley, Michael Hirsch,

Andrew WhiteInterns: Heather Bryant, Kezia Parsons, Idra RosenbergDesign Direction: James Conrad, Paul V. LeoneAdvertising Representative: John UllmannProofreaders: Anne Arkush, Miriam Buhl, Shelagh Hoge,

Sandy Socolar, Jill ZuccardyPhotographers : Melissa Cooperman, Gregory P. Mango,

Mayita MendezCenter for an Urban Future:Associate Director: Neil KleimanIssues Director: Errol LouisBoard of Directors":Beverly Cheuvront, Girl Scout Council of Greater NYFrancine Justa, Neighborhood Housing ServicesRebecca Reich, LlSCAndrew Reicher, UHABTom Robbins , JournalistCelia Irvine, ANHDPete Williams, National Urban League'Affiliations for identification only.Sponsors :Pratt Institute Center for Community

and Environmental DevelopmentUrban Homesteading Assistance BoardSubscription rates are: for individuals and communitygroups, $25/0ne Year, $39/Two Years; for businesses,foundations, banks, government agencies and libraries,$35/0ne Year, $50/Two Years. Low income, unemployed,$1 O/One Yea r.City Limits welcomes comments and article contributions.Please include a stamped, self-addressed envelope for returnmanuscripts. Material in City Limits does not necessarilyreflect the opinion of the sponsoring organizations. Sendcorrespondence to: City Limits, 120 Wall Street, 20th FI.,New York, NY 10005. Postmaster: Send address changes toCity Limits, 120 Wall Street. 20th FI., New York, NY 10005.

Su bscriber complaints call: 1-800-783-4903Periodical postage paidNew York, NY 10001

City Limits IISSN 01990330)1212) 4793344

FAX 1212) 3446457email: [email protected]

On the Web: www.citylimits.orgCopyright 1998. All Rights Re served. Noportion or portions of this journal may be reprinted without the express permission of the publishers.City Limits is indexed in the Alternative PressIndex and the Avery Index to ArchitecturalPeriodicals and is available on microfilm from UniversityMicrofilms International, Ann Arbor, MI48106

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SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1998

FEATURESLandmarks OmissionAfrican-Americans have been making history in New York for centuries,but you 'd never know it from the roster of city landmarks and historic districts.Abeauty-biased landmarks commission is to blame, but so are some communityleaders. ByKemba JohnsoYonkers Race TrapAfter years of haggling, housing desegregation is finally a done deal in NewYork City 's unofficial sixth borough. Five years after 200 poor families movedout of the projects and into white neighborhoods, the fight is over. Real integration,though, hasn't even begun. ByKathleen McGowa

PROFILESGunning for GusBy representing pro-democracy union dissidents, lawyer Arthur Schwartz is doingwell while doing good. Can he finally unseat untouchable maintenance union bossGus Bevona? By Michael Hirsc

PIPELINESForce OutSince state Republicans defunded the City-Wide Task Force this spring, the handmaidens of Housing Court have been fighting just to stay alive. By Idra RosenberStuck in LodiThe teenagers of Lodi, New Jersey thought they had heard enough about thefatal factory explosion that killed five people in their town. Then they interviewed JimGannon. By Robin EpsteiNo Power of AttorneyBedford-Stuyvesant's Legal Services chapter has high-paid managers and a$1.4 million budget, but until recently it had zero staff attorneys. How one of NewYork's poorest communities is struggling with substandard legal representation .. By Glenn ThrusLoco 3369The leaders of the Social Security workers union are so busy plotting againsteach other, it's a wonder anyone gets their retirement checks. By Idra Rosenber

COMMENTARY 130eviewYanqui Doodle ByEdgardo Vega YunquCityview 132Eyewitness to aMerger By Mark Winston Griffit

DEPARTMENTS

Editorial 2 Ammo 33Letters 4 Job Ads 35Briefs 5 ProfessionalDirectory 36


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LETTERS , Coin'M.ntalCity Limits received more letters ande-mails about Kevin Heldman's undercoverinvestigation of life inside a city mentalward , ("7 1/2 Days ;' June/July 1998) thanfor any recent story we have run. While thecorrespondence we received after publication was overwhelmingly positive, two letters sent to us before the story ran left a archillier impression.While Heldman was reporting thepiece , the city's Health and HospitalsCorporation press office declined toanswer detailed questions. Then, on June3, just before the piece was due to go topress, HHC's legal department wrote us aletter demanding a pre-publication copy,labeling the story "potentially libelous"before reading it. The following are HHC'sletters and a letter City Limits publisherKim Nauer wrote back offering to reserve

our letters page--the space you are reading now---for their response. We have notheard from HHC since the story appeared.The following includes our entireexchange with HHC.Dear Ms. Nauer:I have been informed by theCorporation's Office of Communicationsthat your publication intends to write anarticle in connection with one of the hospitals managed by Health and Hospitals

Corporation (HHC), Woodhull Medicaland Mental Health center. The articleapparently deals with the alleged experiences of the author, Kevin Heldman, whospent seven and a half days as an in-patientin Woodhull's psychiatric unit.Mr. Heldman has had numerous conversations with Dr. Jane Zimmerman,HHC's Vice President for

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Communications, in which he has madeserious allegations about his treatment.However, a review of Mr. Heldman 's allegations has been conducted and we conclude that none of them are supported bythe medical record. Mr. Heldman hasreceived a copy of his records and westrongly suggest that you review them inassessing the accuracy of his article. Inaddition, we request an advance copy ofthe article prior to publication, so that wemay be afforded the opportunity torespond in a timely fashion .I would also like to bring to your attention the fact that Mr. Heldman misrepresented himself to Dr. Zimmerman by initially claiming that the information he hadobtained concerning Woodhull Hospitalwas from an anonymous source. It wasonly after Dr. Zimmerman made numerousrequests for the patient's name, so that wecould investigate the serious chargeswhich were being made, that he finallyrevealed that he was the source of all theinformation and that the "anonymoussource" never existed.

We believe Mr. Heldman's conduct isnot only unprofessional, but also reprehensible given your statement to Dr.Zimmerman that Mr. Heldman feignedmental illness to gain admission into thepsychiatric unit for the sole purpose ofwriting an article. For seven-and-a-halfdays, Mr. Heldman diverted scarce andimportant resources from patients whotruly required medical care.We assume that City Limits is a responsible publication and will not allow falseand potentially libelous statements to tarnish the excellent reputation of Woodhull

Hospital.Barbara R. KellerHHC Office ofLegal AffairsDeputy Counsel

KlmNau.rr p o n d ~ : We will not be able to furnish you witha pre-publication copy of the article. Noone has been accorded that privilege.I believe that we did give Dr. JaneZimmerman and officials at the Health and(Continued on page 33)

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Juvenile JusticeiijITrial SiD!Oly II teenage trouble makers havebeen referred to the South BronxCommunity Justice Center Youth Courtsince it opened in early April, CityLimits has learned.The much-publicized alternative court hasaveraged fewer than one defendant every week,according to staff members--even though it couldhandle five times as many young lawbreakers.Instead, the largely teenage staff, who act asprosecutors, defense attorneys , judges, jurors andnote-takers, spend court hours hanging out in acozy living-room space at the South BronxCommunity Justice Center.''The administration is scared to try somethingnew, people are skeptical of programs run byyouth," says Jose Rosado, a gang outreach workerwith Youth Force, the Mott Haven-based nonprofit that runs the court. The team also does street outreach, community action projects and legal educa

tion classes.SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1998

Family Court judges, at the recommendation ofprobation officials, are supposed to refer low-leveljuvenile offenders to the court. The alternativecourt then "sentences" defendants to perform community service jobs with Youth Force. If a defendant does not comply, he or she is returned toFamily Court for conventional sentencing.So far, the teenagers brought to the court haveincluded kids accused of drug possession andpetty larceny. According to Youth Force directorKim McGillicuddy, the court has assigned them togang prevention projects, voter registration drivesand a mural painting program and has used thetroubled teens to organize basketball leagues.At atrial attended by City Limits, one 10th gradercaught with marijuana was sentenced to serve ontwo juries at the Youth Court, complete five hoursof work on a community action project and spendfour hours at a legal education and gang prevention workshop.Mary Ellen Flynn, assistant commissioner with

the city's Department of Probation, explains thfew offenders were initially available for referrbecause the court's catchment area was too sma"More recently, we have broadened out the areashe says.But youth advocates say the program is undeused because the probation department and FamiCourt judges may be reluctant to refer juvenilesalternative-to-incarceration and alternative-tcourt programs-including the youth court."Nobody but [the Department of] Probatioknows why they aren 't getting the referrals," saDarlene Jorif,director of the Juvenile Justice prograat the Correctional Association of New York, whiadvocates for criminal justice reform. "My guessthat, given the changes in the DepartmentProbation-their a1temative-to-court program loalmost $200,000 in this year's budget,and they 're junow starting up a new diversion program-thethings are taking attention away from the need to reto youth court." -Kezia Parson


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B r i e ~ B " " " " " - - - - - - " " " " - - - - - - - - - - - - - -LawsuitsPWAApu1mentBlDltingCarging that the city is failing in itsobligation to house homeless AIDSclients, Housing Works filed suitagainst the city on June 22 in anattempt to force it to comply with amunicipal law that requires medically adequatehousing for AIDS patients .

The goal of the suit, says a Housing Workslawyer, is to obtain an injunction that wouldrequire the city to provide same-day emergencyhousing for homeless people living with AIOS.Named in the suit are Gregory Caldwell , deputycommissioner of the Oivision of AIDS Servicesand Income Support [OASIS) and Jason Turner,commissioner of the Human ResourcesAdministration, OASIS' parent agency."OASIS has been literally turning people outon the street," says Armen Merjian, a HousingWorks lawyer. "This is agross violation of humanrights and a violation of the OASIS law. It is alsoa violation of OASIS protocol."Local Law 49, passed by the City Council inJuly 1997, mandates "medically appropriate" housing for OASIS clients, including in-room refrigerators and bathrooms that lock. The OASIS manualstipulates that the agency's Emergency PlacementUnit on West 13th Street must provide same-dayhousing in emergency situations.But according to the complaint, a caseworkerat the EPU said that "on any given day, 20 [clients)show up at the OASIS offices seeking housing,and maybe four or five get housed ." HousingWorks ftied the case on behalf of two homelesspeople with AIDS who have been requestinghousing from OASIS for the past four months.This housing shortage is linked to the sevenmonth-old boycott of new OASIS referrals by 33commercial single-room occupancy hotels. Asreported by City Limits in May, the hotel ownersare refusing new referrals because the city owesthem some $3 million in back rent. The numberof OASIS clients in commercial SROs hasdropped from 1,539 in February to 1,137 inMay."We are seeking nothing radical," saysMerjian. "We just want the city to comply with itsown protocol and the law: same-day placement in'medically appropriate' transitional or permanenthousing for people with AIDS."

"HRA is committed to providing housing support for people with AIDS," says agency spokeswoman Oebra Sproles. "We are pursuing multiplestrategies to ensure that people who need housingget housing ." -Dylan Foley

Mental HealthSIJAigbtFrom theHarpAew years ago, Robin Simon wasn'tsure she'd ever work again. Shedreamt of doing advocacy work forpeople with mental illness, butthought her own psychiatric historywould keep her in treatment-and out of the workplace. But thanks to a "peer specialist" trainingprogram, Simon is an advocate at Club Access, aLower East Side resource center for people withpsychiatric disabilities. Simon helps her peers deal

with benefits , roommates and other problems"I've had experiences with side effects of medsand I can say 'Yeah, I've been there,'" she says"Providers can't."Simon got her training through aunique internship program for people with mental illnesses athe Howie the Harp Advocacy Center on StantoStreet in Manhattan. Howie-his real name waHoward Geld-was amean harmonica player witan eighth grade education who became a patienadvocate in the 1970s. With his own history omental illness, Geld believed that people who havbeen through the psychiatric system make ideaadvocates and social workers. Geld, who was alsthe director of Club Access , founded the centethat bears his name shortly before his death i1995.The Howie the Harp center prepares studentfor outreach, counseling, advocacy, and case management jobs. It offers more than 100 hours oclassroom training on everything from legal entitlements and cultural sensitivity to stress management, followed by hands-on internship work. Anit provides job search assistance and supporgroups.Simon has begun educating hospital workeron how to treat patients more considerately. "don't want anyone to experience what I wenthrough," she says. "It was devastating."-Heather Bryan

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---------. . . . --------------Briem'I

Housing

Bnmo's BoomWen it comes to handing out housing money, Governor GeorgePataki serves the bacon upstate andleaves Gotham the gristle. NewYork City may be home to 60 percent of the state's poor-and 80 percent of itshomeless-but you wouldn 't know that fromJuly's announcement of state funding for low- tomoderate-income housing projects.Pataki, who chooses how to spend tax creditand Housing Trust Fund cash, gave the city barely one quarter of the $117 million total. But hewas very generous to the man who tried to killrent regulations last summer, Republican StateSenate Majority Leader Joseph Bruno.According to aCity Limits analysis, the state ispumping at least $8.7 million in affordable housing cash into Bruno 's solidly middle-class upstatedistrict, which includes Rensselaer and Saratogacounties. New York City, with nearly half thestate's population, got a total of $29.4 million."It's atrocious ," says Brad Lander, director ofBrooklyn 's Fifth Avenue Comminee, which wasamong the few city organizations to receivemoney. "[The city1 hould be getting at least 50percent, when you consider the poverty rate andSEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1998

our level of need."

~ ~ HAVE ff!lWElF'ARSTATISTICS

Bruno has taken a big piece of the newly created $9 million Senior Housing Initiative: Projectsin Rensselaer and Saratoga ate up $4.2 million,while New York City only got $960,000.Even though it has the flfth-Iowest poverty rateof New York 's 62 counties and a racetrack that haslong attracted the state's Knickerbocker elite,Saratoga will soon receive a dose of governmenthousing support. The sleepy 6,687-person Villageof Hoosick Falls has a poverty rate two pointslower than the county's modest 5.9 percent, but itreceived $340,000 in low-income HOME funds.Nearby Malta will soon get 82 new units of seniorhousing; $1.6 million will go to towns in Bruno 'sdistrict that were hit hard by last winter's icestorms.

w w r r " l ' O Um @W CAN'T tG \ 1 \ U J ~ ME r"

- MAYOR GIULIANII . . -#---QMAlSOWCITY I..IM I'TS

!=''The Senator is very much concerned aboaffordable housing upstate as well as in the restthe state," says a Bruno spokesperson.If any New York City politician did well und

the Pataki plan, it was Brooklyn Democrat VLopez , chairman of the state Assembly's housicommittee. Lopez, whose bid to hike the statehousing budget was vetoed by Pataki in tspring, still managed to deliver $2.5 million to hlongtime favorite, the Ridgewood-BushwicSenior Citizen Center.In all, the city will see only $6.1 million of t$24 million Low-Income Housing Trust Funused to rehab dilapidated buildings. City nonproits will receive $5.3 million of the $16.6 millislated for the state 's low-income tax credit prgram. -Glenn Thru

ProtestsWant a$493 apartment in theLower East Side? So do a lot of

PHONE AND GAMESother people , as city Housing Preservation &Development commissionerRichard Roberts found out in late June.Pranksters placed an ad in the Village Voice advertising one-bedroom apartments for $493 and two-bedroom apartments for $564, listing the commish 'phone number, to dramatize the city's lack of affordable housing. His lineswere flooded. -Kathleen McGowa


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Cunning For CusLawyer Arthur Schwartz is making a mint,a reputation and a hell of a case against lush-life

_P.R.O_FI...L E ~ : union boss Gus Bevona. By Michael Hirsch

Arthur Schwartz hasmade a mainstreamcareer out of repre-senting union dissidents .

:M

Othe 11th floor of the federalcourt building last winter, highabove Foley Square, a middleaged attorney was methodicallyyanking at the underpinnings of one ofNew York's oldest-style labor machines.With amat of tousled hair and a tufty mustache making him look like a Wheaten

Terrier in a drip-dry suit, Arthur Z.Schwartz was making labor history. The45-year-old labor lawyer was representingCarlos Guzman , an Ecuadorian porteremployed at the World Trade Center.Guzman , with Schwartz's help and guidance, has spent much of the 1990s tryingto unseat the city's most notorious laborchieftain,Gus Bevona, boss of the 52,000-member Service Employees InternationalUnion Local 32B-32J.

It isn 't just the $500,000 in multiplesalaries feeding the portly Bevona 's all-you-can-eat lifestyle that miffs Guzmanand the other reformers. Nor is it the hugepenthouse office or even the spectacle ofBevona's sumptuous 5,541-square-footBabylon, Long Island home , recentlyappraised at $860,000 and sporting three

full baths, a boat house, a pool and twopower boats moored to his private pier.The thing that galvanizes his opponentsis how bad the union's rank-and-ftle doesby comparison-and how little Bevonahas done to improve their lot. Residentialdoormen and janitors, regardless of timeon the job, earn less than $30,245 annually, and that is only if they stay with thesame employer for 30 months. New hiresearn 20 percent less.

7

The insurgents-members who challenge the entrenched structure of thunion-say Bevona stood idle as commercial building managers severely undermined the union's strength by hiring nonunion cleaning firms . In response, uniofirms have had to lower their wages anstandards to compete. In the last seveyears, 500 employers have pulled out othe union's master contract with buildinowners. As a result, the union has los13 ,500 members since 1991, and has beeforced to jack up dues to pay for the losand Bevona's lush lifestyle.Still, the union boss has been able tmaintain a powerful local network o1,000 allied shop stewards, who havhelped him beat back reformers in lowturnout union elections. During the lasthree years, Bevona has also turned bactwo bylaws challenges that would havcurbed his power and his salary.But now, Schwartz, hardly a householname outside of labor circles, may accomplish what prosecutors, insurgents, aneven Andrew Stern, president of the international union , have never been able to doget Bevona out......al Musel.

New York City may be home to a lot ounion legal muscle, but little of it getflexed for dissidents. Schwartz is one othe few litigators in the city specializing i"union democracy," the movement tmake internal union elections and procedures more responsive to members.In Guzman's case, pressing for democracy is also a way of attacking Bevonawho he believes has been unresponsive tthe demands of 32B-32J's growing immgrant rank-and-file.Schwartz , more than any other lawyehas taken on the mantle of defendinrebels like Guzman. Clarence Darrowportrait hangs in his University Placoffice, and it is no exaggeration to say thaSchwartz-despite his six-figure incomehungers to be his generation's "attornefor the damned."He grew up "just the north side oPelham Parkway," and in 1972 faceexpUlsion from Columbia University afteleading demonstrations against thVietnam war. Facing a university triaSchwartz was able to convince iconoclastic civil liberties lawyer William Kunstleto represent him. When they heard tha

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Kunstler, master of the trial as spectacle,was involved, Columbia dropped thecharges. Schwartz eventually decided togo to Hofstra Law School and Kunstlergained another acolyte."I thought he was the coolest guy in theworld and I wanted to be just like him,"Schwartz says.But he is not. Schwartz is no "radical"lawyer like Kunstler's longtime associateRon Kuby, whose high profile race cases,including the initial defense of Long IslandRailroad gunman Colin Ferguson, aresplashy if not always effective. AndSchwartz has embraced mainstream politicsin away that few revolutionary lawyers everhave. While Kunstler and Kuby eschewedparty politics, Schwartz is aDemocratic district leader in the West Village and an enthusiastic supporter of moderate BrooklyniteCharles Schumer's Senate run.

"Over the years, I've come to believethat having a revolution and turningAmerican society on its head is not justimpossible but undesirable ," he says. "Myexperience with those who would lead this'revol ution' is that they might want toimpose a model that is even less democratic than the one we have now. But that partabout supporting dissidents is a theme thatcontinues to run through me."IfSchwartz resembles anyone, it wouldbe his late partner, labor lawyer BurtonHall, who often represented troublemakersin corrupt or mobbed-up painters', labor

ers' and carpenters' locals. It was duringhis apprenticeship with Hall that Schwartzadopted his penchant for taking on lostcause cases. It was there too that he cultivated the goal of creating legal precedentto make it easier for his union clients tomake their cases in the future.In the early 1980s, after representing alaborers ' union official whose testimonyhelped bring down Reagan labor secretaryRay Donovan, Schwartz struck out on hisown .From there he set up his own firm withthen-partners Dan Clifden and LouisNikolaides, taking on big money clientslike UNITE's Local 169 and the TransportWorkers Union Local 101, which represents Brooklyn Union Gas employees.At the same time he began representing, pro bono, union insurgents who werebeing cheated out of the chance to challenge their leaders.Over the years his client roster has grownto include nearly every union insurgent inNew York. In addition to the 32B-32J dissidents, he represents the New Caucus, aninsurgent group in the 6,OOO-member CityUniversity's Professional Staff Congress.SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1998

Another client is New Directions , theactivists running to take over the 33,000-member Transport Workers LocaJ 100. Lastwinter, he represented 36 rent strikers at 10Sheridan Square, supporting a three-monthjob action by the building's doormen andmaintenance staff, who were fighting a 60percent pay cut and other take-backs.As it turns out, these pro bono clientshave become almost as lucrative as his butterand-egg work. When he wins cases, defendants are often forced to pay his expenses,and Schwartz bills at $300 an hour. 'That'sWaIl Street rates," says Leon Friedman, hisformer Hofstra law professor and a weUknown employment discrimination attorney.Schwartz often crosses that thin linebetween doing good and doing weU, and it

makes his opponents howl. Take transitunion president Willie James, who lost toSchwartz in a 1995 case that overturned thelocal's expulsion of James 's New Directionsopponents. "[Schwartz and his clients] arenot real unionists," James says. "Real unionists don't sue their own union. The only onewho benefited was their lawyer."And benefit Schwartz did-to the tuneof $100,000 in court fees, even though hisclients only received $1 in punitive damages from James.Bevona'. Flr.t DefeatHis pro bono crusade against Bevona isshaping up to be his most important caseyet. Last December, Schwartz andGuzman dealt the union leader a seriousWorking Tiffs

It's hard to find II ltarnallIIIon scrap In New York that doesn't Involvelawyer ArUIur Schwartz. Hera 11'8 four II his hottest _ion fights:.1IIIrIItc.. I l l ,.... Ioy CaInna' lithe 8,. . . . . . . . . . 1MServIce Taclllllcal GIld hid to .. wice In tine . . . . . o beat.,...

Lou Albano. The first tID, 1 praia"", vote COIIIt IIIowingr.omn. .... was voided aftar baIoIs were lost. ConIner's DC 37 ___gent . . . . . , the Comm ittIe for Real Change, named Schwartz Its C8IIISIIin nid-JuIy. r.omn. l id Ills .radaratas want to InItituta direct .....benhIp iIIt8Id lillie waIgIIbId __ .... umntIy In place. TrE 1,Ift..... I1II, l I I I I_ WIlle James . . . . 1 fractioa32 , - - - - " ocal II SIIbwQ and bus . . . . . . hat Is divided betw_his suppartan and tIIose II he mlUtant New Directions caucua. . . . . .aITOWIy won re-election In IIQ, but his opponents, Schwartz clients,lOW hold 22 II he local's 35 ...uve board positions.CrttIca . . , James too auIIy ICCOIIIIOdatad the citr TransItAuthorIty's _ flwwkfare . . . . . . 1 move tile union boa SQI he hasno problem wtth.."a'IIIIr . . . . .0.....AIIlrlll. FdE ... rTIIIIlIn.ln thisCUNY faculty and profassIonaI staff local, tile dlllnncas between 1 ..beRt president Irwin PoIIshook and his New Caucus critics are largelyidaaIo8ICII.Though the orncan and their antapIsta . . . . 011 the.. ide Inthe .... ight to save ..... adIIIIuIons and ........ programs at thecIQ IIIIMnItJ system, the New caucus ICCI_ PaIIshook of beingIIIIimagiaativa and too sort 011 CUNY cuttars.. . . . . . . . . . A . l r t l . F I ~ I F . . . . r...a litE ,111111 Earllertllisyear, ...., clerical staff and caf8tarIa workan aIect8d Schwartz-ally8rigit Scott as their new prasIdent. Scott, who chaired the local's_'I ..uttae, IUI'VIved aa arrort to have her candidacy disqualIfied. She also IMI'CIIII8 int8rnaI union charges flied against her by tileincumbent. -MH


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leM

blow. Schwartz and Guzman convincedfederal judge Richard Owen to take theadministration of a union vote out ofBevona's hands. Guzman , in addition torunning against Bevona, has long pressedfor basic member rights like electing unionrepresentatives and ratifying contracts.In their argument before the judge, dissidents cited intimidation and vote-tamperingat the February 1997 bylaws balloting heldat a Midtown hotel and handily won byBevona. Verondo Wilkerson, a Park Avenuedoorman, said he saw "people voting fourand five ballots at a time." Boxes were leftunattended as union suits sauntered over,casually dropping in paper ballots. Membershad to vote in full view of business agentswearing "Vote No" stickers.Many members left without votingbecause the polling place selected wasinside one of the hotel's smallest confer

ence rooms, causing long waits for workers who had to take time off to cast theirballots.In addition, the local used English-only

Schwartz willargue thatBevona is

engaged in11misfeasance"and must repaythe union some$2.4 million.ballots for the predominantly foreign-bornand Spanish-speaking membership. Theleadership 's "Vote No" recommendationswere prominently displayed on the ballotsthemselves.The judge cited "an enormous risk ofabuse of power by the incumbent leadership," following an array of irregularitiesat an earlier vote.When Guzman managed to force a second bylaws race, Bevona won that one,too. Then the judge weighed in heavily:He ordered virtually all of Schwartz'sclean-elections suggestions. From now on,

32B-321's elections will be held all day atmultiple sites, with new restrictions placedon electioneering at the polls and by staffat work sites. Most importantly, Owenruled that the union would have to pay forcourt-appointed, union-paid election officers to run the new voting.This federal intervention in internalunion business was so profound it drew theire of the politically powerful CentralLabor Council and its leader, QueensAssemblyman Brian McLaughlin.McLaughlin, along with the executivecouncil of the union umbrella group, wentso far as to support an amicus brief challenging Guzman's victory. (See CityLimits, February 1998.)"You may be one hundred percent correct that your rights were abridged,"CLC's attorney Douglas Menagh toldGuzman. "But the broad judicial issue iswhether the federal judiciary should interfere in the internal affairs of a localunion."Colng fo r th . KillBut if Schwartz bloodied Bevona'snose in the Owen ruling, he is aiming forBevona's throat in another legal case.

In 1990, Bevona proposed hikingdues-and his own salary-by 25 percent.After Guzman vocally opposed him,Bevona paid a gumshoe to find dirt onGuzman. When Guzman found out aboutit, he sued and was awarded $100,000.Had the case ended there, the woundedBevona could have counted himself lucky.But in 1996, Guzman and Schwartzdiscovered that the 32B-321 boss had usedunion money to pay the juogment, alongwith $400,000 in fees to Guzman's attorney and more than $1 million for his owndefense.On October 19, Schwartz will argue infederal court that Bevona , because he andhis other officers engaged in "misfeasance ," must repay the union some $2.4million.Bevona looks cornered. Federal judgeRobert Patterson has already ruled that theunion's attorneys cannot representBevona, and few think the labor boss'pockets are deep enough to survive thefmancial hit, should he lose.The case would be a real vindication ofSchwartz' activist principles. "There arepeople who say, 'Don't sue for uniondemocracy or get the government involvedin determining what our rights are. Weshould fight for our rights. We the workerscan do it alone. Otherwise the workers willnever learn to do it by themselves,'" saysSchwartz. "Well, it's not true."

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Force OutEach year, the City-Wide Task Force on Housing Court helps60,000 tenants who are too poor to afford lawyers. Thanks tothe GOP, it is about to go out ofbusiness. By Idra RosenbergAlong the back wall of theBrooklyn Housing Court, nervous tenants huddle along thecounters attempting to decipherthe confusing forms. Some team up whileothers go solo, but nobody seems exactlysure how best to navigate the jungle ofstipulations and eviction notices."Does anybody over here need help?"shouts Derrick Johnson, a counselor fromthe City-Wide Task Force on HousingCourt. Six people immediately grab theirpapers and rush over to accept his offer.

In a court where more than 85 percentof the tenants can 't afford legal representation, the task force provides an invaluablesource of information and guidance. Inoperation since 1981 , the organizationhelps an average of 60,000 people a year,mostly poor tenants looking to stave offeviction or gain access to state housingsubsidies like Jiggetts relief."Without the table, I wouldn 't knowwhat to do ," says tenant Margie Adams , incourt to fight an eviction order.The only one who doesn 't seem to recognize the task force's worth is the manwho fund s them . In May, GovernorGeorge Pataki cut City-Wide 's $263 ,000annual appropriation from this year's budget, eliminating 82 percent of the organization 's funding.Soon after, Mayor Rudolph Giulianivetoed the City Council 's attempt torestore millions in council pet projects ,including the money needed to keep thetask force 's tables and tenant hotlinegoing. The council's subsequent vetooverride probably won 't restore the

money: Giuliani has vowed to invoke a little-used legal loophole that allows him toreject council initiatives he deems to befinancially risky. Calls to the Giuliani andPataki press offices were not returned.The day after Giuliani 's veto , CityWide's Executive Director AngelitaAnderson reluctantly sent out two-weeknotices to the counselors. On June 15 , shewas forced to cut the four-day-a-weektable service down to one day a week. Tomake sure tenants weren 't completely leftin the lurch, Anderson solicited the help ofvolunteers-including some of her boardSEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1998

members-to help run the tables and handout flyers.It wasn 't enough. For two weeks, thetables were almost always empty and tenants were left to fend for themselves.Some help has arrived . Andersonrecently cashed the $40,000 check CityWide gets every two years from its largestprivate donor, the Scherman Foundation.

The Scherman grant allowed Andersonto temporarily rescind the pink slips,although she had to cut salaries 20 percent.BINk Futur.

By July, Anderson was able to fieldthree full-time and two part-time employees plus a handful of rotating volunteerlaw students. Borough counselors resumedthe four-morning-a-week schedule, exceptfor Staten Island, which is only open fortwo. "For now, we 're out of crisis mode,"says Anderson. "Who knows what willhappen in September."Without someone to replace CityWide's lost state grant, the future looksbleak. Politically, the organization 's goverment funding options have been closed.If City-Wide can survive until next year

though , the Democratic state assembly willalmost certainly restore funding. Task forcestaff are aggressively seeking help fromother foundations and nonprofit organizations, but nothing is definite yet.Without a savior, the task force willshut down for good in September.Advlc. and a PlanAnd that will be bad news for thefrightened tenants that clutch wads ofcourt papers outside the courtrooms . Backin April, Patricia Nelson came to HousingCourt after her East F1atbush landlordgave her an eviction notice. She couldn 'tafford an attorney, so she sat in the longrow of metal chairs silently until the courtofficial bellowed her name and told her itwas time to stand before the judge.

PIPELINE

'They rushed me through and pushed me Bronx tenantsto sign, I didn't know what was going on," could soon loseshe says. She agreed to be out of her apart- the advice ofment by July 20 without realizing that she counselors likehad the option to request more time. Gina HernandeUnable to find a new home, Nelsoncame back to the courthouse two daysbefore her eviction, in hopes of buyingmore time. Upon the advice of a friend ina similar predicament, she came straightover to the table and left with a plan andform to fill out to modify her agreement.

"1 wish I had known my rights in the firstplace," she says.


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PIPELINE i,

Lodi High Schoolstudents BryanNordt (left) andKevin Tryanowski(center) interviewJim Gannon aboutthe explosion thatnearly killed him.

Stuck in LodiDocumentary filmmakers are teaching students to find thetruth behind one of their hometown's worst workplacedisasters. By Robin EpsteinUnder the gaze of Xena, theWarrior Princess, who proclaims from a poster the powerof reading, about 35 students sitaround in the Lodi High School library,waiting for the school year to end. They

talk., ignoring the crew of New York Cityft!mmakers testing microphones and taping extension cords to the floor.It is just days before the prom, and thejuniors and seniors are not psyched abouthaving to rehash the story of the chemicalplant explosion not far from their schoolthat killed five workers three years ago.

"It doesn't really faze me that it happened," says football player KevinTryanowski, who grew up in this blue-collar New Jersey town, a 15-minute drivefrom New York over the GeorgeWashington Bridge. "It's history. It's gone.Can't do nothing about it."The filmmakers, led by award-winningdocumentary director Judith Helfand, arepreparing to film the students as they inter-

view union leaders, the local fire chief anda worker who survived the blast. LodiHigh is the pilot site for a new oral historyproject, called Link the Classroom to theCommunity, that introduces teenagers tothe labor movement. The footage willbecome part of the permanent collection atthe Lodi Public Library. It will also shapea guide for other teachers and organizerslooking to conduct their own investigations of working people in their towns'past.In Lodi the project's purpose isn't somuch to uncover hidden history as it is toprevent it from becoming hidden in thefirst place. "It's a very important moment,"Helfand says of the students' opportunityto do the interviews. "This could havebeen lost."Toxic ExplosionOn Thursday, April 20, 1995, at about 5a.m., employees at Napp Technologies,Inc. began loading thousands of pounds of

reactive chemicals, including sodiumhydrosulfite and powdered aluminum, intoa two-story-high blender.The process should have taken all of anhour, according to a subsequent federalinvestigation. But more than 24 hourslater, after workers had complained of arotten egg smell and a supervisor noticedthe chemicals smoking and bubbling,employees were still trying to complete thejob.

It wasn't until six the next morning thatNapp's management finally evacuated theplant, and then only by word of mouth.The plant's alarm was never sounded. Itwould have made emergency managementofficials and nearby residents aware thatthere was a problem.After consulting with Napp higher-upsby phone, supervisors and a small crew ofworkers went back inside to unload theblender. They didn't know it, but they weremaking a bad situation far worse. At7:45 a.m., the potion exploded, hurling the23-ton vat 50 feet. The roof blew off, anda black toxic cloud quickly swept overnorthern New Jersey, forcing the evacuation of 400 people. It took 700 fire fightersfrom 34 surrounding towns more than a

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day to get the fire under control. Chemicalrunoff from the plant turned the nearbySaddle River kelly green and sent its fishfloating belly up.The Napp accident was Lodi 's third fatalchemical plant explosion in threedecades. This town of 27,000 owes its existence to the American Piece Dye Works andthe Italian immigrants who came to workthere. Although the factories that replacedthe dye works have been slowly shuttingdown, Lodi still has seven chemical plantswithin its densely populated two squaremiles.

Jim Gannon, a 47-year-old Napp veteran who's lived in Lodi most of his life, wasone of seven workers sent in to unload theblender.Only Two Cam. Out Ally.

'The noise itself lasted a fraction of asecond, then everything got quiet,"Gannon tells a circle of students who areinterviewing him in front of Helfand'scameras. "I was getting blown back in onedirection and both my arms and legs weregetting sucked out in front of me. But Icouldn't do anything, so I just relaxed andsaid, 'I'm gonna die .' Then I bounced offthe cinder block walls. I started rollingbecause my uniform was on fire, then I feltthe ceiling caving in."With his crinkle-eyed smile and nondescript dress shirt, Gannon isn 't the kind ofguy who would attract much attention, atleast until he starts to talk."I started thinking about the five guyswho I'd been there with," he continues. "Itried working my way back inside to see ifI could help them , but the smoke was sothick I could feel it touching my face."He also began to think about his wifeand two kids, and about the possibility ofmore explosions. Figuring that if the others weren't out yet they must already bedead, he gave up his search. "It was one ofthe hardest things I've ever done."One of the teenagers asks him whathappened next."It was funny," says Gannon. "When Iwas inside I didn 't feel any pain. When Igot out front on the sidewalk it was likesomeone turned up the burner on myhands. I noticed that I could see the bone.It was like I had no hand. There were allkinds of fire trucks there. I got put on astretcher and went to the hospital."When he is asked how long it took himto recover, Gannon replies: "It's not overSEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1998

yet. I still get nightmares . I have no shortterm memory. Loud noises, my heart beatgoes faster."I'll probably spend the rest of my lifetrying to see that what I'm going through,what happened to my friends, doesn't happen to anybody else," he says . "I need totry to carry the message. Maybe that 's why

I didn't die in the explosion ."Because Helfand told him that the students think the explosion doesn't havemuch to do with them, Gannon tries torecount more than just the horror of thatday."There are some facts that you may notbe aware of," he tells the kids. "Six thousand working people a year die on the job.The reason for it is that the ultra-rich thatown these companies put money and profit margin over human life."Gannon is especially angry at the painless $1DO,OOO settlement Napp officialshad to pay for 13 violations of health andsafety rules. "I f hey put working people atrisk," he says, "they should be put inprison ."Last year, with the help of his union,UNITE, Gannon gave a similar speech to1 O residents of Coventry, Rhode Island,where Napp plans to relocate the obliterated plant. When company executivesunveiled their proposal, he says, theyreferred to a fire, but "never mentionedanything about an explosion or anybodydying. I mean these people were totallyshocked when I told them."There are no current laws that wouldstop Napp from opening, but thanks toGannon's efforts, Coventry residents willbe watching the plant carefully if it does.And Rhode Island's legislature is considering a law that would give local fire marshals more authority over chemical plants.The Lodi incident also helped Gannonand unionists nationwide successfullylobby Washingto1! to fund an independentboard that investigates chemical explosions in the same way that the NationalTransportation Safety Board investigatesairline crashes.BorHMoMor.When the filmmakers call the studentsand the visitors together to sum up, themood has shifted perceptibly from theboredom of the beginning of the day.Bryan Nordt is riled up about being interrupted in the middle of his interview withGannon. "I had another question , but we

III used to breakinto themfactories when Iwas little.Inever thoughtI'd be insidewhen they wereblowing up."

got cut off!" says the tall, goateed senior.Speaking to the assembled students,Gannon punctuates his final comments bytaking out his silver Marlboro lighter, withthe signature Stetsoned smoker on horseback glued on.The day before the explosion, Gannonsays, he dropped it and the cowboy fell off."I said, 'Gee, I wonder what that means.'The next day the plant exploded. This wasin my pocket when I got blown backwards."As the kids pass around the repairedlighter, feeling its heft and looking at thecowboy, Gannon says: "I know how youcan feel how this has nothing to do withyou. I grew up in Lodi. I used to play onthe roof of Napp Chemical. I used to breakinto them factories when I was little. Inever thought I'd be inside when theywere blowing up."The lighter lingers for a while inNordl's hands."I lived in the town and it exploded yetit didn't bother me," Nordt says. "I neverfelt anything, but now that I actually interviewed Jim, it touched, and it hurts. Hewas in pain for a while. He can't work anymore. It's great what he does-all he doesis go around and tell people about chemical fires and what happened . That affects alot of people . It affected me a lot."

A few minutes later Nordt givesGannon his telephone number, telling himthat he'd like to help out."I'll definitely get you involved ,"Gannon says, as the two walk out of thelibrary.


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No Power ofAttorneyBed-Stuy's Legal Services office is a tough place if you're alawyer. But it's even less hospitable to potential clients.

. .P . I P I r i i , E l _ I N . . . , E . . . l ~ By Glenn Thrush

Edna Simpsoncouldn 't get alawyer to help herfight for repairs inher Bed-Stuyapartment .

One quiet evening last year, EdnaSimpson 's apartment tried tokill her.Simpson was sitting on theedge of her bed when she heard the soundof screws splintering out of old wood.Before she realized what was happening,the 30-pound closet door had fallen fromits jamb and struck her square on the forehead, knocking her out cold .

Her headaches have abated, but thedoor still stands in the middle of her livingroom , like a war memorial.Accidents happen, especially in 100-year-old buildings in neighborhoods likeBedford-Stuyvesant. But Simpson hadbeen complaining about her landlord andthe building's condition for months--even

to the point of helping organize her fellowtenants.To help her in that effort, she contactedthe Bedford-Stuyvesant Community LegalServices , a government-funded nonprofitthat provides free legal help to the poor."They gave me some advice, but theywouldn 't represent me in court ," Simpsonsays. "I needed a lawyer. I didn 't get one."Simpson didn 't know that the group

was trying to run a legal office with practically no lawyers.For much of the last two years, CherieGaines, Bed-Stuy Legal Services '$95 ,000-a-year boss , has tried to make dowith exactly one staff attorney. For a timeearlier this year, the organization actuallyemployed no staff attorneys, the foot sol-

diers who generally handle Housing Courand benefit cases. During this same periodGaines, a combative former city housingofficial and lawyer, fed a fat managementpayroll of five supervising attorneys. Onaverage, managers make $69,000 a year tooversee Bed-Stuy paralegals and supporstaff-and to handle a small caseload onthe side.Because Bed-Stuy has so few lawyerswhose sole job is to represent clients, theoffice has had to turn away a large numberof applicants . For most of the people theydo take on, legal services means handholding or legal coaching-but no actuarepresentation in court.

"They're just not serving the neighborhood ," says Stephanie Coleman-Harrisuntil recently the director of the BrooklynNeighborhood Improvement Association(BNIA), one of a half-dozen groups organizing to force Gaines to mend her ways"There 's a lot of poor people here, we needthe help. But I would never refer people toBed-Stuy. They are always turning peopleaway. There's no one over there to takeanybody 's cases."Gaines has recently hired two new stafattorneys and a pair of managemenlawyers have left, but Bed-Stuy is still, byfar, the most top-heavy of the 10 LegaServices offices in the city. Arguably, it ialso the most ineffective of the federallyfunded, locally managed neighborhoodlaw centers ."That place is an absolute disgrace,"says a Legal Services executive, one of ahalf-dozen who expressed a similar opinion and requested anonymity. "Everybodyknows what's going on over there andnobody's done anything about it."Union WarThe crisis at Bed-Stuy dates back to1991 , when more than a 100 LegaServices lawyers citywide staged a bitterfour-month strike over wages and benefitsThe strike caused hard feelings throughouthe city, but Gaines was especiallyenraged . "We had a responsibility to thecornmunity, and they were preventing ufrom fulfilling it," she says.The strike left a permanent rift betweenthe union staff and Gaines. "It was a warand she loved it," says Jeff Busch , a government benefits attorney and union representative who left Bed-Stuy in early 1997"She would have people she fired escorted

CITVLlMITS


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out by security as a fonn of humiliation."Over the next few years, Gaines promoted two staff lawyers to managementpositions. As tensions persisted , otherlawyers began leaving-some of their ownaccord, some fued. "In 1994-95, we lost alot of attorneys who were clearly not goingto be replaced," says Busch, who is nowworking for a private law firm. "Whenpeople would leave--either they werefued or resigned-they would never bereplaced. This is how she would get rid ofthe union members."After Busch left, the one remaininglawyer, housing attorney Serge Joseph,found himself saddled with a massive 130-client caseload. "At the end, there werefour managing attorneys . And there wasme. All alone," he says.And then there were none. In February1998, Joseph quit after the directoraccused him of failing to do proper followup on some of his cases .No other neighborhood office has everhad more managers than attorneys in thefield-much less no staff lawyers at all.According to Legal Services officials, theaverage staff-to-management ratio is aboutfour to one. Harlem Legal Services, whichhas roughly the same budget as Bed-Stuy,has 13 staff lawyers and four managers.

Gaines maintains that her staffing levels are adequate and that any lawyers shefued or forced out suffered from "casehandling problems ." And she argues thatfinding new lawyers is difficult. "Peoplecannot be replaced overnight. We have a[hiring] process that must be followed,"she says.She also refuses to apologize for thenumber of management-level attorneyswho, she says, handle significant caseloads. "We had staff attorneys leave us, sowhat were supposed to do? Get rid of theonly experienced people we had left?" sheasks . "When you buy a staff attorney youhave to bring them up to speed. When youhave a supervising attorney, you havesomebody who has been around the blocka few times."Our policy was to maintain experienced casehandlers. We're supposed to layoff managers so that it looks good in someratio?"Mo Hard Ca Bed-Stuy, like all other Legal Serviceschapters, has had to weather a decade ofsteep budget cuts. Gaines says the cuts-SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER1998

and the Giuliani administration's refusal toreimburse the agency for services-created a $250,000 deficit that has dogged theorganization for several years. As a result,she says Bed-Stuy was forced to layoffseven support personnel last year and,until recently, had to forego the hiring ofnew staff attorneys .The deficit is impossible to confum, however, because BedStuy has failed to ftle its last two incometax returns with the state, which arerequired by law.But Bed-Stuy's critics say the moneywoes mask an even more fundamentaltlaw-Gaines' legal philosophy.To deal with the cuts, her office discontinued in-person intake appointments inJanuary 1997 and now screens potentialclients over the phone . Many LegalServices offices use phone screening, butaccording to its fonner lawyers, Bed-Stuyadvises a disproportionately high percentage of clients over the phone.When clients are invited into the office,they are given step-by-step advice on how torepresent themselves in court, but becauseof the lawyer shortage are rarely given actual representation. "When we can't be therepersonally, we prepare them to representthemselves in court. It's a very valuablefunction," Gaines explains. The techniquehas allowed her office to process 400 clientsa month, a number she says is rising.But that statistic may be misleading. "Ilike being in court," Joseph says, "butinstead of doing real , live cases, we 'd beon the phone. That's a case, that's a number in a column. To Cherie, that's helpingthe community." Typically, he adds, theoffice would only choose to represent "oneor two" new applicants a week."Her whole thing was that it was veryimportant to 'touch bodies ' to ring up thenumber of clients served," says DeannaArden, a fonner Bed-Stuy managementattorney who resigned in 1994. "Sure, wesaw a lot of people, but we were prohibited from doing hard cases."Hard cases, the lawyers say, involveclients who need more help than a fewphone calls, one or two court appearances ,or some fonns to be filled out. Clientswhose lives don't fit into a neat case catagory are often left listening to a dial tone.Mary Robinson , who was waiting forthe marshal to evict her when she spoke toCity Limits in mid-July, needed more helpthan Bed-Stuy was willing to give. In late1997, Robinson , with Serge Joseph 's help,

applied to state welfare to help her pay$7,000 in back rent. When she called backto talk to Joseph, she was told three things:I) he had quit, 2) her welfare applicationhad been rejected and 3) that she was nolonger a client at Bed-Stuy.Robinson, who lives with her fourgrandchildren , got tlustered and hung upthe phone. The lawyer who now representsher, however, says a recent change in herhousehold 's welfare status might haveforced the state to reconsider its decision."They told me there was nothing theycould do to help," Robinson says. "Thatwas it. I'll never go back there, never."

Bed-Stuy also takes a pass on mostcases involving more than one client, especially tenant associations fighting landlords for repairs. BNIA currently represents several buildings that wanted tobring actions against their landlord butwere turned down by Bed-Stuy.Hearing a series of similar reports,the City-Wide Task Force on HousingCourt has stopped referring clients toBed-Stuy. "They just weren't gettingrepresented," says task force directorAngelita Anderson.(Continued on page 34)

Former staffattorney JeffBussays Cherie Gainfired his fellowlawyers becausethey were in aunion.


16/40

s

PIPEliNE ,Loco 3369Forged travel vouchers, charges ofgay-baiting, shoving andshouting, a secret slander trial. Welcome to the Social Securityworkers' union. By Idra Rosenbergj ohn Riordan, union leader, doesn'twant another job.And the current bosses of the localhe once led don't have a problemwith that.They just want him to find some otherunion.

In pursuit of that goal, the newly elected leaders of Local 3369 of the AmericanFederation of Government Employees arewaging a legally questionable war to purgeRiordan from their ranks.The result has been a nasty splitbetween Riordan supporters and Riordanavengers that makes a WWF match seemdecorous . The local, which represents citySocial Security employees, has beenalmost completely consumed by the fight.It has involved, at various times, shovingmatches, a firestorm over a handful offishy travel vouchers, allegations of gaybaiting against the anti-Riordan local leadership and, most importantly, a secretiveslander trial that may violate Riordan'sconstitutional rights.

"It's a madhouse in there right now,"

says 3369 member Pamela Allen, a Riordanbacker. "Who wants to be part of a unionthat attacks its members like that? It's sick."Punlshm.nt and R.v.ng.According to Riordan, the troublebegan in January 1995 when, he says, hediscovered that two of his top union officers, Andy Poulos and Charlie Fahlikman,were neglecting their duties. Riordancouldn't touch their paychecks, but hetried to punish them with part-time dutycompleting tasks for management, insteadof their standard full-time union work."I had to do something," Riordan says."I never knew where Andy was andCharlie would come to the office, but hewouldn't do anything."Poulos and Fahlikman say the punishment was unjustified-but they didn'thave to wait long for their revenge. In theDecember 1996 leadership election,Fahlikman trounced Riordan, who hadruled the local for 16 years, by a two-toone margin. Poulos became his vice-president. Soon after, Riordan filed a complaintwith the AFGE NationalCouncil alleging that theelection was run improperly.The investigation has yet tobe concluded.The probe was the secondthat year. Earlier in 1996,Riordan had aided federal

Former boss John investigators in examiningPoulos' alleged misuse ofunion travel funds.iordan is in themiddle ofa unioncivil war. In their November 1996letter to Poulos , investigatorsexplained how they snaredhim: "You had submitted atravel voucher showing avisit to Touro [an orthodoxJewish college] on October4th, 1995, which was YomKippur, a Jewish holiday onwhich the library wasclosed ." The Social SecurityAdministration suspendedPoulos for 60 days withoutpay from his full-time job atthe union office.Even though he served

his time, Poulos isn't letting the matterest, charging that the former presidenslandered him five times in a letter he sento federal investigators. He is especiallpiqued by Riordan's charge that he playeracquetball on union time. Investigatorconducted an interview with a racquetbaclub manager, much to Poulos' embarrassment."He meant to harm me," Poulos tellCity Limits. "He maliciously and willfulllied and misled the investigators."Fahlikman refused comment except tsay "this is internal union business."Siand.r Suit

Poulos formally charged Riordan witslander in June. If convicted by a threemember union tribunal, he could bexpelled from the union.When the trial began behind closedoors in the first week in June, it quickldegenerated into a screaming match. Athe request of the trial committee, Riordawas ejected from the building by a federasecurity officer. A City Limits reporter waalso tossed.AFGE council observer DavGlassford, who was flown in fromColorado by the national union leadershito observe the proceedings, thoughRiordan was out of line, but had harshethings to say about the proceedings. "Thehave completely violated his due procesrights," he says. "We need to have actuajustice instead of this sham."Ironically, the outcome may not mattemuch, according to Carl Biers of thAssociation for Union Democracy. I1963, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled thainternal union slander trials are inherentlunconstitutional. "I've seen dozens othem go to federal court and not a singlslander charge has ever been held legal,Biers says.Civil War

Even if Riordan gets off the hookthere's no end in sight to the nasty civil wathat has drained union energy and funds.Riordan, who is gay, attributes some othe animosity to homophobia. ''The rumorwere spread during the election to besmircmy reputation," he says. ' 'They said I wadownloading pornography from the Internetbut our office isn't even connected."

Union member Nelson David says hhas witnessed a PouloslFahlikman ally

CITYLIHITS


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make homophobic comments. "I've heard[the official] say that gay people shouldn'thold a union office."For his part, Poulos denies any anti-gaysentiment, personally or among his supporters, but admits, "I couldn't work underhis tutelage any longer. We have lifestyledifferences."Instead, he claims that the hostilitystems from Riordan's inactivity in his lastyears as president. "This woe-is-me isabsolutely insane. [He's] been called onthe carpet by the democratic process,"Poulos says.But Riordan says that the problem isthe opposite: that Poulos and companythink he was too tough on management.Riordan gives the following example:In 1988, he filed the first of four nationalhealth and safety grievances requestingnew ergonomic chairs and desks for theworkers, many of whom suffered fromrepetitive motion disorders. Six yearslater, an arbitrator ordered the federal government to spend $200 million on properfurniture for the 1,200 offices in theunion.

H"YeostsThe union's strife is in part due to fed-

IIThey said Iwasdownloadingpornography fromthe Internet, butour office isn'teven conneded."eral law, which prohibits governmentemployees from striking. Although publicemployees can stage a sick-out, workplaceactions are rare, meaning that leaders haveno recourse other than to file time-consuming grievances."It's a problem," says union democracyexpert Biers of the no-strike law. "At timesit is used as an excuse by union officialsfor ineffectiveness."Efficacy seems to be the one issue notaddressed by the current fracas, which has

started to take its toll on the union's bankaccount. The trial board has already allocated $10,000 for the trial, which couldcost much more if Riordan is convictedand drags the case into the courts.Riordan has begun circulating anewsletter, the Labor Center News, paid forout of his own pocket. To the undiscerningeye, the paper could be mistaken for theofficial union newsletter, and lastSeptember, after receiving his copy,AFGE's national president John Sturdivanttold Riordan to stop printing a "publicationwhich purports to be an official publication."For now, the two sides cannot even agreeon a date to continue the internal hearing.Riordan and his lawyer say they will not beavailable until October, but the trial committee sent a letter back asking to resolve thematter sooner. The committee tentativelyscheduled the next hearing for August 17,but Riordan says he will be in Denver for anexecutive board meeting. Poulos says he'sready to go whenever Riordan is.

If Riordan gets bounced from theunion, he'll lose his chance to trumpFahlikman in the next election, a year anda half away. But Riordan says he's determined to stick around .

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FOUNDATION-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------TRILOGY

Landmarks OmissionHistoric preservation in the city's black neighborhoods is a struggleagainst snobbery-and local leaders bent on development. By Kemba Johnson

ichael Henry Adams is an interloperamong the gods and goddesses ofNew York City's landmarks world.One of his favorite stories is abouta tour he gave to Laurie Beckelman,the former head of the city 'sLandmarks Preservation Commissionunder Mayor David Dinkins.Beckelman had been publicly proclaiming the need to landmark more buildings in poor and minority neighborhoods, so then-Councilmember C. Virginia Fieldsdecided to take her out on a scouting expedition in Harlem.Adams, uptown landmarks gadfly and author, was chosen as her

local guide.Adams gamely took Beckelman to a building he thought wouldbe a sure contender: the l29th Street site that labor leader A.Philip Randolph created to be the center of the black union move-

SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 1998

ment. Back in late 1920s, Randolph commissioned the state's firstblack licensed architect, Vertner Tandy, to design a headquartersfor the new Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, comprisedmostly of black railroad workers. Eventually, the Brotherhoodwould become the first black union allowed into the AmericanFederation of Labor. Randolph would become vice president ofthe united AFL-CIO and a major figure in the black civil rightsmovement.Although the building isn 't a tower of architectural achievement , it is pleasant enough to look at. Decorative double concretecolumns hold up urns on each side of the arched doorway, but itis essentially a hall built for a union with limited funds . And thatis all Beckelman saw, Adams says, as she turned to a colleague toask: "They want us to landmark that?""It was not the New York Public Library in terms of design,"Adams admits. "But it 's like comparing Shakespeare andLangston Hughes. The art of the one does not diminish the art ofthe other. If you are bothered just because Langston Hughes may

Harlem 's Sugaronce home to thecity's black luminies, is now caugha battle for recogtion with the citylandmarks commsion.


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Gadfly Michael Adams has sug-gested dozens of African-Americanlandmarks. The rejection lettershaven't deterred him yet.use 'ain't,' then of course you will never see the accomplishmentof what his work represents."

The New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission hasalways been a haven for the city's aristocracy, and its architectural honor roll has been a catalogue of what rich people have builtor bought over four centuries.But that's not all landmarking is supposed to do. City lawdirects the commission to landmark property on the basis of fivecategories: "cultural, social, economic, political and architectural."Despite this mandate, the landmarks commission has chosennearly all of the city's landmarks-94 percent, according to a former commissioner-based on architectural value alone.That means buildings like the ones Adams includes on hisHarlem tours, buildings that reflect the history of non-white NewYork, are often denied the recognition they deserve. Of the almost1,000 landmarked buildings in the city, about 100 are in communities of color. Only 16 earned their laurels based on their nonwhite historical or cultural value; the rest were landmarkedbecause they had significance to white people who used to livethere. And of the 750 blocks now protected by historic districts,only 135 are in black or Latino neighborhoods.But snobbishness is not the only reason there are so few landmarks in minority neighborhoods. As the movement to landmarkneighborhoods like Harlem has grown, so has unexpected opposition among community leaders.It's not that the ministers, politicians and businessmen who arereshaping low-income neighborhoods reject the respect andtourism income that landmarking can bring a community. Theyjust don't want some landmarked building getting in the way oftheir housing and economic development plans.

"If landmarking is seen as a way of recording and telling history,then there 's no question that the way it's been done up to now is nottelling the whole story," says Ned Kaufman, the Municipal ArtSociety's resident landmark expert. "It is the story of well-to-do pe0-ple and their nice houses, not working people and their lives and theirstruggle for equity. Or minorities and their struggle for recognition."Te Landmarks Preservation Commission was born as aresult of the most notorious architectural crime in NewYork history: the 1963 razing of the grandly RomanesquePennsylvania Station to make way for the concrete cupcake that is today's Madison Square Garden. Two years after thestation 's destruction , the city established the commission to safeguard New York's architectural, cultural and historical icons.Penn Station set the standard for the preservationist movement's focus on municipal grandiosities, handsome homes, skyscrapers and commercial palaces. Then in recent years, under theleadership of Beckelman and current chair Jennifer Raab, thecommission began to move beyond its elitist foundations. "In thebeginning we were really eager to save the city's great architectural treasures," says commission spokesperson Katy McNabb."But lately we have been looking to do more cultural landmarking."Even these modest efforts have been criticized by long-timepreservationists. In the 1998 edition of "The Landmarks of NewYork III," former commissioner Barbaralee DiamonsteinSpielvogel argues that diversity in landmarking is undesirable ."Structures and districts of sometimes questionable or dubiousarchitectural significance outside of Manhattan and in non-whiteareas are designated, while fme architectural examples may beignored," she writes. "Although many of these items deservesome sort of protection, it is not readily apparent that they meritlandmark status."Such attitudes are not surprising given the racial make-up of theII-member commission. There seems to be a quota allowing justone minority member at a time. Beginning under the Koch administration, that member was architect Gene Norman, the chair, whowas followed by Bill Davis. Three years ago, Chris Moore, a FortGreene resident who works at the Schomburg Center for Researchin Black Culture, was appointed by Mayor Rudolph Giuliani ."I may be the only black person," Moore jokes, "but I'm tenacious."The panel's shortage of black representation has made it alightning rod for community criticism, especially in Harlem,which has been the site of several high-proftle landmarks battlesin the last decade.The conflict between the board and the city's most prominentblack community reached its height when Harlemite DavidDinkins satin City Hall. A group of activists sought to preservethe Audubon Ballroom, the l66th Street site where Malcolm Xwas assassinated in 1965, but the commission refused even tohold a public hearing. Instead of landmarking the Audubon , thecommission-with the blessing of Dinkins, who was captivatedby the site's economic development potential-allowed ColumbiaUniversity to build a new business incubator for biotechnologyfirms there. Ruth Messinger, then the Manhattan borough president, managed to save the facade and part of the lobby.

In the early 19905, during the start of this fracas, newlyappointed Beckelman developed what came to be known as theCITY LIMITS


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"Harlem 25"-25 buildings that would be seriously consideredfor landmark designation.But when the final list was released, the emphasis was on pretty buildings over important ones. Honorees included MountMorris Bank, a brewery, a couple of firehouses and a handful ofschools-most of which have since been landmarked. But otherfamous sites like Minton's Playhouse, the birthplace of bebop,were passed over. "This was an opportunity to say to the community, 'We're looking to landmark here,' so people could come forward with ideas," recalls Carolyn Kent, who oversees the landmarking committee of Harlem's Community Board 9. "But it wasalmost like a drive-by: Collect the name of some churches andsome large buildings. This was just apolitical way of proceeding."Others say there was nothing wrong with the Harlem 25-except that it wasn't the Harlem 50 or the Harlem 100. ThomasBess, former executive director of Landmarks Harlem, a nonprofit founded to be a liaison between the commission and the community, thinks the commission needs to do more work uptown.Large sections of white Manhattan, including the Upper WestSide, the Upper East Side, the Village and Tribeca have beendeclared landmark districts while places like Central Harlemhome to a famous black cultural renaissance-have not."To have a place like the West Side landmarked from 62ndStreet to 96th Street and not include areas like Harlem is criminal:' Bess observes. "There are entire blocks in Harlem that are sosignificant in the creation of jazz and the development of Harlemas the black cultural center of the world."

Qiet, leafy St. Albans, Queens doesn't look like a jazzMecca, but to those in the know, it's not far belowHarlem in stature.The neighborhood's resident historian is Milt "Judge"Hinton, an 88-year-old bassist who spent his youth playing for

Cab Calloway. Hinton is now dedicating himself to celebrating hisfellow musical St. Albans luminaries: Thomas "Fats" Waller, LenaHome, Ella Fitzgerald and his friend Count Basie. A ballplayer bythe name of Jackie Robinson lived there too."They didn't think a Negro could afford a house like this," saysHinton, who has lived in his two-story house for the last 40 years."We didn't know how nice it was when we came here, how nearit was to heaven."Hinton sits in his basement, not far from Basie's piano , whichis hidden under a blanket and a few scotch bottles. "1'm heredrinking and he would hop onto the piano and start playing," herecalls of Basie's frequent visits. "When we get together it's likecorned beef and cabbage."On a plush green sofa, Hinton has temporarily stored brassplaques he intends to put up on Waller and Basie 's homes. Themarkers, which describe the cultural importance of the jazzpianists, are just the first in a series that he plans to install. Hintonhopes that by celebrating the homes of successful black musicians, local youth will develop the desire to succeed as well.

To Hinton and other black landmark proponents, that's theimportance of preservation . It's the simple recognition that thevalue of a building isn ' t necessarily found in the arrangement ofbricks and wood, but in the lives that unfolded there, and thelessons passersby can take away. "The only way to go ahead is tobuild on those who've gone before," Hinton says.

HistoricDistrictsManhattan Established Districts

South StreetSeaportHistoricDistrict


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Een the commission's harshest critics concede that thejob of landmarking worthy sites would be aided by thekind of passion that comes naturally to Hinton . But communities of color haven't exactly been obsessed with get-ting their neighborhoods landmarked."You have people who don't do anything about getting landmarks," says Gina Stahlnecker, chief of staff to state SenatorDavid Paterson, who helped landmark part of the African BurialGround, a plot of land in lower Manhattan that was the cemeteryfor much of the city's black population in the 1700s. "I f here werehuge grassroots groups organized to find landmarkable buildings,there might be more."The problem isn't simply apathy. Communities like Harlemneed economic development, which means they need the regulatory flexibility to develop sites without government interference.Developers on the Upper East Side despise landmarked buildings;community-based builders in Harlem, Fort Greene and Jamaica feelthe same way. Landmarking, which seeks to freeze and preserve,can raise the price of development projects or stall them altogether.Nowhere is that conflict more apparent than at the RenaissanceBallroom and Casino on 138th Street--one of the Harlem 25structures yet to be landmarked.

While white hipsters made their way to Harlem's Cotton Oub,blacks from across the city flocked to the ballroom during the 1920s and1930s to meet, entertain and be seen. And when the music from touringOnly 100 of the city's 1,000 officiallandmarks are located in black orLatino neighborhoods. Only 16 areof true significance to communi-ties of color.bands wasn't playing, the local black professional basketball team, theHarlem Rens, used the black-owned building to practice and compete.Bought by Rev. Calvin Butts' Abyssinian DevelopmentCorporation in 1992, the would-be landmark sits just one thinbuilding away from the Abyssinian Baptist Church. Abyssinian'sdevelopment chief Karen Phillips says that her organizationworked with the building's owner during the early 1990s in anattempt to help him fix it up, but the costs were too high and hesold it to speculators. They, in turn, lost it to foreclosure.Abyssinian is now developing the boarded-up brick building intoa ballroom for weddings, proms and parties.Phillips plans to turn it into a for-profit catering hall and arguesthat a landmark designation could have sunk the project completely. Abyssinian, she says, would have had to negotiate with the commission to get approval for necessary renovations, which wouldhave tacked months-and additional costs--onto the project.According to a landmarks commission source, Abyssinian 'sopposition has all but killed what might have been a promisinglandmarks application. Phillips defends the church's position ."I'm a preservationist, and this is preservation. We want the ballroom to be an active building for the community," she says. "Thisis already a landmark. Whether it's designated as one by the cityis irrelevant."

Howard Dodson, executive director at Harlem 's Schomburg

Center, understands Phillips' frustration. The Schomburg libralocated in a limestone building where Sidney Poitier and HaBelafonte made their debuts in the basement theater, was inmiddle of a multi-year expansion plan until in 1981, as Dodssays, "someone had the bright idea to have it landmarked."Dodson believes there may also be more personal reasonsthe fact that black residents in Harlem and elsewhere are not movocal about landmark issues. Many major sites where black cture became American history, such as the Apollo Theater andCotton Club, weren't owned by blacks during the height of thfame, he points out. "Ownership was usually somewhere else,"says. "The history is, frankly, contradictory to our own. Our clato it is as squatters rights more than anything else."

Te Landmarks Preservation Commission has made soprogress in recent years. Eighteen of the buildings inHarlem 25 were conferred landmark status. In Bedfo

Stuyvesant four landmarked 19th century houses mathe location of the former free black community of WeeksviAnd the Flushing , Queens home of Lewis H. Latimer, who inveed the filament that transformed Thomas Edison's expensive libulb prototype into a mass-market necessity, has also been so hoored.More recently, the commission agreed to extend the boundariesthe Hamilton Heights historic district in Harlem. And nearby SuHill-former neighborhood of the city 's black political and cultuelite in the 1930s and 1940s, including Supreme Court JustThurgood Marshall and author Ralph Ellison-is on the table this yeBut even this relatively modest designation has been markby controversy. The local community board wants to include paof the neighborhood that contain apartment buildings; commsion officials only want to include a section featuring the neigborhood's attractive townhouses.Including all of Sugar Hill-some 450 buildings-in the htoric district doesn't seem like such a tall order. Last year, 6homes in Douglaston, Queens-a well-off community of Englcottages and Colonial, Tudor and Mediterranean Revival hoes-was designated. The Upper West Side has more than 2,0buildings in its district and the Village, the city's largest distrhas 2,300.But Sugar Hill's landmarking may ultimately come downthe community's will and its capacity to prove its case throucareful research. Given that the commission's staff has been whtled down from 80 people in Beckelrnan's era to about 50 todthe advocates know that they have to do what preservation advcates in richer communities routinely do-find locals to help oWest Harlem Community Preservation Organization is reachiout to building owners and looking for money to hire a consultaShowing this kind of community commitment is the best wto compel the city to recognize the importance of overlookbuildings, Commissioner Moore says. "It 's a matter getting theblack sites, of locating them."And that's just what Adams plans to do as he roams the city sugesting site after site for the commission to consider-undeterrby the stream of form-letter rejections he receives in return."What landmarking is about is who was here before awho was important," he says. "I f black people acknowledtheir history and take pride in it, then it can only brightenfuture."


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ver since a federal judge convicted Yonkers of deliberate segregation in 1985, its citizens have been polled, interviewed, udgedand analyzed. Locals, small businessmen and minor politicianshave earned quotations in The New York Times. Public housingtenants wound up on the Joan Rivers show.By now, most people in Yonkers are sick of talking aboutrace. But the rest of America isn't done with them yet.If desegregation has seemed like adead issue since Boston 'sbusing ordeal of the mid-1970s, it is very much alive in thisindustrial city perched on the edge of metropolitan New York.Yonkers, known for its signature racetrack, is also home to oneof the most important race-mixing experiments of the 1990s.More than ten years ago, the federal courts ordered the city

to build 1,000 low- and middle-inco

city limits magazine, september/october 1998 issue

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