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Tomyguys,Alex,Eva,andBruce,whomakeourhouseahome

Showmeahero,and I will writeyouatragedy.…—F.ScottFitzgerald

Foreword

Greed andfrightarenotthehallmarksofour great national adventure,or so we assure ourselveswhenever we take stock ofAmerican history, Americanmythology, or anycombination of the two. Our

sense of our ownexceptionalism won’t triflewith such lesser humancurrency.

Instead,ourgreatnessasapeople, as the last and bestapproximation of self-government on this wantingand desperate planet, is thecentral and overarchingassumption. We believe wehave cornered the market onpersonal freedom, on human

liberty,onmoralismandevenglory. We are all buildingsomething here. And webelievethatwearebuildingitas sole proprietors ofmaximizedfreewill—eachofus, on our own, and withoutregard to the next person.Andyes, intheend,if left toour own individual devices,what we build collectively—thoughwithoutanysenseofacollective—will surely be

greatandlasting.Money and fear are

sufficient to make men andwomen stupid everywhereelse in the world, but we’reAmericans, goddammit. Weknow intimately thechemistry of such baseelements and have little toworry about as we mix upand burn this heavy, leadenfuel. Our entire politicaldynamic now runs on this

stuff, day after day, with noproblem too large orobstructive to the nationalinterest that its solutioncan’tbe denied or preventedthrough greed andselfishness.

National health care, gunviolence, the death of ourworking class, draconian lawenforcement and massincarceration,globalwarming—is there a problem of long

standing in this country thatwearenowcapableoffacingsquarely, much lessaddressing? Not if the rightpeople can be paid, and thewrong people, frightened.Ourpoliticshasseentoit.

In the city of Yonkers,New York, in 1987, theywere very afraid. Andworsethanthat,theywereafraidfortheir money—and theirproperty, which they had

workedsohardtoobtain,andwhich they believed the nextman had not. That fear, andthe money that was on thetable for white homeowners,wasmorethanenoughfueltomakethegovernanceofacityof two hundred thousandsouls—thoughnot itspolitics—impossible.

There were only a fewgenuine bastards to the tale.Most of the villains in this

narrative are not that at all,but were instead ordinarypeople who believedgenuinely that they werestanding in opposition to asocialistic affront to basicAmerican ideals; that theywere being asked byindifferent elites to sacrificetheir own, hard-won lives onthe altar for someimpoverished and indifferentclass of Americans, losers

whohadsimply failedwhereothers, more deserving,succeeded.

And heroes? None wereperfect or saintly—all ofthem were, again, ordinaryfolk making their waythrough the same brutishpolitical morass, all of themobliged to live in thatworld,to husband and spend thosesame twin currencies ofmoneyandfear.

Yonkers in 1987 was amicrocosm, a perfectpreamble.Itwasus,allofus,in this very day, and at thisvery hour. It has been us,similarly fated, since anAmerican president tookofficedeclaringcynicallythatwe, the greatest andwealthiest nation on theplanet,hadfoughtabriefwaron poverty and that, hey,poverty had won. From that

ugly moment forward, it’sbeentwoAmericasandeveryman for himself. And, makenomistake,thisisthebestweasapeoplecando.

ComingtoYonkersinthewake of its great politicaltorment, Lisa Belkin, aveteran reporter for theNewYork Times, took the time tocarefullydissectthefailureofanAmerican city to come toterms with the simple and

inevitable fact that greatsocieties learn how to share,or they cease to be greatsocieties.

Saying sodoesn’t conjureall of Marx or Engels, anymore than the invocation ofpure liberty or unbridledindividualfreedomconjuresaJefferson. Ideologues areuseless in the middle, wherepeople actually live. No onein Yonkers—or anywhere

else in the actual, operantcontinuum of Americanpolitics—was heard arguingfor a dictatorship of theproletariat or “to eachaccording to his needs.” Noone is so ridiculous as topretend that Americans—notthe working class, not eventhe poor—are clamoring foreconomicequality.

Instead, the stakes inYonkers a quarter-century

agoare thesameas thoseweface now, in a time whenincreasingeconomicdisparityis not merely ensuring thatsome Americans will havemore, and even much more,than others.No, the questionpresented by the plannedhypersegregation of the poorinto distinct geographiclocales,andtheunwillingnessto allow even a modestnumberofpoorpeopletolive

withinsightofothercitizens,wasandisexactlythis:

DoallAmericanshavethesame,sharedfuture?Aretheyallvestedinatleastapiece—ifnotanequal share,at leastameaningfulportion—inthatsharedfuture?Areweallstillengaged in the samenationalexperiment?Ornot?

Publichousingmadegoodsense to Americans whenwhite people lived in those

projects, when, indeed, thefirst projects were built inlarge part for white familiesstruggling at the margins ofthe last years of the GreatDepression, or for warveterans returning fromoverseas and beginning thelong climb back into apeacetime economy. At thatpoint, public housing was awelcome, progressive idea inallquarters.

Butagain,fearandmoney—and yes, race, still—arecorrosive to the Americanspirit. So much so that itwasn’t long before civicleaderswerestillgrabbingthefederal dollars to create andmaintain such housing, butspeaking openly about doingso inways thatkept thepoormarginalized and isolated inthe smallest, least desirablequadrantsoftheircities,inan

Americaincreasinglyseparateandunseen.

Yonkers was noexception, and its officialswere for decades open andunrepentant about usinggovernment money as ameansof racially segregatingthenewurbanpopulationsofcolor—so much so that notonly a U.S. District Judge,but eventually an appealspanel dominated by Reagan

appointees,would review thepublic record and call for aremedy that required somemodest and demonstrable actofintegration.

Some white people weregoing to have to live nearsome black folk. And somemiddle-class people, or evenupper-middle-class people,were going to have to sharesome shards of their worldwithpeopleoflessermeans.

At which point all hellbrokeloose,asitalwaysdoeswheneverAmerica’s rigorousgeographic boundariesbetween haves and have-notsare made even slightlypermeable. In Baltimore, inChicago, in Dallas—everywhere that housingofficials attempted to employprovenandviablemethodsofscattered-sitelow-incomeandaffordable housing to disturb

America’s class segregation,theoppositionreareditsheadand the twin currencies ofmoney and fear were againinvoked: Our future is notyour future. Not any part ofit. Not even our mereproximity to even a smallcohort ofpoorpeople canberisked.

And this remains trueregardlessoftherevolutioninpublic housing that in many

respects began in Yonkers.No longer are housingofficials and urban plannersstacking the poor into high-rise projects, destabilizingneighborhoods with sheernumbers.No, thepowerwithwhich Americans fear ourown poor is unabated by theprovensuccessesofscattered-site housing, or mixed-siteplanning. This isn’t aboutCabrini Green or the

LexingtonTerracebeingbuiltdown theblock; this isaboutsharinglifewithfiveorsixortenor twentyfamiliesofTheOther in neighborhoodsseveral hundred familiesstrong. And yet it’s still toomuchforwhatremainsofournationalspirit.

There can’t be twonational futures, twoAmericas, a house dividedagainstitself.Tryaswehave

over the past few decades tosneer at the notion thatsomething other than marketforces might be required toaddress the growingeconomic divide between theviable America and the oneleftbehind,thereis,infact,apurpose to our anti-povertyprograms.Justasthereisrealimportance to theConstitutional affirmations,nowmorethanahalf-century

old, that recognize separate-but-equal as untenable,immoral, and little less thanouroriginalandcollectivesincarriedforward.

Freedom and liberty areelemental, true. Just ascollective responsibility andcitizenshipareelemental.

But again, the ideologuesand their rallying cries can’tsolveadamnthinghere.Onlythemiddle,asunsatisfyingas

it always seems to politicalpurists, offers plausible andtangible hope. Yes,responsibility withoutfreedom is tyranny, to besure. And citizenship in anynation-state that can’tguarantee liberty is slavery.And we can leave it to thedemagoguesof libertarianismand conservatism to waxmore poetic on such thingsthan balance or good sense

require.But it is equally relevant

to note that individualfreedom without collectiveresponsibility is, in the end,simple selfishness. And therewards of personal liberty,accrued without fundamentalrespectforthecostsandrisksof citizenship, is a certainrecipe for a brutish andsecond-ratesociety.

In Yonkers, a quarter-

centuryago, itcamedowntoa couple hundred units oflow-income housing, tuckedintosomescattered,carefullyselected, and preciselyplannedsitesinapartoftownwhere the white folk lived.The occupants of thosetownhouses—refugees fromthe capsized end of abifurcated economic systemthat greets the Americanunderclass every day—were

thefolksusuallyaccordedthelifeboats: women andchildren.Somebalance,somesense of proportion, somebasic belief in the idea of ashared American futureshouldhavebeenenough.

A young mayor namedNick Wasicsko found outotherwise.Hisstory—infact,everyone’s stories in ShowMe a Hero, from thepoliticians to the housing

residents to the homeownersto the lawyers and cityplanners—are intact in thesepages by Ms. Belkin, stillready to speakdirectly tous,not merely as a cautionarytale, but as a paradigm forhealing.

Those houses are stillthere. People live in them,quietly,with otherswho livearound the houses, just asquietly.Butweareunwilling

to take the lesson. In a clearand definitive arc thatstretchesfromYonkerstothepresent moment, we havelearned so very little aboutbalance, about the middleground, about thecompromise and tolerancethat a viable democracymakes inevitable. Over thesewasted decades, we havebecome a people ever betterat politics, but less and less

capable of governingourselves. To this presentday,westill thinkitneedstobe about us, and never aboutthem, as if making suchdistinctions aren’t always thefoundational cracks in thenational edifice. Incredibly,thebattleforYonkersin1987is still the same argument,ongoing,today.

DavidSimon

Baltimore,MarylandJune1,2015

Preface

Thetownhouses at the center ofthistalearetenminutesfrommyhouse—aquicktripdowntheSawMillRiverParkway,thenafewmoremileseast.Itis a short distance, which iswhy their story caught my

interest in the first place.And,at thesametime, it isalong way, an instructive,compelling journey betweentwoworlds.

I am sitting in my houseright now, gazing out at thenearbywoods,as ismyhabitwhenIwrite. It isacalming,cozy view, and I am struckfull force, as I have been sooften while working on thisbook,bytheprimalpowerof

home. I was a first-timehomeowner and a protectivenew parent back in 1992,whenIreadasmallnotice inmy local newspaper about apublichousinglottery.Iknewjust a little about thetownhouses at the time—thatthey were ordered intoexistence by a federal judgesothatpoor,minoritypublic-housing residents could liveon the white, middle-class

side of town. I had beenlivingbackinTexaswhilethecity of Yonkers fiercelyfought that order, but evenfifteen hundredmiles away Ihad memories of the nightlyreports on the national news,of the hundreds of people,chantingandscreaming,facescontortedwithhate.Now thehousingwasbuilt.Anditwasnearme.

The lotterywouldbeheld

to determine which familieswould be allowed to moveintothenewtownhouses.Outof curiosity—partly fear formy own life’s investment,partly a reporter’s sense thatthismightmakeagoodstory—Iwent.At the front of theroom was an ancient bingodrum, filled with the namesof the hopeful. I sat in themiddle of the electric crowd,watching that fateful drum

spin.I met Alma Febles that

night, a magnetic youngmother, the same age asmyself, and one of thewomenwhosestoriesfill thisbook. I was moved as shetalked ofwanting a bedroomall her own, a place for herchildren, a haven, asanctuary, a home. Heryearning, the yearning sopalpable throughout the

SchoolStreetgymthatnight,was familiar because itmirrored my own. I had feltan exquisite completenesswhenImovedmyfamilyintoour house. Everywhere Ilooked, I saw not only thepresent, but also the future:the driveway where my son,stillaninfant,wouldsomedayride his bike. The singlesunny patch of yard wheremy husbandwould grow our

vegetable garden. The porchwhere we would barbecue,the basement where wewould assemble toy trains,the nearby woods—thosesheltering, welcoming woods—wherewewould take longwalks.

Touched by Alma’sdreams, I found myselfrooting for her, fiercely. Asthebingodrumgrewemptier,and her name had not been

called,Iworriedforher.Evenas I did, however, Irecognized the muddledimpurity of my concern. Ibelieved in the right of thiswomantohaveherhome.Butwhat if bulldozers were toclear a site for that home inthe trees so close tomyownhouse?

Itwasthisclashofdreamsthat I tookhomethatnight. Ihavecarrieditwithmeduring

five years of research andwriting.During those years Ihave described the Yonkershousingexperimentcountlesstimes to friends andacquaintances. Nearly everylistener has asked the samequestion:Diditwork?

It is, I have learned, adeceptively straightforwardquestion with meanings thatvarywith thequestioner.Didit work? Did the

neighborhood fall to pieces?Did the lives of the tenantsimprove on the east side oftown? Did property valuesfall? Did crime ratesincrease? Did thehomeowners learn to acceptthe tenants? Did the tenantsbefriend the homeowners?Did the judge come tounderstand that he had donethewrongthing?Didthecitycome to understand that he

had done the right thing?Were the results worth tenyears and $42 million? IsYonkers amodel for the restof the country? Or is it anexample of good intentionsgonewrong?Diditwork?

Faced with this spectrumofquestions, I had to answera core question of my own:What did I mean by “Did itwork?” Where would I lookwhen deciding whether this

broad-stroke experiment wasa failure or a success? Oneluxury of journalism isdistance—the ability toobserve, record, judge, thenmove on. But the sense ofhome that led me to thelottery in the first place hasalsolimitedthatfreedomandmade me wonder what myconclusion would be if Icouldnotwalkaway.

Over time, I came to see

the question as a singlethought composed of twoopposite but intertwinedstrands: Did it work for thepeople who moved in? Anddid it work for those whowerealreadythere?

“It’s all about home,” Ianswered. “If the tenants canfind the comfort of a realhome. If the homeownersdon’t lose the sanctity oftheirs.Then,itworked.”

Thatwasthemeasurethatguided my reporting, ameasure I think of often as Ilookthroughmywindowandout into the trees. Did itwork? Did it grant Alma aplacetoplantherdreams,anddiditdosowithouttramplingon other, equally passionatedreamsthathadalreadytakenroot? Did it allow thenewcomersachance to leavethepast behind,while, at the

same time, allowing theneighbors to keep it close athand?Diditgivealuckyfewasafespotintheworld?Anddid itdoso—is itpossible todo so—without sacrificingthe insulating, isolatingwoods?

Westchester,NewYorkSeptember

1998

Prologue,1992

Thepipebombwas small as pipe bombs go,but the explosion could beheard from several blocksaway—a sharp bang as rowsof factory-fresh ceramic tilesshattered intoapileof razor-edgedrubble.Neighborswho

were drifting off to sleep satupright, awake. Familymemberswhowerepreparingfor bed looked at each otherfirstwithquestions,thenwithcertainty that they had theanswer.“Iguesssomebodyistrying to blow up the newhousing,” one man joked tohiswife.Butitwasn’tajoke.That’s exactlywhat someonewastryingtodo.

Everyone heard the bang,

butonlyonepersoncalledthepolice. The dispatcherdecided it was an electricaltransformerproblem,sotherewerenosirens,nosearchesinthe night. The nextmorning,crews ofworkmen arrived atthesprawlingsite,whichhadoncebeentheovergrownballfields of an abandonedschool, and which now heldthe nearly finished shells offorty-eight cream-and lemon-

colored townhouses. Seeingthe damage, they, too, calledthe police, who quicklyrimmed the area in yellowand black tape, and searchedthe wounded building forclues.

Soon the FBI was there,and the Federal Marshal’sOffice. The Bureau ofAlcohol, Tobacco andFirearms. The WestchesterCounty Bomb Squad. The

director of the YonkersMunicipal HousingAuthority. Assortedpoliticians who came to say“I toldyou so.”The roadsatthesitewerenotyetpaved,soeach arriving official had towalk through the deep redmud to what, on thearchitect’s models, wasintended to be a tiny frontlawn. They stood in the dirtoutside. Apartment 120,

relievedtoseethetownhousewasstillstanding.

The pipe bomb had beenplaced on the outerwindowsill of a ground-floorbathroom, where the finalgrouting had been laid onlydaysbefore.Thewindowwasblown out, the sill wascharred and destroyed, thetiles on the floors and wallswere shattered, and amirroreddoorofthemedicine

cabinetwasknockedfromitshinges. Parts of the bombwere found a hundred feetaway. Most chilling,however,wasnotthedamagedone, but the damage thatcould have been. Less thanfourfeetfromthewindowsillwas an open gas line. It wasnot working. But there wasno way for the bomber toknowthat.

The crowd grew, as it

always does in Yonkers.Some of the onlookers werenearbyhomeownerswhohadheard theexplosion thenightbefore. Others were justcurious, drawn by theflashing emergency lights.They hadn’t wanted thesebuildings from the start—hadn’t wanted to be part ofthis court-concoctedexperiment in social history.A few were, not so secretly,

glad about the bomb.Maybeit would do what their yearsofprotestscouldn’tandcausethe housing literally tocrumble.Andyet,itwashopeall but extinguished by fear.Any impulse to gloat wasstemmed by the stark realityof a bomb, just blocks awayfromtheirhomes.

Eventually, the workcrewstookabreakforlunch.But everyone else stayed for

most of the day. Theauthorities, searching. Thepoliticians, talking. And theneighbors standing, staring,from behind the double-heightsecurityfence.

PartOne

TheExplosion

1988–1991

1988“TheYoungestMayorinAmerica”

NicholasWasicskohadalwayswantedto be mayor of Yonkers.

Growing up in a two-familyhouse on the west side—thewrongside—of theSawMillRiver Parkway, he was notone of those who set hissights on escape to the east.Instead, he looked evenfarther west, to the BeauxArtsclocktowerofCityHall.Bright, brash, and confident,Nick let other kids in hislower-middle-class Yonkersneighborhood have dreams.

Nickhadplans.Both he and his younger

brother, Michael, stoppedgrowingatabout5′6′,butthatdid not keep them fromspending the afternoons oftheir teenage years on thebasketball courts of a nearbyschoolyard. During onepickupgame,Nickmentionedcasuallythathewouldrunthecityoneday.Formonthsafterthat, his on-court nickname

was“TheMayor.”Overtime,the joke wore thin and waseventually forgotten—byeveryonebutNick.

Hesensedearlyonthathehad a knack, something thathe didn’t understand thatmade things go his way. Atage ten, he talked the otherpaperboys in hisneighborhoodintolettinghimtake over their routes, andwhen he had gained control

of a large chunk of territory,hehiredevenyoungerboystoactually deliver the papers,pocketing the difference. Bytheageofthirteen,hehadhisown checking account, butbecause he was underage ithad to be cosigned by hismother, whowas a librarian,and his father, who was afactoryworker.

He paid for four years atManhattan College by

working at a Carvel plantnear the river. When hestarted, he was driving arefrigerated delivery rig, butsoonhehadtalkedhiswayupthe ladder and sat in a chairbehind a microphone tellingother workers what to loadinto which truck. He savedforNewYorkLawSchoolbyworking as a WestchesterCounty police officer.Fightingbadguysdidnotpay

as much as freighting icecream,andheneededtensofthousands of dollars in loanstomakeupthedifference,butthepicturesofhiminuniformin front of a squad car, hereasoned,couldcertainlyhelphispoliticalcareer.

Thatcareerbeganinforcein1985,whenhewona seatontheCityCouncilusingthedeliberately vague campaignslogan“Don’t getmad,get a

new councilman.” He wastwenty-six years old, with ababy face that he tried tomature with a slash of blackmustache, but he still lookedyears younger than he was.He had not yet finished lawschool when he was elected,and, adding to the kid-goes-to-City-Hall image, he wasstilllivingwithhismother.

He didn’t do much as acouncilman, mostly watched,

listened, learned, andplanned. Then, two yearslater, just five days after hepassed the New York Statebar exam, he stood on thetraffic bridge over the SawMill and announced that hewasnot seeking reelection tothe council. He was runningformayor,instead.

Itwas not, on the face ofit, a rational decision—lessthe choice of a twenty-eight-

year-oldmanthanofthatten-year-oldboywhohadalwayswanted tobemayor.Foronething, the mayor of Yonkerswas a largely symbolicpositionbackin1987,abullypulpit with no realadministrative power, a hotseat that received a lot ofattentionandanequalamountof blame. It was the citymanagerwhohiredandfired,who drew up the budget and

signedthechecks.Themayorwas technically just the firstamong equals on the CityCouncil. He had one vote,likeeveryoneelse,buthegottoholdthegavel.

At $35,914 a year, itwasconsidered a part-time job,one usually sought by moreestablishedmen,successfulinbusiness, who were lookingfor a prestigious cap to theircareers. Nick’s opponent,

Angelo Martinelli, was justsuch a man—a millionairepublisher who had held themayor’s office for twelve ofthe previous fourteen years.When Nick announced hewas going to challenge allthat money and history, noone in town took himseriously. AlthoughMartinelli was a Republican,hegotalongjustfinewiththeentrenched and powerful

Democratic leader, so evenNick’s own partywas barelybehind his candidacy. BothNick and Martinelli hadsimilar voting records, withone exception, one veryimportant exception, butneithermanwould realize itsimportanceuntilwellintothecampaign.

FirstNick tried toportraythe race as a referendum onYouth versusAge. But fifty-

nine-year-old Martinelli,though twice as old asNick,was hardly ancient, and theattempt fell flat. Then Nicktried to paint Martinelli asexplosive andconfrontational, but inYonkers those qualities arenot necessarily seen asnegatives, so that didn’twork, either. Soon, the localnewspaper began to refer toNick’s “naive enthusiasm.”

Hewasacandidateinneedofanissue.

Summer came and Nickhad raised $5,170 incontributions. Martinelli hadraised$67,388.TheWasicskocampaign organization wasstreamlined to the point ofinvisibility, consisting ofNick, Michael, and JimSurdoval, a young politicalconsultant who had helpedout with Nick’s first council

race. The group was allgenerals andno troops.Theydideverythingthemselves.

“Isn’t the candidatesupposed to be telling otherpeople to do this stuff?”Michaelaskedattwoo’clockone morning as they drankcoffeeinanall-nightcopyingcenter, where they werephotocopying and foldingthousandsofbrochures.

“We the people,” Nick

said,swattinghisbrotherwitha“WasicskoforMayor”flier.

The days were just aslonely.EveryoneatCityHallthought Nick’s politicalcareerwassoontobeover,sothey kept their distance, andhe often felt as if no one inthe building spoke to him atall.Theonlypersonwhowasconsistently friendlywas oneofthesecretaries,NayNoe,ayoung Ecuadorian woman

with a Filipina name. At theage of twenty, Nay was oneofthefewpeopleatCityHallyounger than Nick, and shewas uncomfortable aboutbeing there. She had littleinterestinpolitics,butwoundupwithherverypolitical jobbecause, back then, she wasstill going to St. Peter’sChurch every Sunday.WhenHarryOxman,thevice-mayorof the council, asked Father

Duffelltofindhimabilingualsecretary, the priest thoughtofNay.

She started her job assecretary to the council justafterNickstartedhismayoralcampaign, and, at first, shesaw his isolation asarrogance. Over time, shecame to feel sorry for him.She saw how hard he wasworkinginhisdrearycubicle,returning all his constituents’

phonecalls,and,unlikesomeothermembersofthecouncil,writing all his letters himselfrather than expecting thesecretariestodoit.Nay,whotookineverythingdespiteherseemingly guileless roundface and innocent browneyes, knew for certain whatNickonlysuspected—thathewasbeingleftoutofmeetingsand deliberately not toldabout civic events thatmight

help his campaign. Shestartedtothinkofhimas“theLone Ranger sitting there allalone in the back.” Maybe,she decided, politicsinterestedherafterall.

One evening, when allwatchful eyes had left, NaywalkedintoNick’sofficeandsaid, “My parents have ahouseonPierStreet.Doyouwant to put a campaign signon my house?” He sent

Michael overwith the sign afew days later. On her nexttrip into his office, she wasbolder, and asked, “Do youneed help on yourcampaign?” They spent partof theevening in frontof theShoprite on RiverdaleAvenue, where Nay watchedNick shake strangers’ hands.She was charmed by hisenthusisamasheboundedupto shoppers, sometimes

carrying their groceries totheir cars if it meant theywould take a fewminutes tolistentohisideas.Soonitwasnot just Michael, Nick, andJim, butMichael, Nick, Jim,andNay.

The quartet worked hard,covering every part of thecity. Nick even insisted ongoing into the projects,despite the fact that theytraditionally had a much

lowervoterturnoutthanotherparts of the city. Nay camealong sometimes, to translateto residents who spokeSpanish. More often, Nickwent there alone. His onlycompany was his owndetermination—and the .38-caliber revolver he alwayswore strapped to his ankle, ahabit left over from his daysasacop.

But it was not hard work

that turned the campaignaround in the middle of thesummer. It was JudgeLeonard B. Sand, who wasrunningoutofpatience.

Federal court case 80 CIV6761: The United States ofAmerica and the YonkersBranch of the NationalAssociation for theAdvancement of Colored

People, et al., AGAINST TheYonkers Board of Education,the City of Yonkers, and theYonkers CommunityDevelopment Agency wasfiled back in 1980, whenNick Wasicsko was stilldriving ice-cream trucks andgoing to college. Though itwould soon shatter his lifeand redefinehiscity,hepaidlittle attention to the case atthe time.Neitherdidmostof

the people in power inYonkers. They were certainthat this problem, like somany other nettlesomeproblems, did not ever haveto be faced, but could bequietlymadetogoaway.

Overtime,U.S.v.Yonkerswould come to stand foreverything: Race. Class.Neighborhood.TheAmericanDream.Butbackthen, itwasseenmerely as “yet another”

school desegregation case,albeit with a twist. Broughtby the Justice Department in1980, then joined by theNAACP, it charged that racedetermined location andquality of education inYonkers, a charge broughtincreasingly often, and withmixed results,during the late1970s. This case, however,did not stop there. Theplaintiffswentontomakethe

unprecedented argument thatthe reason the schools ofYonkersweresegregatedwasbecause the housing ofYonkers was segregated.Black and Hispanic childrenwenttothesamefewschoolsbecause black and Hispanicfamilieswereforcedtoliveinthe same fewneighborhoods,and any judicial order tochange the schools wouldalso have to change the

neighborhoods.Thelotterythatdistributes

cases at the Federal DistrictCourt in Manhattan handedthisoneofftoJudgeLeonardB.Sand,whohadbeenatriallawyer before PresidentJimmy Carter appointed himto the bench in 1978. Areserved, elfin man, withsilver hair and bushy,wizardly brows, Sand couldnot have been more of a

contrastwiththeraucousandemotional city whose futurewas now his to shape. Sandwasamemberbymarriageofthe powerful Sulzbergerfamily,whichownedtheNewYork Times. He was awealthymaninhisownright,too, an early partner in theprosperous law firm ofRobinson,Silverman,Pearce,Aronsohn,SandandBerman.Money, however, defined his

world far less than ideas.Sand was an intellectualjudge, one who reveled inreason and lived in his head.When he was not presidingovercourtbusiness,hecouldbe found padding around hisoffice in worn leatherslippers, and talkingjurisprudence with his clerksthewayothers talk the stockmarket, or soap operas, orsports.“Nowriddlemethis,”

he would regularly say,asking questions rather thanmaking statements, turningthoughts around in his brain,playing with words,delighting in this mentalexercise—the law as ameticulously constructedpuzzle.

To decipher this puzzle,this riddle, Sand heard theYonkers case himself,without a jury, at the request

of both sides. The trial tookupmostof1983and1984:93days of testimony from 84witnesses; 140 depositions;thousandsofexhibits.By theenditwasclearthatthecity’sschools were segregated:twenty-three of the city’sthirty-four public schoolswere over 80 percentminorityor80percentwhite.And there was also littlequestion that its housingwas

segregated: the southwestquadrant, which contained97.7 percent of the city’spublic housing, alsocontained80.7percentof thecity’sminoritypopulation.

Sand’s job, however, wasnot todecide ifYonkerswassegregated, but why it wassegregated, why this city oftwenty-one square miles and188,000 people, a citymarginally larger than Little

Rock or Dayton, came tohave nearly all its minoritycitizens living within onesquare mile. Why the SawMill River Parkway, thesinuous, shaded road thatdivided east from west,became a barrier of sorts—white and working class tothe east of it, black, brown,andpoortothewest.Ifitwashappenstance, then therewasno wrong to be righted, no

damage to be undone. But ifit was intentional, the resultofpurposefulbehavioronthepartofthecity,thenYonkerscould be forced to makedramatic, difficult, history-makingamends.

Sand decided that is wasnot happenstance. Yonkerslooked the way it did, heruled, because its politicians,acting on behalf of its veryvocaleastsidevoters,wanted

it that way. He said so in a657-page decision, thelongest one he had everwritten; it weighed threepounds, and contained 166footnotes,fivemaps,andfiveappendices, and when therequisite duplicate copieswere filed with the court inNovember 1985, they weretoo heavy to be lifted, andhadtobewheeledfromroomtoroominashoppingcart.

Most of that heft was achronicle of what Sand sawas a forty-year pattern:housing sites were proposedfor the white east side;outraged residents respondedby packing the City Councilmeetings—500, 700,sometimes 1,000 people at atime; council membersordered a search for otherpossible sites; the housingwas eventually placed on the

mostly minority, southwestside.

Hedidn’t even see it as aclose call. There was, hewrote, in the understated butunflinching tone of thejudiciary,no“basis fordoubtthatCityofficialswereawarethat the course they werepursuing was one ofsegregation.…Itis,tosaytheleast, highly unlikely that apatternof subsidizedhousing

which so perfectly preservedthe overwhelmingly whitecharacter of East Yonkerscame about for reasonsunrelated to race.”That said,heorderedYonkerstoredrawthe map, to refigure thejigsaw, to rework its viewofitself,andtomovesomeofitspoor,minority residents fromthe poor, minority side oftown, into public housing, tobebuilt just for them,on the

white, middle-class side oftown.

Nick was a brand-newmember of the City Councilback when Sand first issuedthatorder,andhewasmostlya bystander to the headlinesand hand-wringing at thetime. The council voted toappeal the decision to ahigher court. Nick voted forthe appeal. Martinelli votedagainst. For a long time

afterward, the problem wasconsidered solved—it wouldsomehow disappear into thecourt system, as so many oftheir problems had. Therewere civic spurts of outrage(“We never discriminatedagainst anyone”) anddefensiveness (“Why is thejudge picking on us fordecisions made forty yearsago?”) but almost no self-reflection (“Did our policies

cause harm?”) and littleconcernthat thenewhousingwould ever actually be built.From where the councilmembers and the voters sat,Sand’s decision had nothingtodowiththeirYonkers.

That is because themonumental opinion, despiteall its weight and evidenceand insight,wasmissing onething. The central fact ofYonkers, the one that is the

keytoalltheothers,isthatitonly looks like one city. Itacts like thirty-eight separatecities, or, at best, a looseconfederation ofneighborhoods,eachsingular,organized, and proud.Dunwoodie, SeminaryHeights, Wakefield Park,Kimball—home tosecretaries, bus drivers,teachers, policemen.Lawrence Park West,

SunnysidePark,BeechHill—wheresomeofthehousesaremansions and deer sightingsare not uncommon. RunyonHeights—the only middle-class black neighborhood intown.Fleetwood—filledwithco-ops and youngprofessionals. Locust Hill—alongtime Hungarianneighborhood. Bryn Mawr,Woodstock Park—mostlyScottish and Irish. Park Hill

—Italian. The Hollows—Slovak, Russian, Polish, andHungarian.

Sand recognized this, buthedidnotunderstandit—notin the visceral, organic,unrepentant way that thepeople of Yonkers did. Hesaw such cliquishness as theway people lived until theylearned how to live better.Bornin1928,Sandspent thefirst sixteen years of his life

intheBronx,inanapartmentso close to Yankee Stadiumthat, from his bed, he couldhear the crack of the batagainst the ball. Hisneighborhood was workingclass and Jewish. Over byFordham Road, nearlyeveryone was Catholic. Tothe east was a section calledBrookeAvenue,andtheIrishkids who lived there werecalled “the Brookies,” he

remembers, and “once in awhile they would come overandwewouldhaveabrawl.”

When he graduated, hewent on to the New YorkUniversity School ofCommerce, which, at thetime, was essentially a tradeschool,andhecameoutwithadegreeinaccounting.Haditbeenanidealworld,however,and had he felt he had achoice,hewouldhavetakena

different road. “I reallywanted to go to Columbia,”he says, a place thatrepresentedtohimthelyricalworldofliteratureandwords,ratherthanthepracticalworldof balance sheets andnumbers. But it was also atime of quotas and anti-Semitism, so the Jewish boyfrom theBronx did not evenbother to apply. That his lifeturnedoutjustfine—Harvard

Law School followed NYU,and partnership in aprestigiouslawfirmfollowedthat—doesnotdull thewhat-ifs.

SoheorderedYonkers todo better. To open itsneighborhoods, its enclaves,itssafeethnicpockets.Toletoutsiders enter, and to givethem a turn at transformingtheir lives. To aim towardthatidealworldwherenoone

felt rejected before he evenhad a chance to try. He didnot see his decision as“judicial activism,” althoughothers would differ. He didnot consider himself anactivistatall,althoughotherswoulddisagreewiththat,too.No, he says, he did not startwith a conclusion and workbackward through ajustification of thatconclusion. He started with

the facts, and was led bythose facts to the onlydestination he couldreasonably reach. But oncethere, he found it acomfortable place. Itwas thelogical,rational,rightthingtodo.

The citizens of Yonkers,however, clearlydidn’t see itthat way. The separatenessthatSandsawasalimitation,they saw as a strength. They

viewed their barriers andboundaries less as a way ofexcluding others, than as away of defining themselves,providing a badge ofbelonging,asenseofplace,acertainty of who they wereandwhere they stood. Thosetaking comfort in thisseparateness did not thinktheywere racist. Theymighthave been, and some of thethings they did made it look

as if they were, but theyinsisted that this was not anissue of black and white.Theydidnotneedlecturesondiscrimination, they said,sincebeingItalianor IrishorPolish meant a childhoodfilled with stories ofgrandparents who could notfindjobsorhomesorrespectbecause of their accents andtheirnames.Neitherdid theyneed lessonsfromtheBronx.

Manyof themhadalso liveda ball’s throw from YankeeStadium, more recently thanSand, and then fled toYonkers as theirneighborhoods becameemblemsofurbandecay.Thiswasn’t about race, they said.It was about their pride inovercoming the barriers thiscountry places before allnewcomers, and about thelives theyhadbuilt—modest,

perhaps, but theirs.Mostly itwas about their fear thatsomeonewastryingtotakeitallaway.

By 1987, when NickWasicsko decided to run formayor, Yonkers was nocloser to building the newhousing than they had beenwhen the order was firstissued two years earlier.

Trying to be patient, thejudge allowed the city todecide the specifics of theplan: how many new units,where andbywhatdate theywould be built. But afternumerous court-imposeddeadlines came and went,Sand permitted the JusticeDepartment and the NAACPto work out the detailsinstead. On their say-so heorderedYonkerstobuildtwo

hundred units of low-incomepublic housing and eighthundred units of moderate-incomesubsidizedhousingontheeastside.Stilltryingtobepatient, he asked the city tosubmit a list of specificconstruction sites. Moredeadlines were ignored.Yonkershadcometoassumethat stalling would workforever.

But just before Nick

launched his campaign, Sanddecided to shake up thatassumption. He ruled thatsincecityleaderswerehavingsuch trouble findingappropriate housing sites,they should hire a consultantto do the choosing. Thecouncil conducted anationwide search, whichtook a while, theninterviewed numerouscandidates, which took a

while longer. Hours beforeSand’s Valentine’s Daydeadline, and much to thejudge’ssurprise, therequisiteconsultant was actuallychosen.

“They hired me,” OscarNewman would say, yearslater, of his $160-an-hourcontract, “with theexpectationthatIwouldfail.”

Newmanstilljokesthathegot the job because,with his

distinctive beard but nomustache, he looksremarkablylikeJudgeRobertBork, whose conservativeviewswerenot thought tobesympathetic to court-orderedpublic housing. More likely,the council members did notsee past the other photo onthe jacket of his book,Defensible Space, a photothat showedapublic-housingproject in St. Louis being

blown to proverbialsmithereens. The politicianswho interviewed him cameawaybelievingthathewouldsimilarly implode the judge’splans to blight theirneighborhoods.

If that is what theyexpected, they weresurprised.DefensibleSpaceisabout using architecture toinfluence human patterns ofbehavior, andYonkerswas a

chanceforNewmantofurthertest his theories on a verylarge, very public scale. Aman of immense vision,immense presence, andimmense ego, Newmanbroughttomindthisquestion:If you think you’re brilliant,andyouare,isthatconceitormerelyclear-eyedrecognitionof the truth?The opposite ofthe judge in so many ways,Newmansoonbecameoneof

Sand’sclosestadvisers.Theywere not friends, becauseneitherwasthechummysort,but Sand admired the bruteforceofNewman’sideas,andNewman, while he thoughtthe judge far too restrained,recognized the power of thebench and saw in Sand’soriginaldecisionmaterialthatcouldbeworkedwith.

By spring, the judge hadaccepted Newman’s central

philosophy as his own. Thelarge housing projects beingplannedfortheeastsideweredoomedby theirverydesign,Newman argued, and wouldbe a disaster both for thepublic-housing residents andthe surrounding community.Thefutureofpublichousing,hebelieved,was a “scatteredsite” model—small clustersofunitsthatwouldblendintothe community. Therewould

be no shared public spaces,such as hallways orentryways.Everysquarefoot,inside and out, would beprivate and assigned toindividual tenants, meaningeach tenant would feelresponsiblefor,andproudof,what was his. At first, thischange of plan pleased themembers of the council,though not necessarilybecause they all agreed with

theunderlyingtheory.Ittakesmore time to find numeroussites (Newman’s plan calledforeight) than itdoes to findone or two, giving the citymoretimetodragitsheels.

Newman, however, foundthesitesafterjustafewdays.Spending the city’s money,hehiredahelicopterandpilotand flew low over Yonkers,makingmapsofvacantareasofland.Heidentifiedtwenty-

six possible parcels, aboutforty acres altogether. It waspure coincidence, he said,thatoneof thoseparcelswasnext door to one recalcitrantcouncilman’s house and asecond was directly acrossthe street from anothercouncilman. The CityCouncil,spendingfarmoreofthe city’s money, hired ateam of lawyers, whodiscovered legal loopholes

thatwouldpreventmostsitesfrom being used. Newmanwent back to his maps andcompiled a list of additionalsites. The lawyerswent backto the books and tried torejectthosesites,too.

By July,Newmanwasnolonger reporting to the CityCouncil, but was workingdirectly for the judge. Whathad begun as a three-monthcontract, for $55,000, had

become an open-endedassignment, and theescalatingbillwas tobepaidby Yonkers. NewmaninstalledaseparatelineinhisGreat Neck, Long Island,office; Sand was the onlypersonwhohad thatnumber.Sand announced in opencourt that he would “keep aphone line open,” forNewman; Newman used thatline, calling once from the

middle of a meeting at CityHall to tell the judge thatofficials were not answeringhis questions as he thoughttheyshouldbeanswered.

WithNewmanathisside,Sand’s language turnedtougher. Itwas atNewman’ssuggestion, for instance, thatSandplacedamoratoriumonfour private commercialdevelopment projects thatwere to have brought an

estimated $12 million in taxrevenues to the city eachyear. If there was such ashortage of buildable land inthecity,Sandscolded,what’sall this talk about building aretail mall? An executivepark? The city would firstmeet its federal obligations,thankyouverymuch.

And, for good measure,Sand, who had threatenedYonkers with contempt fines

before, repeated that threatbut with greater specificity.The fines would begin at$100 and double every day,he warned. At that rate, thecity’s entire $337 millionannual budget would bewiped out in twenty-twodays.

In the escalating debate overthe housing, Nick Wasicsko

had found his issue—although it took him a whileto figure that out.His sloganin this campaign was avariation of the one that hadworkedinhispriorcampaign:“Don’tGetMad,Get aNewMayor.”JimSurdovalhadtheslogan printed on severalhundred lawn signs, and, tohis astonishment, they weresnapped up by east siderswhowanted tohammer them

intothegrassinfrontoftheirhomes. When the printedsigns were gone, peoplestarted making their own.Nick was more than just acandidate. He was becomingacause.

As a result, he began tospendmoretimecampaigningon the east side, remindingvoters of the single vote thatseparated him fromMartinelli: thevote toappeal

Sand’s order. Martinellibelieved the housing was“inevitable”; Nick believedthe city, the voters, deserveda“secondopinion.”

As summer became fall,and the noise about thehousingbecame louder,NickWasicskofounditeasiertobeheard. The speeches camemore easily for him in thefinal days of the campaign.Practice hadmade himmore

relaxed.Italsohelpedtofeelthathisaudiencewasactuallylistening. He traveled fromevent to event, stressing hisbelief in the right to appeal,and never really sayingwhathewoulddoiftheappealwasdenied. He knew he wasleaving anti-housing voterswith the impression that hewas on their side, that hewould continue their fight tothedeath,butthefactwas,he

didn’t know what he woulddo.Hethoughthewouldbeagoodmayor.Hewantedtobethe mayor and the housingissue might allow him tobecome mayor. He wouldworryabouttherestlater.

On November 3, 1987,Nicholas Wasicsko defeatedAngelo Martinelli by a voteof22,083to20,617.

“I never thought I’d losefor one minute,” he lied to

reportersafter thevoteswerecounted.

Late on election night,Martinelli drove across towntoseeWasicskoandconcedethe race in person. ShakingNick’s hand, he said, “Thevoters have lifted atremendous burden off myshoulders and placed it onyours.”

Public opinion pollsshowedthatNickwaselected

because of his stand on thehousing.Hewasnottheonlyone so elected. Of theincumbents consideredmoderate on the issue, fourout of five were defeated.Every member-elect of thecouncilwaswhite,despitethefact that thedistrictshad justbeen redrawn to encourageminorityrepresentation.

Nickwon, voters told thepollsters,notbecauseofwho

he was, but because of whohe was not. He was notAngelo Martinelli. He knewthatwaswhyhewon andhedidn’t care, just as he didn’tcare that he had $20,000 inlaw school debt and a newjob that would pay him lessthanthat,after taxes.All thatmattered to him was that, atage twenty-eight, he was theyoungest mayor in thecountry. He was “The

Mayor” now, on and off thebasketball court. In a fewyears,maybehecouldchangethat title to congressman, orsenator. In the distance hecould see the governor’smansion and the WhiteHouse.

The first thing Nick did asmayor-electwasaskNayoutto lunch.Theywere like two

giddy kids, all youth andgiggles, as they stepped intoLouie’s restaurant in SouthYonkers, where they ran agauntlet of well-wishers.Everyoneintheplacewantedto shakeNick’s hand or slaphis shoulder as he and Naywalked to their relativelyprivatecornertable.

When their waitress hadcome and gone,Nick lookedacross at Nay and thanked

her. “I appreciate yoursupport, everything you’vedone,” he said. His fingersfiddledwithhismustache, asthey so often did when hewas nervous. This was notsoundingnearlyassmoothasithadwhenhe’drehearsed itin his head. “Comework forme,” he blurted suddenly.“You’re the only one I cantrust.”

Aweeklater,sheaccepted

the job. It was not the firsttime,and itwouldnotbe thelast,thatherpoliticalinstinctswere better than his. Sheunderstood enough about theways of City Hall to knowthat sheowedanexplanationto Harry Oxman, the manwhohadhiredherinthefirstplace.Whensheofferedone,the conversation turned ugly,and Oxman accused her ofchasingafterNicktoadvance

her own career. “That’s notit,” she answered. “I helpedhim because I felt bad forhim. I thought he was goingtolose.”

Nay’sletterofresignationto Oxman was effectiveDecember 31, 1987, but sheactually started working forNicklongbeforethen.Heputher in charge of what hecalled “the fun stuff,”including planning the

inauguration and the partyafterward.Nickwanted todosomething different,something that symbolizedyouth and energy, so insteadof a traditional gala in acateringhall,herentedalargeboat equipped for dinner anddancing. Every day hegleefullyreadtheupdatedlistofpeoplewhohadpaid$150apiece to attend his bash—peoplewhodidn’t knowhim

orpretendednottoknowhimat the start of his campaign.His City Hall office wasneither quiet nor lonely nowthat he had won, and hepractically strutted from onetasktothenext:hiringanewcity manager, sending outpress releases declaring a“fresh start” full of “freshideas,” schmoozing with theothermembersofthecouncil,allying himself not with his

fellowDemocrats,butwithacoalition of Democrats,Republicans, andConservatives who wereopposedtothehousing.

A phone call came onDecember 28, a phone callthat would changeeverything, and it was Naywho tracked Nick down andput the lawyers through. It

was four days before Nickwastobesworninasmayor,and the United States Courtof Appeals for the SecondCircuithadruledonYonkers’fate. This was the appealNickhadstakedhiscampaignon, the appeal he had votedfor and that Martinelli hadvotedagainst.Theappealthatwassupposedtopersuadethehigher court that Judge Sandhad overstepped his bounds,

and that the housing shouldnotbebuilt.

Instead, the 163-pageopinion from the three-judgepanel unanimously rejectedthe city’s arguments. Sand’sorder, it said, was “wellwithin the bounds ofdiscretion,” and the city’srequest to reverse that orderwas“withoutmerit.”

Other members of thecouncil reacted to the news

quickly and defiantly. “Wewill take it to the SupremeCourt,” said Nick’s fellowDemocrat Henry Spallone,the beefy former New YorkCity cop who was alwaysready for a good verbalbrawl, whose political viewswere described by the localpaperas“medieval,”andwhowas elected with nearly 80percentofthevote.

“The whole thing is a

farce,” said Charles Cola,also a Democrat, who, inkeeping with the surrealnature of Yonkers politics,won his seat by defeating awoman who had been hissecretaryuntilamonthbeforetheelection.

The councilmen waitedforNickto jointhemintheiroutrage, and the city waitedwith them, but the youngmayor-elect was

unexpectedlyquiet.“It is too early to tell

whether the citywill appeal”wasallhewaswillingtosay.

Itwasprobablygood thathekepthis early reactions tohimself, because they werethose of a petulant child. “Ican’t believe the timing,” hecomplained to Nay. “It willputadamperoneverything.Idon’t even get a chance tohavesomefun.”

Quickly, however, hewent from feeling cheated tofeelingoverwhelmed.Hewastwenty-eight years old. Hehad never been responsiblefor his own rent or his owntelephone bill, and now hewasresponsibleforthis.

Briefly, he thought heshouldjointheshouting.Thatwouldbethepoliticalthingtodo. Take it to the SupremeCourt,he reasoned. Isn’t that

why the courtwas there?Hewas elected because hebelievedthecityhadtherightto appeal. So why stop withone appeal? Why not go alltheway?

Butsincethedayafterhiselection, the expensive teamof lawyers working for thecity had been warning himthattheSecondCircuitCourtwould reject this initialappeal,andthoselawyershad

been right. Now they weretellinghimthattherewerenoconstitutional grounds for anappeal to theSupremeCourt.Hesuspected theywere rightabout that, too. An appealwould be expensive, and thecity had already spentmillions of dollars fightingthe case. An appeal wouldalsoriskSand’sfurtherwrath.The judge would see it as adesperate stalling tactic,

which it probably was, andwould impose the threatenedfines. Vowing to appealwouldmake him popular forthemoment,butwoulditriskthe ruination of the city hehadjustbeenelectedtolead?

Fewmenhaveeverhadtogrow up so quickly. In hisinaugural address five dayslater,Nickmade his answersclear. Yonkers, he said,would comply with the

integration order, because“the law is the law” andcompliancewastheonlywayto avoid crippling fines. Hedid not say that he agreedwith the decision because hedid not. He thought that itwas unfair to punish thehomeowners of today fordiscriminatory decisionsmade by political leadersdecades ago. But unfair ornot, itwaswithinthejudge’s

power to inflict suchpunishment.

Thephonecallsstartedassoon as he finished hisspeech.Theywerevenomousand violent, a small taste ofwhatwas to come.Nay tookone message after another,but drew the line attranscribingtheobscenities.

“Tell the mayor to go tohell.”“TellthemayortogotoHarlem.” “We should have

knownbetterthantotrustthatchild.”

“Tell the mayor he’s atraitor.” “A liar.” “A fool.”“Tell the mayor to resign.”“Tell the mayor we’llimpeachhim.”

He read all themessages,responded to none of them,andwondered ifhehaddonethe right thing. As the pinkstack of “While You WereOut” slips grew higher, he

cheeredup.Hehadbeatentheodds against Martinelli, hewould beat these odds, too.Allhis life,hehadbeenableto talk people into seeingthings his way. He had tobelieve he could bring themaroundnow,whenitmatteredthemost.

ACityLikeNoOther

Cities haveways about them,eccentricities and quirks asdistinctiveandbasicas thoseof the people who live inthem.Tolamentthesamenessbrought by fast-foodrestaurants and mini-malls isto lose track of the largerpoint—that in spite of fast-

food restaurants and mini-malls, there is an essence, asomething that cannot beerased. The preeningtrendiness of Los Angeles.The brash chauvinism ofDallas. The scrubbedfriendliness of Minneapolis.Even from the airport, LasVegas feels different fromChicago. Blindfolded on astreet corner, you wouldprobably know whether you

were in San Antonio or SaltLakeCity.

No place else feels quitelike Yonkers, rough-hewnand jagged, a working-classbridgebetween the towersofManhattan to the south, andthepamperedhillsof therestofWestchesterCounty to thenorth. Its riverfront, clutteredwith warehouses andfactories, stares across theHudson at the majestic

Palisades, which riseteasingly out of reach. TheYonkersRaceway,ahugebutscruffy harness track thatseemsalwaysonthebrinkofclosing, is the first landmarkvisitors see as they approachfromtheThruway.Itisanaptwelcome.

Though the sizeofacity,Yonkers gossips like a tinytown. After harness racing,politics is the favorite sport

here,and,playedbyYonkersrules,itisabloodsport.CityCouncil debates have beenknowntoveeroffintoattackson a council member’sspouse. Past campaigns haveincluded charges of illegalwire-tapping and petitionfraud. More than oneofficeholder has changedparties three times in onecareer. In sum, there is adefiant nostalgia here, the

hallmarkofaplace thatusedto be something else, andthat,too,isapt.Duringanerathat no one still livingactually remembers, buteveryone seems to yearn for,Yonkerswasagreatcity.

Its history began with atribe of Native Americans,who “sold” the land to aDutchnobleman,AdrienVanderDonck, in 1646.His titlewas Jonge Heer, or Lord.

Eventually Jonge Heer’sholdings became known asYonkeersandthenYonkers.

The city grew with therailroads. The first trainsfollowed the paths of thewaterways, and becauseYonkerswas trisected by theHudson,SawMill,andBronxRivers(twoofwhicharenowreduced to mere trickles), ithad twenty train stationsduringthelate1800s.Byturn

of the century, it was theindustrial center ofWestchester County, with129 factories counted in1912. The Waring HatCompany, the largest in theUnited States, turned outeighteen thousand hats everyday. The Otis ElevatorCompany employed seventhousand people, or one outofevery threeworkers in thecity.Another thirdworkedat

the Alexander Smith CarpetMills,thelargestintheworld,with fifty-six acres offloorspace.EvenNicholas II,Russia’slasttsar,hadacarpetmadeinYonkers.

Waves of immigrantsmanned those factories andleft their imprints. English,Scottish, Polish, Slavic,Ukrainian, Italian—whatevergroup was escaping the oldcountry in the greatest

numbers. Each started at thebottom, in the mills, thesmelting rooms, and therefineries, then each groupmade the climb up, onto theassembly lines and into themanagers’ offices. As theymoved up, they also movedout, heading east of townwhere, spurred by the age oftheautomobile,farmlandwasbeing transformed intoneighborhoods.

When they reached theopen spaces east of the SawMillRiver,thegroupskepttothemselves, formingenclavesthatfeltlesslikeAmericaandmore like whichever countryused to be home. Theelectoral ward system wasborn of that deliberateseparateness,and ithelped tokeep things that way. Formuch of the time (until theyear Nick Wasicsko was

elected), the Yonkers CityCouncil was made up oftwelvememberswhoworkedmore like a confederationthanaunion.Therewasarulebackthen,notanofficialone,but ironcladnonetheless, thateach councilman had finalsay over proposals for hiselectoralward.Itwasdefactovetopower.Ifthecouncilmanfrom the ward said no, hewouldnotbechallenged,and

no other member of thecouncilwouldvotetoplaceahousing project in histerritory. And if the voterssaid no, the councilman saidno, unless he had no interestinbeingreelected.

Some blacks made itacross theSawMill, into theone black middle-classneighborhood in Yonkers.Called Runyon Heights, itsexistenceisnotanexampleof

how blacks were welcomedon the east side, but anexample of how they werenot. Today, decades later,mostblacksandHispanics intown know the story ofRunyon Heights, but fewwhite people do, and thosefew are often real estatebrokers. Judge Sand knowsthe story. He cited it in theearly pages of his decisionthat found Yonkers guilty of

years of deliberatediscrimination.

During thebuildingboomofthe1920s,historyshows,adeveloper made a badpurchase—landtoorockyandhilly for ranch-style houseswith big, flat yards. Tosalvage his investment, heannouncedthathewouldturnthe land into a Jewishcemetery,aplanthatenragedand panicked the owners of

surrounding parcels. Originalresidentsof thearea told twoversions of what happenednext. Some recalled that thedeveloper, angered byattemptstostophim,tookhisrevengebysellingthelandtoblacks. Others said thedeveloper gave the objectorsa choice and it was theneighbors who decided “itwasbettertolivenexttoliveNegroesthandeadJews.”

Either way, RunyonHeights was built, a quarter-mile-squareareaof two-storyhouses,eachonaquarter-acreof land, and each costing$5,000. The quiet windingstreets of Runyon Heightslooked identical to those ofHomefield, the all-whiteneighborhood directly to thenorth, but the people ofHomefield apparently didn’tsee the similarities. Or,

perhaps, they did and werefrightenedbythem.Whateverthe reason, hedges wereplantedattheendofMoultrieAvenue in Homefield duringthe 1930s, to preventmovement between the twoneighborhoods. Sometimelater, the hedges became afieldstonewall.

Eventually, a four-foot-wide strip of land was setaside by the Homefield

residents along the northernborder of Runyon Heights.Building was prohibited onthat strip. No streets couldpass through it. The result isthat,eventoday,everynorth-south street in RunyonHeights is adeadend. In thespring, the leaves in the stripof land are lush, deceptive,giving the illusion that thewoodsstretchonforever.Butin winter, with the branches

bare,thehousesofHomefieldcan be clearly seen on theotherside.

Thosewhomade it to thedead-end streets of RunyonHeights were the exception.Few minorities crossed theSaw Mill because they werenotwanted and because theycould not afford to. TheAlexanderSmithCarpetMillsdidnotemployblackworkersuntil World War II. Otis

Elevator did, but only in thesweltering, grimy factory,withnohopeofpromotiontothe offices upstairs. Duringthe 1930s there was a jokewhenever people of colorgatheredinYonkers.Afriendwould ask, in greeting,“How’s it going?” The replywasalwaysthesame:“Whitefolksstillinthelead.”

So the minorities stayedonthewestside,makingtheir

homes in the places thatearlier generations ofnewcomers had eagerly left.InIrving,Cottage,andWoodPlace. On Morgan, Garden,andSchoolStreet.Theylivednear where they worked, intenements behind thefactories and the mills, incold-water flatsalongside therailroad tracks and theriverbanks. The east sidebecame ever more middle

class and white. The westside became ever moreminorityandpoor.

Yonkers, of course, wasnot the only place in thecountrywithslumsandwithagrowing gap between blacksand whites. Periodically, thefederal government wouldtalk about improving thenation’s slums, but nothingwas done until the stockmarket crashed in 1929. In

the wake of the subsequentGreat Depression, publichousing was born. Helpingthepoorwasjustasideeffectof the program, whose realgoal was providingconstructionjobsandliterallyrebuilding the economy.More than a decade later, inthe aftermath of World WarII, public housing wasexpanded, this timeas awaytohousereturningveterans.

The boom in housingprovided the city ofYonkerswith a dilemma. The citybadly wanted—needed—themoneymadeavailableforthegrowing public housinginfrastructure, but it did notreally want the publichousing. So it went aboutthings the Yonkers way.Funds were applied for, andgranted, but then came thechallenge of finding a place

to build. Whateverneighborhood the planningboard chose for the housingwould convulsewith protestsand petitions. This happenedin other cities, too, but inmost of those places thechecks and balances ofpolitics meant someneighborhoods occasionallygot housing despite themostvocal efforts to keep it out.Not in Yonkers. Not where

there was a fiefdom systemand the understanding that acouncilman’s no vote wasfinal.

Formorethanfortyyears,therefore, one huge publichousing complex afteranotherwasbuiltonthewestside, the only part of townthat offered no resistance.Mulford Gardens, seventeenbuildings with 550apartments, opened in

October 1940. Cottage PlaceGardens, thirteen buildingswith 256 apartments, openedin 1948. The William A.Schlobohm Houses, 415apartmentsineightbuildings,opened in1953.TheRossF.Calgano Homes, betterknown as School Street, had278units completed in1964.By1988,notoneofthecity’stwenty-seven subsidized-housing projects for families

was located in any of theoverwhelmingly whiteneighborhoods of the east ornortheast. In all, thesouthwestcontained6,644,or97.7 percent, of the city’s6,800 units of subsidizedhousing.

The lopsided map cameabout not because no onenoticed, but because thosewhodidnotice,andspokeup,were overruled. Members of

thecity’splanningboard, forinstance, regularly warnedthat the burden of so manypoor people in one placewould be the death ofbusiness in southwestYonkers.Ratherthanheedingthat warning, the councilvoted to sacrifice downtown.When the planning boardobjected to the School Streetsitebecauseitwasdirectlyinthepathofaproposedaccess

road between the highwayand the struggling shoppingdistrict, the council voted tosacrificetheaccessroad.

And, eventually, whenCongress ruled that publicfundscouldnotbespent inaway that would create ahousing ghetto, the CityCouncil in effect voted tosacrificethefunds.Nopublichousingforfamilieswasbuiltin Yonkers after 1964,

because that was when theDepartment of Housing andUrban Development startedpaying attention to where allsuchhousingwaslocated.

Yonkers,tobesure,isnotthe only city to cluster itspublichousing.Othersdidthesame thing, and theyear thattheJusticeDepartmentbeganits investigation of Yonkers,it also looked at Chicago;Lima,Ohio;Marshall,Texas;

Charleston, South Carolina;and Rochester, New York.Allwere potential targets forthefirstofwhatwasexpectedto be a series ofgroundbreaking lawsuitslinking school segregationwith housing. Any one ofthose cities could have beenchosen as the test case, butonly Yonkers was, lessbecause of what it did thanhowitdidit.

“What got them in deepproblems was they couldn’tkeep their mouths shut,”Oscar Newman says. Othercities apologized for theirpast.Somebuilt ahandfuloflow-income units in middle-class neighborhoods as proofoftheirregret.Oncethatwasdone, the JusticeDepartmentwent away. Yonkers,however, cameout swinging.In one deposition after

another, city officials saidthat low-incomehousingwaspurposefully placed in onesmall corner of Yonkersbecause that was the poorestcorner of Yonkers, hencethat’swhereitbelonged.

So it was Yonkers, notRochester or Chicago, thatwas successfully used fordiscrimination in federalcourt. And it was NicholasWasicsko, who always

wanted to be mayor ofYonkers, who inherited thelegacy of that lawsuit, andwhocametolearnmorethanhe really wanted to knowabout his city, and abouthimself.

For a few weeks at thebeginning of 1988 it lookedas if Nick might actually beable to do the impossible: to

unravel years of tradition, totame Yonkers, and to unitethe council on a vote toimplement a housing plan.With the help of the city’slaw firm, Skadden, Arps,Meagher and Flom, and thecity’snewcitymanager,NeilDeLuca, Nick persuadednearly everyone on thecouncilthatvotingtocomplywith the order was the onlywaytomaintainsomecontrol

over the end result. Heaccomplished this by doingwhathehadalwaysdonebest—talking, schmoozing,debating.

Two councilmen—HarryOxman and Charles Cola—neededlittlepersuading;Nickhad their votes in his corneralmostfromthestart.Oxman,acourtly,quietman,was theonly member of the councilwho fully favored

compliance, and Cola,although he personallydisagreed with the plan,represented the district thatincludedallthecity’shousingprojects, so it was hispoliticalresponsibilitytovoteyes.

Two other councilmenwere never really subjects ofNick’s full-court press.HankSpallone had lived in theSouth Bronx, and had seen

firsthandhowaneighborhoodcould change.Hehadbeenapolice detective, so he hadalso seen what happened tothe neighborhood after itchanged. Had Hank been anactor,hisabilitytoscowlandbellow would have cast himasthethug—thebullyingcop,the tyrant father, the roguepolitician, the kind of rolesalways played by RobertMitchumorLee J.Cobb.He

had been elected because hehad vowed to go to jail, ifneed be, to stop the housing.Nick did not even try tochangehismind.

And Edward Fagan wassuchapuzzlethatNickdidn’tbother tomake an effort.Allthe relationships on thecouncil were based onbusiness, not friendship, butFagan,wiryandwary,ganglyasascarecrow,seemedtogo

out of his way to keep hisprivatelifeoutoftheoffice.

Byprocessofelimination,therefore,Nickdirectedmostof his talking at his tworemaining colleagues.Nicholas Longo and PeterChema. Longo, with blackhair and a silver tongue,wasprobably the shrewdestpolitician in Yonkers. His“real world” job was as acountyemployee—aprogram

directorat theDepartmentofEnvironmental Facilities—and that, along with hissixteen years on the council,meant he was plugged in alloverthegovernment.PushingNicholas Longo was likeplaying with mercury—hewas shimmering butdangerous, and his beads ofinfluence could be found inevery crevice and corner.Longo’s last campaign had

beennasty,andhehadwonitbecause he ran full forceagainst the housing. One ofhis most effective weaponswas a cable televisioncommercial whichinterspersed colorful scenesof a cheery suburbanneighborhood with black-and-white shots of a dismalurbanghetto.

Peter Chema, too, was aveteranofYonkerspolitics,a

world to which he hadliterally been born. Chema’sfatherhadwonacouncilseatwhen Peter was a child, bydefeating the family’s next-door neighbor. A decadelater, when the elder Chemadied of cancer while still inoffice, his vacant seat wasfilled by the same neighbor.When the neighbor facedreelection, his opponent wasMrs. Chema. She won, but

thendecidedthat thejobwastoo stressful, and resignedafter one month, at whichtime her neighbor wasappointed once again. Petergrew up, earned a degree incivil engineering and a blackbeltinkungfu,thenopenedatire business before runningfor council for the first timein 1979. His opponent—thesame neighbor, who finallygave up and moved to

Florida. At thirty-seven,Chema was eight yearsyounger thanLongo and lesscertainofhimself.Hisclotheswerealwaysperfectlypressedand his hair perfectly coifed,but his expression alwayslookedsomewhatstartled.

During his first threeweeksinoffice,Nicktriedtooutpoliticthesetwolong-timepoliticians. The two hundredlow-income units would be

built “no matter what,” hetold them,over lunch,on thephone, in their living rooms,lateatnight,andfirstthinginthe morning. Many yearsearlier, he reminded them,Yonkershadacceptedfederalmoney to build exactly thatnumber of public housingunits on the east side, butalthoughthemoneywaskept,the housing was never built.So Judge Sand saw the two

hundredunitsaspayback,andhewouldnotbepersuadedtocompromise on that part ofthe plan. Wouldn’t it bebetter,heasked,tohavesomesay over where thoseinevitable units eventuallywent?

On January 20, 1988, allthis talking turned frantic.The city’s annual applicationfor federal communitydevelopment funds came due

thatday,andwhatbeganasavote on a routine proceduralmatter became a showdownonthehousing.Toqualifyforthe $10 million renewal,Yonkers had to submit aHousing Assistance Plan, orHAP, which outlined thecity’s housing plans for thecomingyear.Thecity’sHAP,drawn up by departmentemployees months earlier,included the statement that

two hundred units of low-income housing would bebuilt on the east side. If thecouncil voted to approve theHAP, Sand said, his eyesangry beneath his imposingwhiteeyebrows,hewouldseethat as a pledge ofcooperation. If not, he said,he would levy the fines hehad threatened during thesummer of 1987, fines thatwouldstartat$100adayand

double every day until therewas no money left inYonkers.

So, at the last possiblemoment, thecouncilvotedasthejudgehadorderedthemtoandasNickhadbeggedthemto. The resolution,cosponsored by NicholasLongo and NicholasWasicsko, passed 5–1.HarryOxman was absent. Thesinglenowas fromSpallone,

who stormed out of themeeting, face red with rage.“I am not about to beintimidatedbyanyjudge,”heshouted. “We will not rolloverandplaydead.Ifittakesgoing to jail to prove toAmericathateveryoneshouldhaveconstitutionalrights,I’msayingtoyou‘Iamwillingtogotojail.’”

Spallone’s theatrics aside,Nick was pleased with the

results. He must be “onehelluva politician,” hefigured, to have been able topull thisoneoff, althoughhehadlearnedenoughabouthisnew job to keep thosethoughtstohimself.

Judge Sand was lesspleased. He knew Yonkerswell enough to bewary, andalthough he praised thecouncil’s vote, he then askedfor more. Stated intentions

are fine, he said, but nowhewantedspecifics.Hegavethecouncil a week to developand vote on a binding“consent decree”—a list oflocations where the housingwouldbebuilt.

The five who reluctantlyvoted yes held meetingstoward that goal andpointedly did not inviteSpallone. The list theycompiled included seven

sites,and108ofthe200unitswould be in Spallone’sdistrict.SixofthesevensiteshadbeenonOscarNewman’soriginal lists, but the seventhwasasurprise.Itwasasereneslice of land thatwaspart ofthe St. Joseph’s Seminary,and it seemed like a goodideaatthetime.

The night before the listwas tobepresented to JudgeSand, Nick found himself at

the Broadway Diner,awkwardly sharing a late-night dinner with NicholasLongo and Peter Chema.Whatpassedforconversationwas, at first, betweenWasicsko and Longo, whosepolitical savvy Nick hadcome to envy. Chema satthere sayingnothing, lookinguneasy and pale. Nickworried that Chema wasgoing to change his vote,

rejecting the list of sites, andtherefore reneging on thecouncil’s week-old promiseto the judge. Longo worriedthat Chema, the black belt,wasgoing to throwup.Theyspent the rest of the eveningreminding their uncertaincolleague that “We have tostick together. We have tomakeSpallone look likehe’souttherebyhimself.”

They asked for, but never

received, a promise thatChema would back theconsentdecree.Theirfoodsatalmost uneaten on theirplates.

The councilmen and theirlawyersappearedincourtthemorning of January 25,1988,andpresented the listto Judge Sand. He praisedthe council again, andstressed the importance ofhaving the city make these

decisions rather than thecourt. “A court can orderbricks and mortar,” he said.“OnlythecitizensofYonkerscan create an environmentthat is conducive to goodrelations.”

Hegavehisblessingtothelist, and asked for one morething. He wanted the city togive up their plans to appealthe case to the SupremeCourt. The vote scheduled

that night to approve the listof sites would have nomeaning, he said, if it weredone with the hope that thehigh court would eventuallyrule that the consent decreewas null and void. Thatwould be like recitingwedding vows knowing youhave a date with someoneelse for next Saturday night.Thisvote,hewarned,mustbethe last vote. Those who

agree to approve the sitesmust have every intention ofbuilding on those sites.Lawyersforthecityagreedtowaivetheirrighttoappeal.

Because the expected crowdwould overwhelm City Hall,the meeting to approve orrejectSand’s listofsiteswastobeheldinaneastsidehighschoolgym.AsNickandthe

others arrived at SaundersHighSchool, theycouldhearthe roar of the crowd beforethey entered the building.Inside, it was pandemonium.Nine hundred people hadpassed through the metaldetectorsat theentrance, andfour registered handguns hadbeen confiscated. Five dozenpolicemen lined thegymnasium walls. HenrySpallone was already at the

microphone, whipping thecrowdintoafrenzy.OnemanintheaudiencewaswearingaKuKluxKlanT-shirt.

“We’re just onenut awayfromariot,”Longothought.

More than sixty peoplehadsignedup inadvance forthe public comment portionoftheevening.Formorethanfive hours, they paraded tothe microphone to scream,plead,andthreaten.Formore

than five hours, the councilmembers sat there, stonefaced, and took it. For morethanfivehours,Nickglancedwith worry at Peter Chema,fearful there would be asurprisewhen theactualvotewastaken.

“Putyour jobson the linetonight,” yelled RabbiBernhard Rosenberg of theMidchesterJewishCenter,hisface red and his fists

clenched.“Getsomegutsandstand up to it. Or put it inyourneighborhood.”

Eleven-year-old JudyGuldner, whoseneighborhoodwouldgetsixtyof the two hundred units,stood pale but composedbehind a lectern, leaning intowardthemikesfromfifteenradio and television stations.“Where are our rights? Myparents worked had for my

house. I don’t want peoplewhohavenomorals,andtakedrugs, inmyneighborhood. Iused to want to be apolitician, but after seeingyouitwouldbeadisgrace.”

Onlyoneperson spoke infavor of the plan—LaurieRecht, a thirty-four-year-oldwhite secretary from southYonkers.Shestood4′10′andcouldbarelybeseenoverthecrowd. She was even harder

to hear as she read her brief,written statement. “Low-income housing in smallgroups does not necessarilyincrease crime,” she said.“There are good and bad inall races. It is important torealize that no one groupshould be blamed for allsocial or societal problems.”When she was finished, thejeers were so loud and thefaces around her were so

frighteningthatshehadtobeescortedfromtheroombythepolice. As she left, one manshouted, “Send her toHarlem.”

At1:00A.M., after the listof speakerswasexhausted, itwas the council’s turn tospeak. Nick kept it short.“Majority rules in America,”he said, “but it cannot rulecontrarytolaw.”

PeterChemadidnotspeak

atall.Laston the listwasHank

Spallone.“Nutstothejudge,”he boomed. “I swore anallegiance to you and I willkeep that allegiance to you.Nuts to the judge! This is aselloutoftheworstkind.”

With that, thecrowd triedtorushthestage,hundredsofpeople pushing towards thepodium at once. Nick couldfeel the floor shake, and he

could see the tension in theofficers’ faces as they linkedarms to hold the protestersback.

The clerk took the voicevote at 1:30 in the morning.Technicallyitwasavoteonalistofsites,butthewearinessand tension in the single-word answers of thecouncilmenmadeitclearthatitwassomuchmore.

“Mr.Wasicsko?”Yes.

“Mr.Spallone?”No.“Mr.Longo?”Yes.“Mr.Oxman?”Yes.“Mr.Chema?”Silence.“Mr.Chema?”Nick watched as Peter

Chema made a fist, thenturned his thumb downtowardtheground.

“Mr.Cola?”Yes.“Mr.Fagan?”Yes.The consent decree had

passed 5–2. The battle was

over.Thewarhadbarelybegun.

MaryDormanJoinstheFlight

Mary Dormansat in the front row of theCity Council chambers,

tapping her sneakers on theblue-and-goldcarpet,shiftingwith edgy excitement on theblue velvet seat cushion,waiting for the latestscheduled frenzy to begin.Asinewy, gray-haired woman,with the denim and khakiwardrobe of one with nopatience for excess and thesturdy, roughened hands ofone who values hard work,Mary gazed slowly around

the room, absorbing everydetail.

Above her was anelaborate stained-glass dome,depicting the colorfulYonkers seal. On one wallthere was a mural showingJonge Heer himself buyingthe land for his eponymouscity,andtheotherwallheldarelief sculpture of a large,gold-leafed eagle. Togetherthese flourishes should have

created an impressive room,but instead they merelymanaged to hint of a placethat had once beenimpressive.Thestainedglass,while beautiful, was crackedin places; themurals, thoughskillfully drawn, were dulledbyyearsofdirt;andalthoughthe eaglewas dramatic, evenstirring, the surroundingplaster was crumbling fromwaterdamage.

Pushing the beige framesofherowlishglassesbackupthe bridge of her nose,Marynoticed all these things. Butasshelookedaround,shedidnotseetracesofthechangingfatesofacityasmuchasshesaw the broad strokes ofchanges in herself. That shewasevensitting in this roomwas because of her owntransformation, from a quiet,bespectacledladyintoaloud,

determined warrior for acause. Only four weeksearlier,shehadneverbeentoa political meeting, and nowshe was warmly greetingdozens of people by name.Until last month she hadcertainly never been to CityHall, and here she was,already unfazed by hersurroundings, with a specificseat—front row, right side—that she thought of as her

own.Mary had paid no

attention to the housing fightuntil the near riot at theSaunders gym. A few daysafter thatmeeting she read anoticeinthelocalpaperabouta meeting of the 12th WardRepublican Club at the localVFW post. Nicholas Longowasscheduledtospeak.Onawhim, she went. It was notthe sort of thing she would

usuallydobecause,until thatmoment, Mary was not thejoining type. Aside from herbowling league and herSundays at St. John theBaptist, her world was herhusband,Buddy,whowasanengineer with AT&T, hergrown daughter, Maureen,andher jobasanassistant toherbrother-in-law,whowasaveterinarian.

Twenty years earlier,

when she and Buddy firstmoved from the not-yet-dangerous Bronx to thecomparativelyopenspacesofYonkers,theyhadlivedinanapartment over the sameanimal clinic where she nowworked. It was the Dormanfamily “bouncing-off place,”a rent-free apartment forfamily members wanting tosaveforahouseoftheirown.Maureen, an adolescent back

then, took theonlybedroom,andMaryandBuddyslept inthelivingroom,onapull-outcouch. They tried not towastemuchtimecomplainingabout the lack of space. Totheir mind, sofa beds weresimplywhereyousleptwhileyou worked for somethingelse.

Whenever they talked ofmoving,Marywouldsay,“IfIcan’thaveabrickhouseon

St. John’s Avenue, I don’tcareifIneverhaveahouse.”To her mind, St. John’s wasone of the city’s prettieststreets, a winding boulevardlined with neat, modestGeorgians and Cape Cods,ending with a flourish at thespires of the St. John theBaptistChurch.But althoughshe talked about her fantasyhouse often, she neveractuallysearchedforit.

Then, on a snowy day in1978, she saw a sign at thelocal drug-store offering aone-story,two-bedroombrickhouse on her perfect street.The pharmacist said, “Whynot take a look?” She andBuddy fell in love with it atfirst sight, but the $58,000asking price was more thanBuddy was willing to pay.When Mary heard thatanotherbuyerhadalreadybid

the asking price, Mary wentbacktohersuddenlycrampedapartment,shattered.

Withindays,theownerofthe little house called. Theother buyer had talked abouttearing out the arch over thekitchen door. Would MaryandBuddy bewilling to pay$53,000? The house becamehersbecausesheloveditasitwas. She swore she wouldneverletitchange.

Now two of the sevensites on the consent decreelist were within walkingdistance of that house, andshewasdrawntothemeetingat theVFWpostbecauseshewanted tokeepherword—toprotect the house, itsneighborhood, her dream.ToJudge Sand, the battle ofYonkerswasaboutwhatwasright. To Nick Wasicsko, itwasaboutwhatwasrealistic.

To Mary Dorman, it wasaboutherhome.

Atthatmeeting,andatallthe others that followed, shefellinwithagroupcalledtheSave Yonkers Federation, acoalition of thirtyneighborhood associationsfrom throughout the city. Itsleaders said they had onehundred thousand members,and Mary believed them,having seen how easily they

could mobilize a pressure-cooker crowd on almost nonotice. SaveYonkerswas anodd testament to thefact thatJudge Sand, in a mostunintendedway,hadunitedatleastpartofthecity.

Herattractiontothegroupwas its loyalty to HankSpallone.Therewerea lotofpoliticians doing a lot oftalking, she decided, andSpallone was the only one

who seemed to make anysense.

Mary’s days were soonshapedbySaveYonkers.Shefound herself attendingmeetings, sometimes nightly—at the VFW post, at theGrintonI.WillLibrary,attheLincoln Park Jewish Center,atSt.JohntheBaptistChurch—where she listened tospeeches to the converted bypeople who had been

strangers before the fight butnow described each other asgoodfriends.

Her first meeting inhostileterritory—atCityHall—came two weeks after theone at Saunders, on thesecond Tuesday in February.This was a regularlyscheduled council session,although there was nothingregular about it, and shearrived at 5:00 P.M., three

hours before the actualmeeting was scheduled tobegin, one hour before thepublic comment portion ofthe evening. She was thereearly because she wasdetermined to be one of theeighty people who actuallysat inside the chamber, notone of the hundreds whostoodandchantedoutside.Asshe waited with her newcompatriots in what would

quickly become her usualseat, someone handed her asmall American flag, asymbolof the right toappealto the Supreme Court. Thathad become the rallying cryintheweekssincethecouncilforfeited that right byapprovingtheconsentdecree:“Appeal. Appeal. Appeal.”Nomatterthattherewerefewidentifiable constitutionalissues in thecase,or that the

SupremeCourtagreestohearonly 3 to 5 percent of thecasesbrought toiteachyear.“Appeal. Appeal. Appeal,”they shouted, demandingtheirconstitutionalrighttotrytobeatthoseimpossibleodds.

Mary Dorman shoutedalong with them. She wavedher flag, she booed, shescreamed,sheclosedhereyesand joined the others in atuneless hum to drown out

any councilman other thanPeter Chema or HankSpallone, the two who hadvoted against the consentdecree.WhenNickWasicskotried to speak, someone fromthe back of the room hurledpink disposable diapers athim. Mary snickered. “Goback home to your mother,”sheyelled.Herfistsclenched,her veins popped, her angerwasraw,whitehot,andoddly

cleansing.Forfifty-fouryearsshehadbeenapolitewoman,the type who said “Excuseme” when she bumped intofurniture, so shewas amazedathoweasily she took to therhythms of disobedience. Itwasexhilaratingtobelievesocompletely. Thiswas not thefirst time Mary had felt thisangry,butitwasthefirsttimeshe had ever shown suchanger to strangers. “I didn’t

know I could act that wayoutside,” she said, meaningoutside the intimate circle offamily. “You might get madatyourkid,oryourhusband,but you wouldn’t lose yourcooloutside.”

She was intimidated onlyforamoment that firstnight,when a group of protestersnear the back of the roomstood up on their chairs,linked arms, and looked

defiantly at the thirtypolicemen and their leashedpolice dogs. The protestersknewthatmostoftheofficerswere Yonkers homeowners,too, and the officers knewthat they knew it.Mary kepther feet on the floor,transfixed by the drama,watching the cops approachlawbreakers who were alsotheir relatives and theirneighbors. It was over in a

moment, as several dozenprotesters were taken firmlyby the wrists or elbows andescorted out of the building.As they left, they chanted.“Appeal.Appeal.Appeal.”

The mayor adjourned themeeting soon after that,leaving much of the agendaasunfinishedbusiness.WhenMarygotoutside therewasapartyofsortsgoingon,litbythe roaming television

cameras that were attractedby the prospect of imminentflame. In the glare of thespotlights, those who wereejectedwerebeinghigh-fivedand hugged. They wereheroes. Mary was alreadylooking forward to the nextmeeting. There were stilllimits onwhat shewould dofor this cause, but she knewas she stood on the steps ofCity Hall, slapping her new

friends on the shoulder, thatthere were fewer of thoselimitsthanthereusedtobe.

Thenext twoweekswentquickly, filled with meetingsand phone calls and plans.Now, on the fourth Tuesdayofthemonthshewasbackinthe council chambers again.She was sitting in her seat,holding her flag, waiting forthemeeting tostart.Waiting,most of all, to feel that

liberatingangeronceagain.

While Mary was out front,getting ready to chant, Nickwas inhisoffice in theback,getting ready to take it. Heknew he shouldn’t allow theprotesters to feel they weredisrupting city business, buttherewasnoway tohide thefact that they were. All butone entrance to the building

had been closed during thepast month, and the metaldetector, which had at firstbeen rented by the day, wasnow the paid-in-full propertyofthecity.

Despite the precautions,there were bomb scares, themost recent one that veryafternoon. The call to policeheadquarterscameat3:15,anunidentified man warning ofa bomb in City Hall, set to

detonateintwentyminutes.Itwas all declared a hoax at4:05, but by then most ofthose who worked in thebuildinghadgonehome, justtobesafe.

There were death threats,too, lettersthatwerestampedbut not postmarked, allarriving through themailroom and addressed tothe five who had voted yes.Laurie Recht, the secretary

whose short speech atSaunders had so enraged thecrowd, received threats of adifferentkind.

“You’redead,bitch,”saidonesnarlingcaller.

“I don’t feel dead,” sheanswered, then crashed thereceiverintoitscradle.

And there were bullets.The three white envelopesthat were left in the men’swashroom at City Hall were

identical but that each borethe hand-lettered name of adifferent council member—Nicholas Longo, CharlesCola, Ed Fagan. Each had asingleWinchester .22-caliberbulletinside.

Just as the temporarymetal detector becamepermanent, the periodicpoliceescortsassigned to thefivecouncilmembers, and toLaurie Recht, also became

full-time. When Nay visitedNick at home—they were acouple by then, but adeliberately low-profile one—she was frisked by armedguards before she wasallowed to walk in the door.When she left early the nextmorning, she would have topasstheguardsagain.

If it was impossible tomasktheeffectoftheprotestsonthegovernment,Nickwas

determined to mask theeffects of those protests onhis life.Athomehe stood infront of a mirror andpracticed keeping his faceimpassive, sohe couldbetterpretend that the protestersweren’t there.Herehearsedacalm, steady tone of voice,one that would not waver asthe volume in the roombecame unbearable and asPampers and insults were

thrownhisway.He spent the minutes

before eight o’clockcollecting that poker face.Then he took a long, deep,unsteady breath and walkedthrough the door from hisofficeintothepackedcouncilchamber. This was just aroutine council meeting, hereminded himself. Getthroughit,thengetout.

As soon as the mayor

appeared,Mary leaped toherfeet with the rest of thecrowd, joining in the catcallsandtheboos.WhenNickputhishandinplacetosalutetheflag, Mary waved her ownminiature flag over her headand chanted, “Appeal.Appeal. Appeal.” He didn’tflinch,Marynoticed.ThoughshecouldnothearhimrecitethePledgeofAllegiance,shesawhislipsformeveryword.

The moment of silencewasanythingbut.“Youcan’tkeep us quiet,” the crowdyelled. “We will be heard.”When it came time for thebusiness at hand—a list oftwenty resolutions, none ofwhich had anything to dowith public housing—thenoisefromthespectatorseatswassoloudthatthecityclerkhadtoleavehisseatandwalkup to each councilman in

order to hear and record hisvote.

The meeting wassupposed to conclude with aceremony honoring cityfirefighters and policeofficersforactsofbraveryinthe line of duty, but that toowas drowned out by thecrowd.

For a moment, Nick losthis cool. “These men riskedtheir lives for the city of

Yonkers,” he screamed intothe microphone. The boosbecameevenlouder.

Seeing the young mayorbecome flustered felt like avictory to Mary, and sheleaned over the railing thatseparated thepublic fromthecouncil. “Wasicsko, you’recrazy. You’re a sleaze,” sheyelled.

“Wouldtheofficerspleaseeject this woman,” Nick

thundered back. Momentslater, therewas an officer oneither side of Mary Dormanastheywalkedheroutof thebuilding.

Mary had seen somethingin Nick’s face that shethoughtwasregret,and,onawhim,shecalledhimthenextmorning. She expected toleaveamessage,but,instead,he answered the phonehimself. He had been

answering it whenever hecould since he had becomemayor,justashehadwhenhewas a councilman. Nay hadtriedtogethimtostop,butheinsisted.Noonewasgoingtoaccuse him of beinginaccessibleoroutoftouch.

“I just called to tell youthat you’re wrong to supportthehousing,”Marysaid.

“The law is the law,” heresponded.

“Doyou thinkYonkers isguilty of racism?” Maryasked.

“IthinkYonkersisgettingarawdeal,”hesaid.“Butthejudge ordered it, and theappeals court upheld it, andthelawisthelaw.”

“Why can’t you say youthink it’s wrong. Let peopleknowthat,atleast?”

“That’s notwhat a leaderis supposed to do. I’m

supposedtobealeader.”It was not the answer

Marywasexpecting,and,foramoment,shewasquiet.

“You threwmeoutof thelast meeting,” she said,finally.

Nick heard something inhervoicethathethoughtwassympathy.

“Which one were you?”heasked.

“I’m older, gray hair,

glasses. I always sit on therighthandside,firstrow.”

“That’s you?” he said. “Ipromise I’ll never have youthrownoutagain.”

AlmaFeblesStrugglesthroughtheNight

The eight red-brick buildings of theSchlobohm housing projectstand within sight ofYonker’s City Hall. MaryDorman passed the hulkingeight-story structures onevery trip to the councilchambers,buthadneverbeeninside. Fighting to keep“those people” out of herneighborhoodbecameherall-

consuming goal, yet she hadnever thought to detour theone block north off YonkersAvenuetosee“thosepeople”forherself.

Alma Febles, in turn,could seeCityHall fromherbedroomwindowinBuildingOneatSchlobohm.Thelightswere on late whenever therewasacouncilmeeting,whichmeans they were on oftenduringFebruaryof 1988, but

Almanevernoticed.Shepaidas little attention to theprotesters atCityHall as theprotesters paid to her. Thefew blocks were a lifetime,anotherworld,astrangeland.She saw no connectionbetweenthegoings-onatCityHall and the events of herown life, a life that wascrashingdownaroundher.

Whilelightswereburning,while Mary was chanting,

while Nick was worrying,AlmaFebleswascrying.Shehad cried every night in theweeks since she came backfrom Santo Domingo—theweeks since she left herchildren behind in SantoDomingo—the tearsstreaming so constantly thatshe sometimes ceased tonotice themanddidnotevenbothertowipethemaway.

Iffatehadplacedherina

different life, Alma Febleswould have been a beautifulwoman,with dark black hairthat fell in perfect ringsaround her caramel-coloredface, accenting her dramatic,magneticbrowneyes.Butthelife she’d been handed haddimmed all hope from thoseeyes,andleftthempuffyandred. She’d barely eaten sinceshe’d returned home,replacing food with two or

three packs of cigarettes aday. She avoided sleep, too,becausewhenshemanagedtofallasleep,shewoulddream:Frankie getting lost, Virgiliogetting hit by a car, Leydagettingsick.Shewouldwakeup with a sour taste in hermouth and a pain in herstomach.

One night, in a sobbingrage, she stripped all thepictures of the three children

off the walls, because shecouldn’t stand the blame sheimagined in their camera-ready smiles. Another nightfound her frantically stuffingtheir clothes into boxes thencramming the boxes intoclosets, as if she could packherguiltandlonelinessaway,too. The bursts of activitycalmed her for a fewmoments, but then the tearswould come again, and she

would wander the empty,smothering apartment untildawn.

During the seven yearsshe had lived there, Almararely called Apartment 151at Schlobohm “home.” Shecalled it “the apartment,” asin “I’m going back to theapartment.”Never“I’mgoinghome.”

Thatwasbecausethetwo-bedroomflat,with itsmuddy

green walls andtemperamental bathroomdoor, was not home, not toAlma Cordero Reyes Febles,thirty-oneyearsoldandstilladreamer,stillsuretherewasaplace for her to live thatwould bring her a feeling ofpeace. Alma was chasing amemory, trying to catch thedayswhenshewasachildinSantoDomingo,thecapitaloftheDominicanRepublic.Her

mother owned their modesthousebackthere,boughtwithmoney from the familyfactory,whichmadeuniformsfor stores.Alma,close to theyoungest in a family of twobrothers and six sisters,would wander the streetswithout worry, feeling safe,orsosheremembersit,intheinvisible cocoon ofneighborhood.

AlthoughAlma loved life

on the Caribbean island, hermother decided the childrenshouldhavemore,andslowlythe family began to emigrateto the United States. Alma’saunt Mela already lived inNew York City, and shebrought Alma’s oldest sister,Rosario, over first. Thencame Dulce, the secondoldest. Because Dulce andRosario were here, Alma’smother and youngest sister

were permitted to come.Alma stayed in SantoDomingo while her motherworked to bring the rest ofthechildren stateside,onebyone. Alma was eight whenher mother left. She wasfourteen when her mothersentforher.

Life in Yonkers wasdifferent from life in SantoDomingo. Alma knew noEnglish and, although she

was a serious student backhome, she was miserable atthe city’s huge high school.She hated the winters. Shehated sharing a two-bedroomapartment with her mother,three sisters, two brothers,and one cousin. Her goal inlife,onethatwouldeludeherfor at least the next twenty-sixyears,wastofindaplacewitharoomallherown.

Thepullofhomebrought

her back to the island forfrequentvisits, andwhenshewas sixteen, shemetVirgilioReyes there.Theywere fromthe same neighborhood andhadfriendsincommon.Theywere married in SantoDomingo when she wasnineteen. Virgilio was borntwo years later. Like Alma’smother,Alma’snewhusbandwas drawn to the UnitedStates, so, against Alma’s

better judgment, the youngfamily moved back toYonkers in 1979. At first,they livedon the topfloorofa five-story walk-up. The$212 rent was the most theycould afford with Virgilio’sjob at a local factory. Theapartmentwasfreezingallthetime, and before she couldbathe her baby,Alma had toturnon thekitchenstoveandpropopentheovendoor.

Eventually, the youngfamily moved to 188Ashburton, into a $260ground-floorapartmentwithasmall backyard. Leyda wasborn there twenty days later.Although Alma’ssurroundings were somewhatbetter, their marriage wassignificantly worse. “That’swhenwestarted tohateeachother,” Alma says. She andthe children shared one

bedroom, while Virgiliosenior slept in “the babies’room.”Suspectingshewouldsoon need to take care ofherself,Almastartedworkingtoward a degree in specialeducation at a local college.In 1981, when Leyda was ayear old, Alma and herhusbandweredivorced.

Alma tookherchildren toSantoDomingoforChristmasthat year. When she came

back to Yonkers at NewYear’sshefoundthatafireinthe boiler at 188 Ashburtonhad destroyed everything sheowned.Asaresultofthefire,she moved into Schlobohm,as far fromher dreamas shewaslikelytoget.

To enter her building shehad to walk throughcourtyards that seemed toradiate dread and despair.Thenshehadtopullopenthe

unlocked main door, a doorwhose milky Plexiglas hadturned opaque from harshdetergents that never quitewon the fight against thegraffiti.Togettotheelevator,she practically tiptoedthrough dank entryways,which were piled withgarbage—oldmattresses,beercans, the detritus of somanydisorderedlives.Everywhere,thesmelloftrashmixedwith

the smell of urine, whichmixed with the smell of thedisinfectant that failed towashtheothersmellsaway.

Apartment 151, twobedrooms, no view, wassupposed to be a short-termstoppingplace,butAlmawasstill living there three yearslater when she took anothertrip to Santo Domingo andmet Jose M. Febles. Theymarried within months; their

son,Frankie,wasbornwithinayear;theyweredivorcedbythe time he was five monthsold. Now there were threechildren to feed, and Almaquit school and took a jobselling office furniture at aYonkersshowroom.

For a few years shemanaged to keep Virgilio,Leyda, and Frankie shelteredfromtheworldoutside.Theywerenotallowedtoleavethe

apartment without theirmother,andtheyrarelyleftitwith her, because Almafeared that the small, ill-equipped play-ground inSchlobohm was really gangterritory. Joining her onerrandswasusuallyoutofthequestion, too. If she tookthemtothesupermarket,theysimply begged her for thingsshe couldn’t afford, andeveryone went home

miserable.Insteadtheywouldsit in thecrampedapartment,watching television orvisiting with their cousins,whoalsolivedinSchlobohm,and who were the onlyneighborhood children Almatrustedinherhome.

When Virgilio and thenLeyda reached school age,Alma walked them each tothe bus stop in the morningbefore she left for work.

Frankie spent the day atcousin Miriam’s apartment,and when the school dayendedMiriamwouldmeettheolderchildrenat thebusstopandwalk them to her house,too, carefully locking thedoorswhenshereturned.

But no number of lockscouldshieldthemcompletely,and by the timeVirgiliowasnine, Leyda was eight, andFrankiewas four, theirheads

were filled with scenes thatchildren are not supposed tosee.

Leyda:“Oncetheelevatordoors open and there was adrug deal happening insideand they tried to pull me inbuttheydidn’t.”

Virgilio: “There’s gunfireevery weekend. I’ve neverseen anyone shot but I hearaboutitsometimes.Onetimethe kids started jumping off

thefenceandflattenedacar.”Frankie:“Meandmyaunt

saw two guys knocking on adoor. Nobody answered.Theywent inandweheardascream. I don’t know whathappenedthen.”

TherewasnoonemomentthatmadeAlmamovebacktoSanto Domingo in 1987.Instead, it was the gradualgrindingdownofthesoul,thegrowing realization that her

short-term solution wasquickly swallowing herchildren’s childhoods. Oncebackontheisland,sherenteda peach-colored house onCalle J-1, the street shegrewup on and to which hermother had temporarilyreturned. If Alma stood onthe big front lawn she couldlook down the block at hermother’s window and wave.Althoughthehousehadthree

bedrooms,Alma still did nothavearoomallherown.Sheand Leyda shared one of thebedrooms, Virgilio andFrankie shared another, andthe thirdwas for the sleep-inbaby-sitter, a commonarrangement on the island.Thewomanwouldwatch thechildren while Alma workedasateacher’saidefromsevenin themorninguntil sevenatnight.

Virgilio and Leyda lovedthefreedomoftheisland,andspent their days as Almaremembered spending hers.They went to school from8:00A.M.tonoon,thenplayedhappily in the poor but safeneighborhood. Frankie alsoloved his freedom—a littletoo much. His wild streakwas broader than hisbrother’s or his sister’s, andhisfavoritegamewastohide

from his worried family.They would search the areafor hours, yelling “Frankie,Frankie,”onlytoreturnhomeandfindhimcrouchingunderthe bed. Soon Alma foundone school that would takeFrankie in the mornings andanother that would take himintheafternoons.

Becausethechildrenweresafer, it tookAlma a year tofacethefact thatshewasnot

earning enough to afford thelife shewanted to build.Hersalary was less than 2,000pesos a month, which wasabout $300 at the time. Herrent on the house was 350pesos, her electricity was 40pesos, the baby-sitter waspaid 100 pesos. The highestmonthly cost was food, andeachweeklytriptothegrocercost more than 500 pesos,meaning thateachmonthshe

spent slightly more moneythanshebroughthome.

Oneofthereasonsforthehigh grocery bills was thecost of imported foodstuffs,because a large foreign debthaddepressed theDominicanpeso against the dollar. Thatfact,whileherundoing,couldalso be her solution.American dollarswent far inSantoDomingo in 1988, andif she went back to

Schlobohm alone and begantoworkagaininthefurniturestore, the $1,200 she wouldearn each month would beenough to house, clothe, andfeedherchildrenbackontheisland.

Almaresisted theobviousfor several months. She wasstillangryatherownmotherforleavingherwhenshewaseight. And she sharplyremembered the scenes six

years later, when they werereunited in Yonkers andAlma pretended not to lovehermother,punishingherforthe scars of separation. Butherownplanwastoleavefora few months, not a fewyears, she told herself. Shecould save enoughmoney toprovideaneededcushion,shereasoned, and the moneycould do more for herchildren than her presence

could. She was not the firstwomantocometounderstandher mother better once shebecameamotherherself.

On a February day in1988, when tropical breezeswere blowing in SantoDomingoandthetemperaturewas below freezing inYonkers, Alma boarded a$550 American Airlinesflight. She cried through theentire three-hour trip. She

returned to theapartmentshehad fled a year earlier, andwhich, never fully believingherescapewouldbefinal,shehad sublet to some cousins.She spent her days at work,and her nights weeping.Whenherfirstmonthlyphonebill came she disconnectedthe telephone in theapartment, because she waswasting hundreds of dollarsin nightly calls to the tiny

peachhouseonCalleJ-1.Removing the phone did

not stop her from calling,however, it just made thecalls more dangerous. Shewouldsleep,thendream,thenawaken in fear. More oftenthannotshewouldraceofftothe pay phone on the roughstreets near Schlobohm. Itwas the only reason shewould ever dare to ventureoutside in the projects in the

middleofthenight.

NormaO’Neal’sVeilofBlackLace

Dawn wasnear in the darkenedapartment across the streetfromSchlobohm,andNorma

O’Neal was in the halfwayplace between awake andasleep. Shewas lying on thecouch in her patient’s livingroom, her eyes still closed,and she sensed the timewithoutlooking.Ithadbeenaquietnight, a typicalnight inthisjobasahomehealthaide.She had arrived, as usual, ateightintheevening,afterthedaynursehadbathedandfedtheelderlypatientandgotten

her into bed. Norma’s onlyreal duty was to give thewoman her nighttimemedications, two pills, thatwerealreadycountedoutandplaced into a container, thento help the woman to thebathroomand tobenearby ifshewokeduringthenight.

Most nights she didn’t,and although Norma neverslept soundly when she wason duty, she rarely slept

soundly inherownbedbackin Schlobohm, either, so thiswas a perfect job for thisstage inher life.Shehadherown list of ailments—diabetes, hypertension—theones that plague poor blackseverywhere, and which shesaw as an expected part oflife. While no one of herhealth problems wascrippling, in combinationtheyweredebilitatingenough

that most other jobs wereimpossible. At forty-seven,Norma looked far older. Shewas short, stout, andunmitigatingly stoic, withdeep pockets of worry undergray-browneyesandfarmoresilver than black in her hair.Hervoicewassocracklyandshakythatshealwaysseemedto sound as if she waslaughing, which, despite hertrials,sheveryoftenwas.She

knew she couldn’t be a daynurse, but this arrangementhelpedpaythebillsandmadeher feel, after a lifetime ofwork, that she was stilluseful.

The radio alarm clockcame on, confirming forNorma that it was 6:00 A.M.As always, the setwas tunedto a local station, the sourceof the most useful weatherreports. Norma didn’t care

aboutthewindchillinTimesSquare. She wanted to knowwhat was doing closer tohomeinGettySquare.Beforethe weather came the news,and the man at themicrophone said somethingabout a noisy meeting thenight before at City Hall.Norma had been followingthe controversy a little, andknew that “the white folks”wantedtostopthebuildingof

newhousingontheothersideof town. To Norma thatdidn’t reallyqualifyasnews.As far as she knew, whitefolks were always trying tostop black folks from doingsomething.

She opened her eyes asshe turned off the radio, andthat was when she noticedthat something was verywrong. The room, whichshould have been light, was

stilldark.Thegray,blueraysof early dawn were notcoming through the windowas they usually did, and shecouldn’t see a thing. Slowlyshe stood,gropedherway tothewallswitch,andflippediton. Her panic rose as sherealizedthattheproblemwasnot with the light, but withhereyes.Sheturnedherheadright to left, she squinted,thenopenedherlidswide,but

whatever she did, the roomstill looked like it had beendraped in thick black lace.She put her fists to hertemples, her way of calmingherself. She was afraid toadmitallthistoherpatient,ormaybe she was afraid toadmit it to herself, so shepretended she was fine,trusting her sense of touchand her memory to give thewoman her morning

medicine.When the day nurse

arrived two hours later,Norma took the elevator tothefirstfloorofthebuilding,thenwaitedatthecorneruntilshe did not hear any cars.Holding her breath, shecrossedthestreet,grabbedthefence on the other side, andclung to it, hand over hand,untilshereachedherbuildingneartheendofthedriveway.

She went upstairs and spentfourdaysinbed.

The marred vision didn’tgoaway,althoughitdidclearalittle.Shestillsawaveilofblack lace, but it was of alooser weave. Norma finallyconfessed all to her patient,who asked her to stay on inthe job anyway. It is hard tofind someone to come atnight near Schlobohm, a factthatNorma knewwell.Most

pizza places don’t deliver tothe neighborhood. Taxis saythey’llcome, then theynevershow. This elderly womanhad been assigned many anight health aide in recentmonths, but Norma was theonlyonewhoactuallyarrivedaspromised.

So every evening afterthat, Norma’s nephew, wholived in another building inSchlobohm, would walk

Norma to her patient’sapartment. He would be hereyeswhile she dispensed themedication, then he wouldleave the two ailing womenaloneforthenight.

If she had slept poorlybefore,Normabarelysleptatallnow.Shelayonthecouch,eyes closed, with her earsalerttothesleepingwomaninthe next room, and hermindwandering across her own

earlier years. The more shelost sight of the present, themore clearly she seemed toseethepast.Shecouldspendhours staring inwardly at hermemories, which were vividand in focus. She saw theburgundyvelvetcurtaininthefront room of her parents’five-room house down inNorth Carolina, and theremembered colors were sorich she reached out her

hands in front of her for amoment, as if to feel thesoftness of the fabric. Therewas white in her memories,too—white Chantillybedspreads with flowers,white sheets, and whitediapers, scrubbed by handandhungontheclothesline.

ShewasNormaFrancesMeeksbackthen,theoldestof the seven children of ahandymanandahousekeeper.

Everyone called her Frances.Her family was poor, butthere always seemed to beenough food.Thegardenoutback supplied string beansand tomatoes,and thenearbyfields held blueberries andblackberries, all of whichfilled Norma’s memory as akaleidoscope of green andorange and mouthwateringpurple. At Easter there werebasketsandno less than four

dozen pastel-colored eggs.Norma’s new dress wasalways pink. Janice, thesecond oldest, always choseyellow. At Christmas therewas somehow money for adoll for each girl, and a toydumptruckforeachboy.

Her later memories weredarker,butno lessclear.Hermotherdiedof aheart attackwhenNormawasthirteenandher baby sister not yet two.

Then, after high school, herfather sent her away. Therewas no future in NorthCarolina,hetoldher,nothingfor a young black woman todo but work in the fields ordo “days work,” cleaningwhite people’s houses andtending to their children. Hesent her to a tiny town inPennsylvania, which Normaremembered in grays andbrowns—thesootgrayof the

dirtied snow days after astorm, and themuddy brownofthemushroomsshepackedintocansat the local factory.There was family there—anaunt, two uncles, and threecousins—and her fatherhopedtheywouldwatchoverher more closely than hecould.

They couldn’t. she hadbeen living in Pennsylvaniafor justoverayearwhenshe

becamepregnant.Herbaby’sfather was twelve years hersenior,afriendofthefamily,amanshehardlyknewbeforeandrarelyspoketoafter.Shewasateenagerwhohadneverhadatalkwithanadultaboutsex.WhenDwaynewasborn,in the winter of 1962, hisfather gave Norma thirteendollars.

Declaring thatmotherhood made her

independent, she leftPennsylvania and movednorth to Yonkers, whereanother aunt was living. Theaunt watched Dwayne atnightandtookhimtoababy-sitter during the day, whileNorma,whofoundajobasalive-inmaid,sawhimonlyonweekends. Lying on thecouch near Schlobohm, shecould still feel the five crispten-dollar bills that the rich

ladyplacedinherhandeveryFriday all those years ago.She remembered graspingthem tightly in her pocket assherodethebushome,whereshe would hand two of thefive bills to Dwayne’s baby-sitter.

Somehow Normamanaged to save somemoney, and she found herown apartment at 159-163DuropaStreet,number4D.It

wascleanbutsmall,withonebedroom, a living room, abathroom, and a kitchen.Most important, it was safe,“one of the safest places thisside of town,” she says.Visitors had to ring the belland wait to be admitted bybuzzer. She had loved thesoundofthatbell—thesharp,jarring buzz of security.Therewassecurity,too,inthefriendship of the woman in

theapartmentnextdoor,whowatchedDwayne all day, forfree.

Intime,hernewfriendsetNorma up with JimmyO’Neal, whom Normadisliked immediately. Aboisterousman,thetypewhoalways seems to be laughinglouder than everyone else inthemovietheater,Jimmyhada good job at a factory insouthwest Yonkers, making

dresses.HewonNormaoverwith his affection forDwayne, and the two weremarriedinMayof1966.

They lived all oversouthwest Yonkers. LikeAlma,Normawaslookingforthecontentedfeelingofhomethat she’d had in her youthand, years later, she wouldremember each apartmentdown to the knobs on thecabinets and the tiles on the

floors. First, the cold-waterflatonCrotonTerrace,$50amonth, where two familiessharedthehallwaybathroom,and,also likeAlma, theonlyheat came from the kitchenstove. They only stayed sixmonths,becauseBrucewasanewborn and needed to bekept warm. Then the prettyapartmentonPollrockStreet,in a four-family house, withtwobedroomsandabeautiful

bluebathroom.But after twopleasant years, Norma’s twoyoungest sisters, precociousat fourteen and fifteen, weresent north from ChimneyRock by their father. So theextendedfamilymovedtothegritty apartment onAshburton, where heat wasincluded in the rent, but thelandlord rarely turned it on.They moved after sevenmonths, to the housing

projectofMulfordGardens.She had happy memories

of Mulford Gardens—ocherandrose,likethesunsetsoverthe redbrick buildings onsummer nights. Back in the1970s, public housing was agoal, a step up from thecrumbling apartments peoplelikeNormacouldafford, andwhen it was warm thechildren could play outsideuntil ten or eleven o’clock,

hundreds of children racingand laughing, while theirparentssatonnearbybenchesandwatched.Tashawasbornduring Norma’s years inMulford, and Norma wouldoften leave her sonsdownstairs to play while shetook the baby inside, bathedher,andputherdownforthenight.Thenshewouldcollectthe boys, tuck them in aswell, and spendseveralmore

hours outside, talking withher neighbors, unworriedabout her sleeping childrenupstairs.

Jimmy was a goodprovider, and life took on acomfortable, predictableroutine. When Norma wasworking,eitherhousekeepingoratafactory,sherefusedtocook on Friday andSaturdaynights, so the whole familydined someplace special, like

White Castle on FordhamRoad. The children wouldeach have four of the tiny,square,onion-toppedburgers,andNormaandJimmywouldeach eat eight. There werefrench fries and milkshakesfor everyone. Norma, whohad developed her diabeteswhen she was pregnant withTasha, would usually try toskipthemilkshake.

Because Jimmy was so

generoustowardthechildren,Norma simply ignored theother women in his life. Sheknewfromthe time theymetthatallofhismarriedfriendswere unfaithful, and Normatoldherself that thiswas justher husband’s way of savingfaceinfrontof thosefriends.Thehurtitcausedherwasnotworth thecostofconfrontinghim.

Then, in 1974, when

Tasha was less than a yearold, Jimmy lost his job andannouncedhewasgoingbackhome to North Carolina tofind work. When he wassettled,hewouldsendforhisfamily. At first he calledfrequently, then less often,then not at all.When he hadbeen gone for three months,Norma had the lockschanged. For years he senteach child a hundred dollars

at Christmas and anotherhundredatthestartofschool,but he stopped doing so,Norma believed, because hisgirlfriends disapproved. Heand Norma continued tospeak on the phoneoccasionally and to see eachother when Jimmy came tovisit the children, once ortwice a year. They never didget around to gettingdivorced.

In the years after Jimmyleft, Norma went on and offwelfare,takingcountlessjobsthat barely paid enough topay the baby-sitter. One ofJimmy’sbrothersworkedasabutcher, and he wouldperiodicallyarriveatNorma’sapartmentwithasackofmeatand a few needed dollars.Jimmy’s other brother haddaughters older than Tasha,and he would give Norma

their hand-me-down clothes.When she wasn’t workingfull-time,Normawouldbaby-sit, off the books, first inMulford, and then inSchlobohm,whereshemovedwhen Tasha was two and ahalf. Eventually she foundsteady,well-payingworkasahomehealth aide.Shewouldleaveheroldest child to careforheryoungerones,thengospendthenightatthebedside

ofanelderlypatient.That was where she was

thedayherworldwentblack,and where she continued tobe in the weeks and monthsthat followed, because shecouldn’t think of anythingelse to do. The doctors thatshe paid with Medicaid saidthatheropticnervehadbeendamagedbyallthoseyearsofdiabetes.Theygaveher lasertreatments, which helped a

little, and then they told herthattherewasnocure.

Herinitialpanicgavewayto resignation. She didn’tcomplain, because, she hadlearned, complainers were“tiresome”andself-pityneverfixedathing.Soshesaveduphappy moments to tell herchildren about when theycalled,herwayofproving tothem,and toherself, that shewas fine. And, most of the

time,shereallywasfine.Thiswas one more obstacle lifehadthrownather.Shewouldjust have to find a waythrough.

TheWar

Pent-up anger

explodes. Unleashed angerexpands and multiplies.Every day there was moreanger in Yonkers—moreprotesters at every officialand unofficialmeeting,morebullets in the mail, morePampers and condoms andtiny American flags. As theweeks passed in 1988, aswinter became spring, theweb of anger widened. Itmoved beyond the council,

beyond Yonkers, beyondcontrol.

In February, it went toWashington. At 7:30 onemorning, five hundredprotesters boarded ten rentedbuses and caravaned to theCapitol building, where theyheld signs that pleaded“President Reagan, HelpYonkers, N.Y.” MaryDorman was part of thatcrowd, standing windblown

but determined in her jeansand sneakers, her chappedhands crammed into thepockets of her white skijacket. A small group ofcoalition leaders arranged ameeting with the state’ssenator Daniel PatrickMoynihan, and Mary,emboldened by her newpassion for a cause, taggedalong inside the Senatebuilding.Sheandafewother

stowaways got as far as thesenator’s door, but wereasked to wait outside whilethe actual talks took place.Mary came away asunimpressed with the Senateas she was with the council.Moynihanmadeitcleartherewas nothing he would do tohelpYonkersfightthejudge.

By April, the anger hadensnared the CatholicChurch. Mary and her

compatriots had come toblame the Church for theconsent decree, because theagreementwasmadepossiblebythedonationoflandbytheSt. Joseph’s seminary. WhattheArchdioceseofNewYorksawasagestureofgoodwill,theprotestersofYonkerssawas an act of betrayal, andwhen Cardinal John J.O’Connor happened to visittheseminaryforareasonthat

had nothing to do with thehousing, hewasmet by fiftyprotesters holding signs withsuch messages as “CatholicAmericans, Stop AllDonationstotheChurch.”Ashis car drove through thegates and up the long drive,the protesters chanted,“Support the people whosupport the Church.” In theweeks that followed,parishioners throughout

Yonkers defiantly kept theirwallets closed when thecollectionplatewaspassed.

InJune,theangerreachedJudgeSand’sfrontdoor.Thistime therewere two hundredprotesters, and their purposewas to show Sand that theyknew where he lived. Theyalso wanted to show theworld how well he lived.Following a hand-drawn,photocopiedmap, they drove

north, to Pound Ridge, anaffluent pocket ofWestchester where mosthomes cannot be seen fromthe road, and where thedriveways are a quarter mileapart. They stood in front ofhis fence for two hours,waving their frayingAmerican flags and carryingplacards thatcomparedSand,who is Jewish, to AdolfHitler. They blew whistles,

shouted “Integrate PoundRidge” into bullhorns, andheckled neighbors withchants of “No Justice, NoPeace.” The vehicles thatbrought them from Yonkerslined the narrow, curvingroad for half a mile. On thetrees and mailboxes alongthat road, they taped signssaying “Low-incomehousingto be built on this property,courtesyofJudgeSand.”

As the circle of angerwidened, the entire countrybegan paying attention. Mailarrived on Nick’s deskaddressed “City Council,Yonkers,” or “Yonkers,NewYork.”

A letter writer fromArcadia,California,describedSand’sorderas:“Nothingbutgarbage. These Federaljudges are doing everythingthey can to take over our

lives. Insteadof dealingwithall the crime in the streets,they’re more interested inmolding society to theirviews.”

A farmer from MountainView, Missouri, wrote thatfederal courts were leadingthe country “right down thedrain.”JudgeslikeSandwere“justabunchofdictatorswhowon’t be happy until theyruinour lives,”hecontinued.

“The Yonkers City Counciltook a fair and square voteand Judge Sand shouldmindhisownbusiness.”

From Long Beach,California: “We need a fewnice places to live in thiscountry, andour judgesneedtobereplacedwhentheytakesuch ridiculous stands asJudgeSand.”

From Memphis,Tennessee:“Publichousingis

wrongandIwouldnotpermitit in my neighborhoodwithoutafight.”

Nick’s days had become aspiral of less sleep andmorevodka, and he became thefirst to bend. Itwas the onlypractical way, he decided,andhestillbelievedhecouldsubdue this tiger if he couldfind the practical political

way.After all, hehad riddenthe anger into office in thefirst place. He had seen itonly as a means to electionthen, andhadnot understoodits depth and fury.Whateverhis miscalculation, however,hehadcontrolled itonceandneeded to find a way tocontrol it now. If a symbolicappeal to the Supreme Courtwould calm the frenzy, thenhe would go to the Supreme

Court. One night, at the endof a particularly drainingcouncil meeting, when onehundredfortypeoplewereonthespeakers’ listandanothertwo hundred were outsidechanting, he quietlyannouncedthatthecitywouldask Sand to restore the righttoaSupremeCourtappeal.

In a written statement tothe judge, Nick blamedhimself for “sorely

underestimating” residents’fears. “They are veryfrightened people who canseeinthecourt’sdecrees…acallous governmentdestroying… the only realasset which [many of] thesepeople have managed toacquire. Any efforts at fencemending are doomed tofailure in such anenvironment.” Hoping toreach the judge’s practical

side,headded,“Ifthefurorisnot dispelled, the hostilitywill scare away prospectivepublic housing tenants anddestroy chances of racialharmony—the goal of thecase.”

Sand turned down therequest. He was worriedabout the young mayor,whomhesawas trying todotherightthing—despitebeingworn down by the force of

thecrowd.“To allow [the appeal],”

Sand wrote back, “wouldreward intransigence, rewardthreats of violence andrewardconditionswhichlead,ratherpitifully, the leadersofYonkers to say ‘Help us,court, we can’t govern.’”Anappeal, he said, would notstop the protests or solve thehousing problem. “I can’tbelieve they would simply

fold their tents and strollaway if the appeal wereannounced and the SupremeCourtsaid‘denied.’”

The City Council heardSand’sresponse,thendecidedto appeal to the SupremeCourt anyway. They knewtheyriskedcontemptcharges,andtheyknewthehighcourtprobablywouldn’thelpthem,but that did not stop themfrom filing the papers. Nick,

simutaneously relieved andworried, had an extra vodkathenighttheappealwasfiled.Nicholas Longo,when askedby a reporter why thehopeless appeal wasnecessary, summed up NickWasicsko’s feelings, too:“Why don’t you look at allthepeoplereadytoriotinthestreets?”

Thenext toblinkwas theCatholic Church. In a full-

page advertisement in theHerald Statesman, CardinalO’Connor said he had beenmisled.Hewas not given allthe facts, he said, before heallowed the seminary site tobe included in the housingplan.At the timehegavehisconsent, he said, he didn’tknow that 108 units, morethan half the total, wereplanned for a singleCatholicparish—the one square mile

around St. John the BaptistChurch.O’Connorsaidinthearticle that he was “deeplypuzzledbytheconcentration”andfearedsuchaplanwouldnot work. “I certainly wouldhave been concerned by itsdesignationhadIbeenawareof the concentration. I don’tlikehavingbeenmisled.”

The Church threatened towithdraw the seminary site.Sand ordered Yonkers to

condemn the property andseize it. The archdioceseappealed to the New YorkState Supreme Court,charging that condemnationproceedings would becontrary to Church law,whichrequiresthepermissionoftheVaticanforanytransferof Church land. What hadbeen a tug-of-war between acity and a judge wasbecoming a shoving match

betweenChurchandState.Nick, a lapsed Catholic,

but still a Catholic, waspersonally troubled by thatfight.Buthewasmuchmoretroubled by the effect thestandoff was having onNicholas Longo,who had soreluctantly voted in favor ofthe consent decree and whowasnowregretting thatvote.Longo,whowasastiredashewasoftheyelling,thethreats,

thebulletsinthemail.Longo,whohadvotedfortheconsentdecree because it wouldtheoretically give the councilcontrol,onlytofindthattheywere being ordered to seizelandfromtheChurch.

“As a Catholic,” Longosaid, “I in good consciencecannot proceed against theCatholic Church. A hostiletakeover was never ourintention, never, never,

never.”NicksuspectedthatLongo

and the others were actuallymore interested in savingtheir council seats than insaving their souls, and thatthe entrance of the cardinalintotheconflictwasnottheirreason to back out, but theirexcuse. He believed that allthe more completely whenSand offered to drop theseminarysitefromtheplanif

thecity founda replacement.Instead of being relieved,Longowasoutraged.

“No more sites,” he said.“That’s it. Period. Sand isanti-Catholic, anti-Christian,and ought to be removedfromthebench.”

Fromthere,theshowdownbetween judge and city wasinevitable. The next weekswereacascadeofevents,oneafteranother, each taking the

city further and further fromcompromise.OnJune13, theSupreme Court announced itwould not even hear theYonkerscase.Thenextnight,the City Council voted amoratorium on the housing,officially refusing tocooperate with the judge.Sand immediately answeredback, instructing the councilto take a vote reaffirmingsupport for the consent

decree. As ordered, a votewastaken,andthetallywas5to2against the housing. Forgood measure, thecouncilmenalsovotedtohaltthe proceedings designed totake land from thearchdiocese. That resolution,introducedathighvolumebyHank Spallone, referred toSandasa“philosopherking,”who was “illegallyengineering the destruction”

oftheCatholicChurch.“If Judge Sand wants to

holdmeincontemptofcourt,hecan,” saidSpallone. “Thisis nothing more or nothingless than what happened inNazi Germany.” Then hecompared Sand to Hitleragain,sayingthatbothaimedto confiscate Churchproperty. “Perhaps,” he said,“Judge Sand forgot what aswastikameans.”

The grenade was now inSand’scourt.

MichaelSussman, the lawyerfor the NAACP, hoped thiswouldbeenough topush thejudge to do what he hadrefused to do so many timesbefore—to use the full forceof his office and finally takecontrol of the housing awayfromtheCityCouncil.Thatis

whatotherjudgeshaddoneinother standoffs. In Alabama,forexample,during theearly1980s, a U.S. district judgetook control of the state’smentalhospitalsafterpatientssued for better treatment. Atfirsthegavehospitalofficialsthreemonthstocomeupwitha proposal to improveconditions.Ninemonthslater,when therewas still no plan,he devised his own,

specifying such details ashospital staff qualifications,clothing allowances forpatients, and the amount ofmoneytobespentonfood.

Similarly, a federal judgewaited three years but thentook full charge of theArkansas prison system,which had been found guiltyof such abuses as filthybedding,insufficientclothing,and rampant brutality by so-

called honors prisonersagainstotherinmates.AndinBoston, U.S. District JudgeW. Arthur Garrity Jr. tookcontrol of the city’s schoolsfrom the elected BostonSchool Committee in 1974,afterfindingthat thecityhadsegregated blacks in inferiorschoolswithin itssystem.Heretained that control foreleven years, during whichtimeheissuedmorethanfour

hundred orders relating tosuch things as busing,budgets, and schoolcurriculum. He finallyrelinquished control in 1985,when the city’s first blackschool superintendent washired.

Sand seriously consideredthe same route. He evenaskedoneofhislawclerkstodraft an order that wouldestablish a commission to

oversee the housing. But, inthe end, he did not sign thatorder. In part it was becausehe agreed with the otherplaintiff in the case, theJustice Department, whichargued that setting up thecommission would be“effectively letting the cityoff the hook” allowing themto “flout” the court’s order“with impunity.” Whatpersuaded Sand to forgo the

commission, however, werenot the arguments in opencourt, but the discussionswith his clerks back in hischambers.Tobeeffective,heconcluded, a commissionwould have to be givenauthority over everythingfrom local zoning laws, tobuilding and fire codeinspections, to the systembywhich asphalt is bid out andpurchased for the new roads

to the new developments. Itwould all but devour thegovernmentofYonkers.

From the begining of thecase, Sand had believed thattheonlywaythehousingplanwould work was if it camefrom the city, rather thanbeingforcedon thecity.Thepoint of this exercise, hereasoned, was not to punishYonkers,buttochangeit,or,more accurately, to coax

Yonkers into changing itself.Hisintentionwasnottoerectsome buildings and declarevictory, but to make thosebuildings into homes, andmake those homes part of adiverse but unifiedcommunity.

“Diverse, yes,” architectOscar Newman wouldcomment later. “Unified wassomethingelseagain.”

Newman saw the latter

goal as unattainable. Morethanthat,hebelievedthattheidealismbehindthatgoalwasthe judge’s deepest flaw.“He’s a mixture of naivetéand hope,” he said with afrustrated sigh. “He verymuch wanted the city to seethelight.Toseethattheyhaderred, that they had sinned,and that this remedy wouldreallycurethemiftheycouldonlyseethelight.”

In the end, Sand’sdecision to fineYonkers, notdismantle it, was more thanjustaphilosophicalone.LikeNick, he thought he wastaking thepractical route.Hewaswageringthatfines,heftyfines,wouldwork.Astudentof judicial history, he knewthatineveryothercasewhensanctions were imposed forobstruction of a federaldesegregation order, the

showdown fizzled withinhours after the fines tookeffect. Sometimes, even themere threat was enough tochangesomeminds.

In 1964, for instance,Alabama’s governor, GeorgeWallace, backed down whencharged with contempt ofcourt, and he reopened theMacon County schoolsystem, which he had closedin order to prevent its

integration.In1970,Florida’sgovernor, Claude Kirk,backed down in the face of$10,000-a-day fines, and hereinstated the ManateeCounty School Board,whichhe had dissolved to preventcourt-ordereddesegregation.

In Boston in 1974, JudgeGarrity held three BostonSchool Committee membersin contempt for refusing toapprove a citywide school

desegregation plan, and saidhewouldfinethemembersiftheydidnotapprovetheplanwithin weeks. They did, andthe threat of fines wasdropped. And in 1981, theCleveland School Board’streasurer and its twenty-six-year-old president were heldin contempt and actually putin jail for twentyminutes forrefusing to pay outsidedesegregation experts as

ordered by the judge. Theywerereleasedonbail,andtheexpertsweresoonhired.

Soitwaswithanexternalscowl but internal optimismthat Judge Leonard B. SandannouncedwhathewoulddotoYonkers.Ifthecouncildidnot vote to reaffirm theconsent decree by August 1he would impose personalfines of $500 a day againsteach recalcitrant councilman

—the first timean individuallegislatorhadbeenfined inafederal desegregation case.To underline his point, headded the threat of jail timefor the councilmen if theyremained incontempt for tendays. In addition, the long-threatened fines would beimposed against the city,starting at $100 a day, thendoubling every day. Themoney would be

nonrefundable. It would takeanactofCongresstorecoverevenonedime.

OnDay1,Yonkerswouldowe$100.Day2,$200,foratotal of $300 paid. After aweek, onDay 7, a daily fineof $6,400, for a total debt of$12,700.ByDay14,thedailyfinewouldtop$1millionforthe first time, $1,638,400 tobe exact, for a total of$3,276,700paid.OnDay22,

the daily fine of$209,715,200wouldbringthetotal fine paid to$419,430,300, more than the$355 million in the city’sbudget. ByDay 29, the totalfine would be$53,687,091,100, whichwould be greater than theU.S. tradedeficitwith Japan.By theendof themonth, thetotal fine of $107 billionwouldbemorethanthegross

nationalproductofFinland.Hoursbeforethemidnight

deadline on August 1, 1988,thecouncilmetagain.Nick’smonths in office had taughthim to expect theworst, anddrivingtoCityHallthatnighthe wondered why he wasbothering to go at all. HankSpallone, Peter Chema, andNicholas Longo had eachbeen clear and public abouttheir plans to vote no. Nick

and Harry Oxman wereplanning tovoteyes.CharlesCola had said once or twicethathewasworriedabouttheeffect of the threatened fineson thecity’sbond rating,butotherwisehehadbeenfirminhisoppositiontothehousing,andNickdidnotexpectColato provide him with amiracle. Only theevermysteriousEdFaganhadrefused to saywhichway he

wouldvote.That left the most

optimisticprojectionsatthreevotes in favor of complianceand four votes against.Another death threat hadcome in the mail for Nickrecently, scribbled on aninvitationhehadsentout fora political fund-raiser thatwould double as his twenty-ninthbirthdayparty. “This isyour last birthday” had been

scrawled across the card inthe place of an RSVP. Asmall-caliberbulletwasintheenvelope. It was hot outsidenowashedrovetoCityHall,thinkingaboutthatbullet.Hewas sweating in spite of theairconditioner.Hewanted togobackhome.

Before he saw theprotesters, he heard themsinging.Therewerehundredsof them,more than the steps

or sidewalks could hold, andthey were standing in thecenterofNepperhanAvenue,kept there by thirty policeofficers as cars streamed byon either side. Linking arms,they sang “We ShallOvercome,” then “GodBlessAmerica.” When Spallone’scarpassed,theysang“HappyBirthday,” because he, too,hadrecentlyhadabirthday.

Inside City Hall, four

floors up, Nick could stillhear the singing.Onlyeightypeoplecouldfitinthecouncilchamber, a relief to all afterthe riotous meeting of ninehundred at Saunders HighSchool, but the small crowdfelt threatening in its ownclaustrophobicway.Here theprotesters sat almost nose tonose with the councilmen,separated only by a six-footbarrier of klieg lights and

television cameras. The airinside was stifling, andbecame even more so whenNickwas forced to close thewindows to drown out theshouting from the street.MichaelSussman, the lawyerfor the NAACP, was barredfrom the chambers by thepolice, who feared that hispresencewouldbeanexcusefor violence. Laurie Rechtwasasked to leave, too,after

she sparked a shovingmatchwhenshetriedtotakeaseat.

First came the speeches,familiar faces saying thesame things they had saidbefore. But this time therewas a cockiness where thereused to be only desperation.This time they believed theywouldwin.

Whenitcametimetovoteon the reaffirmation of theconsent decree, Nick voted

yes, as did Henry Oxman.Charles Cola, to Nick’samazement,votedwith them.Nicholas Longo voted no,relieved that with that onesimple word the catcalls andthe bullets in themailwouldfinallystop.PeterChemadidthe same, and smiled whenhis vote was greeted withcheersfromthecrowd.

The vote was tied, threefor and three against. Even

thejadednewspaperreportersheldtheirbreath.

The last to vote was EdFagan, who had remained apuzzle during the weekbefore this meeting. He hadsaid he wanted to weigh hisoptions,butNickassumedhewas silent because he washoping for a crescendomoment just like this. Theclerk called Fagan’s nameand he paused dramatically.

One second. Two seconds.More. Then he leaned hislong body toward themicrophone, stared into thespotlight, and delivered anemphatic“No.”

The single word shotthrough the silence with theforceofastarter’spistol.Thecrowd went wild, givingFaganastandingovation,anddancing in the narrow aisles.Like a jolt of electricity, the

news traveled out of thecouncil chambers, down thestairs,andontothestreet:thecouncil had taken on thejudge. The whoops ofcelebration could be heardeven through the closedwindowsofCityHall.Peoplescreaming inside. Peoplescreaming outside. Soon itsounded to Nick as if all ofYonkerswasscreaming.

AlmaGoesHomeAgain

Alma Febleswas far from the screamingon that deafening Augustnight.Shewasbackwithherchildren in Santo Domingo,spending precious vacationtime she had earned byworking Monday through

Saturday every week duringthe endless months inYonkers. She would havegladlyworkedSunday, too—anything to keep her awayfrom the apartment—but thefurniture showroom wasclosed.

She brought few clotheswithherwhenshearrivedforthis visit to the island. Hersuitcases were crammedinstead with the tastes of

home that her childrencraved,andshespentherfirstnight filling the cupboardswith boxes of cereal, cans oftuna fish, assorted soups,spaghetti sauces, and saladdressings. The cartons ofcigarettes—she was up tothreeorfourpacksadaynow—she hid where she hopedthey would not find them.Shewashidingother secrets,too. What Virgilio, Leyda,

andFrankiemissedmost,sheknew,wasnotinhersuitcase.Eventuallyshewouldhavetotell them that she could notstay.

When she first left herfamily, back in February,Alma had intended to returnpermanently to SantoDomingo by August. Six orsevenmonths,shecalculated,would give her enough timeto save the modest nest egg

neededtolivetogetherontheisland. But she hadmiscalculated, mostlybecause she hadn’t countedon the phone calls.Disconnecting the phone inher Schlobohm apartmenthadn’t stemmed her need totalk to the children, andneitherhadherfearofthepayphone on the corner. Itbecame her routine to callcollect to the peach house

every day, sometimes two orthree times a day. If theywere not there when shecalled, she would call backlater. If just Virgilio washome, she would call againuntil she spoke toLeydaandFrankie,too.

Alma knew her childrenmissed her. Virgilio, quietand brooding like his father,stopped writing to her forweeks at a time. When she

asked him where his letterswere, he said, “I was madwhenitwastimetowriteandI didn’t know what to say.”Frankie, wild and impulsivelike his father, tried to runaway from home once ortwicesothathecouldgoandfind her. Leyda, who wasmostlikehermother,withthesame lustrous hair and hugeeyes,wastheonewhomissedher themost.When the little

girlwas sad shewould closethose eyes andpictureAlma,back in Schlobohm, feelingsad too. “I knew you werefeeling the way I wasfeeling,” Leyda would tellher. “Sometimes I’d cry, andwish you could see me, too,andthatyouwouldcome.Butyoudidn’tcome.”

Leyda wrestled with herdespair by trying to becomeher mother, acting

particularly protective of herlittle brother.When themaidcooked something thatFrankie didn’t like, Leydawould stomp around thekitchen shouting “Leave himalone. If he doesn’t want toeatit,don’tmakehimeatit.”

Often the fights becamephysical, and if the maidslappedLeyda,Leydausuallyslapped back. The incidentwould inevitably be reported

to Alma, who would try tocalm her daughter long-distance. The girl would notbesoothed.

“Why don’t you comehere and hit me yourself ifyou’re my mom?” she criedintothetelephone.

The children were sohappytoseeheratthestartofthisvisit thatAlmacouldnotbear to tell them of herchange of plans right away.

She settled in as if shewerestaying. They never askedwhyshehadn’tbroughtmorewithherfromSchlobohm.

The days took on a lazyroutine, because her SantoDomingo was not theactivity-filledSantoDomingothat the rich tourists saw.Onher slice of the island therewas no snorkeling orparasailing, no discos orroulettewheels.Theonlyway

that world intersected withher own was when theelectricity in herneighborhood was turned offperiodically during times ofpeak energy demand at theresorts.

Each morning, Almaserved the children butteredrolls and hot chocolate. Shehad grown up drinking hotchocolate forbreakfastand itcomfortedhertogiveittoher

own children, even in theheat. At night, she madespaghetti and meatballs, afavorite of theirs fromYonkers. During the sunnyhours between the cocoa andthe pasta, Alma would tidythe house, do the laundry,walk down the block to hermother’s, gossip withchildhoodfriends.

After all her years upnorth, Alma reveled in the

friendshipofpeoplewhohadknown her all her life. InSchlobohm she had allowedherself no friends, and theonly women she spoke towere her sister Dulce, hercousin Miriam, and her ownmother (who, now thatAlmaand her sisters were longgrown,preferredtospendhertimebackinSantoDomingo).Alma had forgotten theconnectedness of real

friendship.On the island sheallowed people into herhome, something she wouldnever do back north in theprojects.More important,shelet them into her life, sittingfor hours over coffee andconversation, sharing gossipandfindingguidance.

It was from these friendsthatAlmalearnedmoreaboutthe lives of her childrenduring the months when she

was gone. About how themaid had started to lockFrankie in the house to keephim from climbing the fenceand running away again.About howLeyda stayed outafterdark, andabouthowallthree kids climbed onto theroof to pickmangoes from atoweringtreeandsnuckintoaneighbor’s yard to steal wildstrawberries.

Knowing that they were

flirting with danger madeAlma evenmore heartbrokenabout her inevitable news.One night, over dinner, shetold them. Frankie ran fromthe table and hid under hisbed. Virgilio silently playedwith his food. Leyda lookedstricken and said, “Iunderstandthatyouthinkthisisthebestwaytotakecareofus.”

The children cried during

the long bus ride to theairport,andduringthelongerwait for the plane.When thevoice over the intercomannouncedAlma’s flight, shestood up and turned to giveeach child a kiss good-bye.Frankie sank to the floor,grabbedherleg,andshrieked.LeydathrewherarmsaroundAlma’s neck and sobbed.Alma’s last glimpse of herchildren as she entered the

jetway was of her motherholding them back, keepingthem from rushing onto theplane.

TheHomelessMotel

Doreen Jamessatonthebedatthemotelfor

the homeless, bouncing,slowly, against thesurprisingly firm mattress.Doreen was a large,imposing, fleshy woman,maderounderstillbyherveryrecent pregnancy, and sheheld Jaron, her newborn, inher ample arms, snugglinghim against her chest, tryingtokeephimfromcrying.Shebounced sluggishly, butrhythmically,andshedidnot

change her pace as hisscreaminggrewlouder.

Some young women,alone with an infant for thefirst time, would be frantic,but Doreen was not thefrantic type, and she reactedto this as she did tomost oftheunpleasantness inher life—she sighed more deeplyandmovedevenmoreslowly.Up and down, up and downonthebigmotelbed.“Yoube

quietnow,”shesaid,withoutanger, or even intonation.“Quiet, quiet,” she repeated,pattingthewailingbabywithherdarkbrownhands.

As she bounced, sheglared at the pot of waterbubbling lazily on the hotplate across the room.Stubbornly, it was provingtherule,andrefusing toboil.Until the water boiled, thencooled,shecouldnotmixthe

powered baby formula. Andwithout the formula, shecould not quiet Jaron.Leaving her parents’ home,with its fully equippedkitchenandtwoextrapairsofhelping hands, had seemedlike a good idea at the time,an overdue declaration ofindependence. But here, inthisstate-fundedmotel room,with only a contraband hotplatetocareforthisbaby,she

washavingsecondthoughts.She knew when she

decidedtomovethattheonlyhomeshecouldaffordwouldbeinpublichousing,andthatideadidnotbotherheratall.Doreenwas born inYonkersin 1965, and had spent herchildhood in the projects onSchoolStreet.Itwasdifferentthere then, she remembered:“Nodrugs,nodogs,andtheydidn’t have all that traffic.”

Her father and several othermen took turnspatrolling thehallways at night. The mostdangerouspast-timewhenshelived in the projects wasriding on the tops of theelevators.

Doreenwasthefifthchildin a family of four girls andtwo boys, and her memoriesof public housing were onesof safety and togetherness.Alma Febles wanted out of

Schlobohm; Doreen Jameswantedin,or thoughthatshedid.

Alifespentinandaroundpublic housing meant sheknew how to navigate therules,andsheunderstoodthatthere were two ways to gettheapartmentshewanted:theregular waiting list and theemergency one. The firstroute could take years, andDoreen needed to transform

her life quicker than that. Soshe went to the YonkersDepartment of SocialServices and presentedherself asanemergencycase—a twenty-one-year-old newmother who was homeless.Hergrandmotherhelpedwiththe plan, writing a letter toDoreen’s caseworkerexplaining that therewas notenough room in thegrandmother’s apartment for

two more. The caseworkerimmediatelyfoundaroomforDoreen and Jaron in amotelfor thehomelessintheupperreaches of WestchesterCounty,atemporarystoppingplace until an apartmentbecameavailable.

What Doreen nevermentioned to the caseworkerwas that there was an entirebedroom available for her ather parents’ house, a room

her parents said would behers to call home whenevershe wished. And she alsofailed to mention that herparents were leery of herentire plan. Pearl andWalterJames had struggled to gettheir children out of theprojects and they could notunderstand why theiryoungest daughter was hell-bent on moving back in.Doreen had been ten years

oldwhenherfathertookajobmaintaining a golf drivingrangeinNewJersey,proudlymoving his wife andchildren to Union County,where they lived in a two-familyhouse.Doreen,notyetslowed and saddened by thedisappointments of life, hadthrived away from SchoolStreet.After school eachdayshe would race to thebackyard where she jumped

rope and rode her bike untildark. She didn’t spendmuchtime then worrying on thefuture,butwhenshedidthinkabout it she saw herself as asocial worker, “helpingpeople” all day, then cominghome to “a husband, a sonand daughter, nice house,two-car garage, me working,himworking,kidsdoingwellinschool.”

Despite their move,

however, the James familydid not cut off all contactwith Yonkers. Sheila, theoldest of the children, wasnearly twenty when herparentsdecided tomove,andshe stayed behind. Doreenwent back to see her often,visitsthatgrewmorefrequentafter Doreen’s high schoolgraduation. She tried thehelping professions for awhile, attending school to

learn to be a medical officeassistant, but she discoveredshe had an unconquerablefear of needles, so shedropped out after threemonths. Next, she became ahome health aide, andenjoyedthatworkuntiloneofherpatientsdied.Formonthsafter that she worked as asalesclerk in a fabric store,where the only needles wereusedforsewing.

DuringoneofhervisitstoSheila, she met Joe Bailey.He was the brother of amutual friend, and he was asymbol of how the projectshad changed. Joe sold drugs,cocainemostly,onthecornernear School Street. Doreendidn’t really mind hisprofession, because he rarelysampled his wares himself.“He’snicetome,he’sagoodlistener,” she would explain

in her languid, laconic way.Then she would shrug hershoulders.

A year after the couplemet, they decided to marry.They never set a date, butthey did choose a solitairediamondring,whichtheyputon layaway. Soon after that,whenDoreenlearnedshewaspregnant, Joe was thrilled.Doreen was less so. “Thiswasn’tpartofthedream,”she

triedtoexplaintoJoe.In her seventh month of

pregnancy she went to thehospitalclinicforherprenatalcheckup. It was a crowded,uncomfortable room,and shehatedherappointmentsthere.She kept them only becauseJoe insisted.He had sufferedfrom asthma for years, and,hissourceofincomeaside,hewasalwayspreachinghealthyliving.SoDoreenwenttothe

clinic as scheduled thatmorning, fitting herexpanding girth into a smallmolded plastic chair andwaiting for her turn with thenurse practitioner. When hername was finally called,however, it was not by anurse, but by Joe’s father,whomadehiswayacrosstheroomtoher,hisfacesaggingwith the weight of his news.Joewasdead.Asthma.Allof

asudden.Doreengrippedtheflimsychairsotightlythattheedges bent. She tried not tofaint. As she sobbed in thearmsofherfiancé’sfather,hepatted her kindly butawkwardly and warned,“Don’tyouhavethisbabyonmerightnow.”

That same night, sheescaped back toNew Jersey.“Mommy and Daddy to therescue as always,” she said.

The jewelry store would notrefund the money for herring,sosheexchangeditforagoldcrossforherbaby,alastgiftfromhisfather.

Jaron was born early inthesummerof1988.Atfirst,Doreen burrowed into thecocoon of home, the chancetobea childwhile shecaredforher child.ThenonenightshedreamedthatJaroncalledhis grandparents “Mommy”

and “Daddy.” Despite herparents’ objections, sheapplied for her ownapartment.

The motel in YorktownHeights, the stopping placeon the way to her new life,was nicer than she hadexpected. It had two doublebeds, a matching desk,nightstand,anddresser,andashiny bathroom, tiledcompletely in white.

Attractiveasitwas,however,Doreen felt trapped in thequaint rural town,whichwasnearly an hour north ofYonkers.

She spent her days tryingto feed her childwith only ahot plate, and she spent hernights worrying about noisesfrom outside. Someone hadtoldher“therewasKlansmenin the woods,” and, after afewsleeplessnights,she left.

She had to say she washomeless, she reasoned, butshe didn’t have to live likeshewashomeless.She couldroomwithherparentsinNewJerseyuntilhernamereachedthe top of the emergencywaitinglist.

TheGlareofthe

Spotlight

The gaze ofthe world is a fickle,intoxicating thing. As thetelevision cameras turnedtheir attention to Yonkers,theymagnifiedandelectrifiedevents, changing the bodylanguage of the combatantsand sharpening the tone oftheirwords.

Nick first watched thattransforming power on thenight of August 1, 1988, thenightthatthecouncilvotedtodefy the judge and face thefines. There had been someattention from the pressbefore then, mostly localnewspapers and television.But the night that the cityhurled itself into contemptthere were fifty reporters inthe chamber to watch the

vote, including one from theJerusalemPost.Yonkerswasnowinternationalnews.

Thenextmorning,August2, the councilmembersweresummoned to Judge Sand’schambers to have the finesofficially imposed.The presswas there, too, and theirpresence intensified thedrama. In the middle of thehearing, Hank Spallonewalked out, lured by the call

ofthemedia.AU.S.marshalsoon found the AWOLcouncilman in a nearbytelephone booth, where hewas chatting on the air, live,toradiotalkshowhostBarryGray.

From then on, thereseemed to be reporterseverywhere. They wereclustered on the steps of thefederal building after theAugust 2 hearing, and each

councilman had to runthrough the barricade ofmicrophones and blindinglights. Spallone barreled pastwith his hands raised abovehis head like a newly titledboxer. Fagan and Longo, thetwowhochangedtheirvotes,received cheers andhandshakeswhilethecamerasrolled. Nick tried to answerquestions while a hundredpeoplechantedagainsthim.

“They’ve had theirmoment of glory, if that’swhat they’re looking for,”hesaid of the defiantcouncilmen.

A reporter asked if hethought people would stillconsidermovingtoYonkers.

“If they do, they haverocks in their head,” said avoicefrombehindthemayor.One of the protesters hadmade it through the knot of

journalists and was standinginches from Nick, toweringoverhim.

“Get out of my face,”Nicksaidsoftly,awareofthecameras.

“Fuck you,” the protestersaid, live on some cablestations. The press steppedback,anticipatingafight,andNick and the much tallerprotesterglaredateachother,until a nearby police officer

came and escorted theprotesteroutofcamerarange.

NicholasLongo talkedonhis car phone during theentire hour-long drive homefrom the courthouse, givinganinterviewtoaradiostationin Denver. His smooth,concise message: “If it canhappentous,itcanhappentoyou.”

By the time HankSpallonearrivedathisoffice,

there were thirty telephonemessageswaiting.He startedat the top of the stack, andworked toward the bottom:Channel 2, Channel 4,Channel 11, theMacNeil/Lehrer Newshour,theNewYorkTimes, theLosAngeles Times, Newsday,Time magazine, the SanFrancisco Chronicle, GoodMorningAmerica,GoodDay,NewYork.

“I have to say this aboutJudge Sands,” he said,adding, as was his habit, amocking, dismissive extralettertothejudge’sname,“hecouldn’t have given us morefreepublicitythanhedidwiththis.”

There were no meetingsscheduled that first afternoonto find a compromise thatcould stop the fines. Insteadtherewereappointmentswith

CBS, NBC, and ABC. Nickhad two meetings set up inWashington, D.C.—withNewYorksenatorsAlphonseD’Amato and PatrickMoynihan—but he canceledthem both. Nay didn’t eatlunch until three o’clock thatafternoon,andNickdidn’tgetto eat at all. Nick knew thateveryreporterwhocalledhimalsocalledHank.Hankknewthat anyone who quoted him

would also quote Nick. Bythe following morning, theirremarks would appear undera single headline, their faceswould be shown in the samevideosegment,onerightafterthe other, point-counterpoint,adebateinfrontoftheentirenationbetweentwomenwhohad more or less stoppedspeakingmonthsago.

The lawmakers were notthe only ones caught in the

seductive pull of thespotlight. Over the days andweeks that followed, theentirecitybecameabackdropfor the cameras, a massivesound-stage for the serialdrama that was playing to aworldwide audience.Wherever the defiantcouncilmen went, people diddouble takes, they wanted topat them on the back,introduce them to their

grandchildren—“Junior, thisis the man you saw ontelevision.” Nicholas Longodined out on spaghetti onenightsoonafter thecontemptvote, and a woman at anearby table came over tothankhim for his stand, thenhanded him a check for athousand dollars to help himpaythecourt-orderedfines.

For months, from theJanuary meeting at Saunders

untiltheAugust1showdownat City Hall, the protestershad been posing only for thecouncil. Now they wereposing for the cameras.During the second week ofAugust, Hank Spallonebrought his small KodakInstamatic over toSchlobohm, where he tookphotos of peeling paint,overflowing trash bins, andbroken windows, then glued

the snapshots onto a hugepiece of oaktag. MaryDorman was on the nationalnews that night, holding thecollage in front ofCityHall.Shortly after that, producersfrom the CBS program 48Hours came to town, andMary Dorman was on inprime time, talking in herkitchen. She yelled at PhilDonahue one morning andMorton Downey Jr. one

afternoon.Mary welcomed the

cameras, sought them out,courted them, but eachencounter left her a littlestunned and bruised. Herpurpose was to show theworld what she thought, butthe video lens can be a two-way mirror, and what Maryoften saw reflectedwaswhatthe world thought of her.Until the cameras came, she

had assumed that everyonebelieved as she believed. Itwas an easy assumption,because nearly 70 percent ofYonkers residents believedthe city should disobey thejudge.

But then the reportersdescended,andtheywerenotfrom Yonkers. They stoodbefore their microphonesduring these early days ofAugust and used the word

racism a lot. They comparedthis city to cities like Selmaand Montgomery, and theycomparedthisfighttotheoneto integrate Little Rock’sCentralHighSchool.

Mary did not think ofherself as racist. To her, thisfightwasnotaboutraceatall,it was about principles, andthesamenaivetéthatallowedher to believe that alsoallowed her to believe she

could make all the reportersseeitherway.

One sweltering afternoon,in the middle of the mediamadness, a writer for theBoston Globe sat with MaryandBuddyintheirkitchenforseveral hours, talking abovethe roar of an aging airconditioner. The woman (“anice black girl,” Mary said)askedalotofquestionsaboutthe east-west division

betweentheracesinYonkers.Mary,herwornhands foldedon the Formica in front ofher,triedtoexplainthattherewere black families on theeast side, and that they livedinlovelymiddle-classhomes,not projects, not tenements.Those homes were on thissideoftheSawMill,hersideof the Saw Mill, she said.Thenshe took thereporter toRunyon Heights, the black

middle-classenclave thathadbeen effectively walled offfrom its surroundingneighborsallthoseyearsago.

Mary had been therebefore, to drop off membersofherbowlingleague,andsoshethoughtsheknewherwayaround. But she quickly gotlost,unabletofindthehomesof anyone she knew.Despitethat,shethoughtthevisithadbeenasuccess.

“I think I helped herunderstand,” Mary toldBuddy,thatitisn’tonlywhitepeople who choose to livewith others like themselves.When black people moveacross town, she said, “theyalsosticktogether.”

The reporter wrote herarticle, but did not mentionRunyon Heights. “MaryDormaniswhiteandlivesonapleasant,tree-linedstreeton

this city’s east side,” thefront-page story began. “Herview on housingdesegregation, voiced oneday last week in the air-conditioned parlor of hermodestbrickhome,isthis:‘Idon’t think you should takepeoplewith one lifestyle andputthemsmackinthemiddleof a place with a differentlifestyle.You have to expectthemtoresentus.’”

Another woman, thearticle continued, “is blackand lives on a busy, treelessstreetonthiscity’swestside.Her view on housingdesegregation, voiced in asteamy hallway outside herapartment, is this:‘I thinkallpeopleshouldbetogetherandequalasone.’”

TheEmergencyFinancialControlBoardandtheSupremeCourt

NickWasicskostoodonthespectatorsideofthe waist-high partition that,onmoreusualdays,separatesthe council from the public.The room lookeddifferent to

him from back there, moresomberandimposing,despiteits peeling, tired edges. Itlookedmore like a center ofjustice and government, andless like the place where hehappenedtogotoworkeveryday.Hestoodthere,onehandplaying nervously with hismustache, one hip pressedagainst the railing, trying toseemat easewith the roleofoutsider.

ItwasTuesday,August9,Day 8 of contempt. The cityhad paid $12,700 in fines(another $12,700 would bedue by 4:30 that afternoon),and the councilmen had paid$3,500each.Laterintheday,in theopening sceneofwhatwould become a multiactlegal drama, a three-judgepanel from the Second U.S.Circuit Court of Appealswould put those fines on

hold,pendinganappeal.Thehaltwassimplyadelayoftheinevitable, however, and didnot stop the goings-on in thefrontofthecouncilchamber.

There, at the seat gracedbyasign that read“NicholasWasicsko, Mayor,” sat awoman who was clearly notNicholas Wasicsko. She wasshuffling her pens andarranging her pads with themanner of someone

comfortable being in charge.The other council seats werefilled with other peoplewhose names did not appearon thenameplates in frontofthem.Theyweretheretotakecontrolofthecity’sfinances.

Moregenerally,theywerethere because the council’sgame of chicken with JudgeSand was not the first timeYonkers had flirted withbankruptcy and dissolution.

Thecityhadcareenedwithininches of disaster more thanonce,andalwaysmanagedtofind a last-minute rescuer tosave them from their ownfoolishness. During thewinter of 1976,Yonkerswastechnically in financialdefault for one weekend,because it had spent yearssimply rolling its deficit intothe next year, until the debtreached $83 million. That

time, Governor Hugh Careysteppedinandbailedthecityout. Then, in the spring of1984, the Yonkers Board ofEducation announced itwould close the schools inAprilinsteadofJune,becausethe City Council would notprovidethefundingneededtocompletetheschoolyear.Theschools remained open whenGovernor Mario M. Cuomosignedafinancialbailoutand

the council agreed to enact alocaltaxsurcharge.

The bailouts of 1976 and1984 came with stringsattached.Attherequestofthecityitself,thestatelegislatureestablished an EmergencyFinancial Control Board forYonkers, which wasauthorized tokeepan eyeonthecity’sfinancesandtostepin, when necessary, toprevent another crisis. The

board had the authority toapprove or reject every dimeof proposed spending in thecity,andforyearsithadbeenreviewing, advising, andoverseeing all financialdecisions.Now,onDay8,itsmembers had come toYonkers to wield the fullforceoftheirauthorityforthefirsttime.

It was not the solutionNick had wanted. He and

Neil DeLuca had askedCuomo—begged Cuomo—tosave Yonkers from itself, asother governors had donebefore. Neil was particularlypersistent in his pleas. Aformer director of theYonkers Youth Bureau, Neilhadleftthatjobbecausetherewasnomoney tobemade ingovernmentservice.Nickhadtodoa lotofarm-twisting topersuade Neil to come back

and take this job as interimcitymanager,thepersonwhoruns all the day-to-dayoperationsofYonkers.

Neil was a sometimedrinkingbuddyofNick’s,andthetwolookedsomuchalikethey could pass for brothers.Butwhiletheirlookswerethesame, their temperamentswere dramatically different.Restlessandintense,Neilhadthe air of a boxer itching for

thematchtobegin.Nickwasstill more like that boxer’smanager, strategizing in thecorner, coolly sizing up theopposition.Neil accepted thejob on two conditions: first,that it would only last a fewmonths,and,moreimportant,that itwouldnot involvehimin the fightover thehousing.That was eight long monthsago, during which time Neilhad worked round the clock

onthehousing.On the first day of the

contemptcrisis,Neilpubliclyasked Mario Cuomo toremove defiant councilmenfromoffice,“tosaveYonkersfrom bankruptcy and furthernationalembarrassment.”Thesame day, Nick called thegovernor and asked him tocome down to Yonkershimself to “talk some sense”into the rebellious four. That

he was neither awed northrilled to have the governoron the phone was a measureof how jaded and exhaustedtheyoungmayorhadbecomesince he took office inJanuary. Cuomo turned bothmendown.

On Day 3, Neil warnedthat the city would have tolayoffhalfthecity’sworkersin twoweeks.Once againheasked Cuomo to intervene,

and once again the governorsaid no. It was the sameanswerCuomowouldgiveinthe coming days and weeks,although the reasons for theanswer changed often. FirstCuomosaidhewouldnotfirethe councilmen while theappeal to the Second Circuitwas stillpending. (“Let themhave their day in court.”)Thenhesaidhewouldgladlyhelp, but only if Sandwould

change theconsentdecree sothat the housing was morethinly spread throughoutYonkers. (“We’ll be glad toparticipate ifheeverchoosesto modify the order.”) Later,he suggested that itwasNeilDeLuca’s job to fire thecouncilmen. (“DeLuca coulddoitwithoutcharges,withouta hearing, instantly.”) Thelast idea made no sense toNeil, who had been hired by

the councilmen in the firstplace.“IfI triedtofire them,theywould fireme first,” hesaid. “And I’ll be damnedbeforeIletthathappen.”

Each of Cuomo’scomments made it clearer toNick that this governorwanted to stay as far awayfrom themess inYonkers aspossible. He sent thatmessage not bywhat he did,butbywhathedidnotdo.A

phone call here, a pressconference there, but not asingle visit to Yonkers inthese first weeks of thestandoff. It was all far lessthan the nation’s mostcompelling orator, known asa defender of the poor anddisenfranchised, could havedoneifhehadchosento.

Cuomo’s problem wasthat this battle had lined histwo natural constituencies up

against each other. If he hadsaid what some would haveexpected him to say—thatracism, however it might becloaked or sanitized, is stillracism and is still evil—thenhe would also have beensaying thatworkingmenandwomen, most of themimmigrants like his parents,couldsweatandsaveonly tohave their labor be fornothing. And if he had said

just the opposite, that good,honest, hardworking peoplehad a right to protect theirdreams, he would also besaying that other good,honest, hardworking people,whohappenedtobeblack,orhappenedtobelesseducated,or happened to be stuck in acycle of discrimination andpoverty, were not entitled todreamsoftheirown.

Giventhatchoice,hesaid

both. He stayed distantenoughfromYonkersthathehadthatluxury,onethatNickWasicsko and Neil DeLucadidn’t share. They didn’tunderstand why one dayCuomo warned thecouncilmen that “the rule oflaw”mustprevailinYonkers,and why the next day hecalled Judge Sand andwarned that the plan, in itscurrent form, would hurt

property values. What theydid come to understand, wasthat the governor was notgoing to bail them out. Theyhad asked to be rescued, andin answer Cuomo had sentGail S. Shaffer, New York’ssecretary of state and thechairman of the EmergencyFinancial Control Board. Atough-as-nails woman whowas used to playing hardballup in Albany, everything

aboutGailShaffer—fromherbloodred manicure to herperfectlycoiffedbrunettehair—showedshewasincontrol.Itwas shewho sat inNick’schair,lookingsternandreadyfor business, while Nickstoodoutside,lookingin.

He had expected that theboard members would takeover the city, but he had notexpected them to take overhis seat. There were, in fact,

other places they could sit.Themorningof thismeeting,a long table had been set upinthemiddleoftheroomforthese intruders, on the insideof the horseshoe formed bythe desks of the councilmen.But Gail Shaffer knewYonkers,hadcometoknowitduringtheyearsshehadspenton the control board, andknew she had to send somestrong messages from the

start.What the city saw as

quirky independence, andSand saw as discriminatoryobstinacy, Gail Shaffer sawassimpleimmaturity.Politicsin Yonkers resembled apreschool classroom, shethought, and when sheprepared for her visits thereshewould tellher staff, “I’mgoingtoteachPottyTraining101.” Like children, the

politicians in Yonkers wereincapable of takingresponsibility for their ownactions. “What they alwaysdo in Yonkers is do a greatpunt on any major policydecisionthathastheslightestpolitical impact,” she said,and the very fact that her“baby-sitting job” on thecontrol board existed was asignoftheirchildishness.Hergoal was to dissolve the

control board, to pushYonkerstothepointwhereitwasmatureenoughtoactlike“a normal locale,” one thatcould“takechargeofitsowndestiny and make thesedecisions themselves,” shesaid.

Clearly,however,thatwasnot going to happen inAugust of 1988, so Shafferset about this initial meetinglikeakindergartenteacheron

the first day of school. Shewanted tomake it very clearwho was in charge. Seatinghas symbolic importance ingovernment chambers, it setsavisualpeckingorder,whichledShafferandtherestoftheboardmembers to ignore thechairs at the temporary tableand make themselvescomfortableinthefrontoftheroom.

By the time the meeting

wasover,theboardhadtakenaway almost all financialauthority from the citymanager and the CityCouncil. The city was stillallowed to pay employeesalaries,courtjudgments,andpreviouslyapprovedbillsandbond payments, but nothingelse. All other spending,every single item over $100,would have to be personallyapproved by Gail Shaffer.

Hiring a new employee,increasing the salary of acurrentemployee,authorizingovertime, negotiatingcontracts (the firefighters atthe time were workingwithout a contract), evenbuying bulk rate postagestamps—everything wouldneed written approval.Yonkers was like anadolescent without anallowance. A teenager who

hadbeengrounded.Acitynolongertrustedtorunitself.

The vote was 5 to 1 infavor of the restrictions.Onememberwasabsent,andNeilDeLuca, whowas amemberof the board by dint of hisoffice, was the only voteagainst. Rather than snatchaway thecity’spurse strings,hesaid, theboardshouldaskMarioCuomotostepin.Theideawasnotevenbroughtup

foravote.

If the governor wouldn’tcome to the rescue, therewere always the courts.“Appeal, appeal, appeal,” theprotesters had shouted atcountless rallies, and onAugust 17, 1988, more thantwo weeks into the crisis,dozens of lawyers had theirchance to do exactly that.

Attorneys for the city andattorneys for the councilmenfilled the courtroom of theU.S.CourtofAppealsfortheSecondCircuitandexplainedwhy nothing about thissituation was their clients’fault.

Like schoolmates caughtintheactofpummelingeachother, like the children GailShaffer thought they were,they stood before the three-

judge panel and pointedindignantly at the other guy.“He” started it, the city saidof the councilmen. No “he”startedit,thecouncilmensaidof the city. So, both sidesargued, only “he” should bepunished.

Michael Sculnick, whorepresented the City ofYonkers, told the court thathis client wanted to obeyJudge Sand but was

“powerless to comply withthe order.” Compliancerequired a majority vote ofthe council, he argued, andthere was nothing the citycould do to change the fourcouncil members’ minds. Tofine the city under thosecircumstances, he continued,was like blaming a hostageforfailingtoflee.Asmuchasthe city would love to endthismess,hesaid,itcouldn’t,

and fining it into bankruptcywouldnotchangethat.

“You talk about [thecouncilmen] as if they’reemissaries from a foreigncountry,” said Judge JohnO.Newman.

Sculnick agreed thatthey were. “I have seriousquestions about theirconcern” for Yonkers, hesaid,“iftheyarewillingtoletthecitygobankrupt.”

Then Hank Spallone’slawyer, Anthony J.Mercorella, stood up andargued that the city, not thecouncilmen, should be fined.“If the city has failed to act,thenpunishthecity,”hesaid.

The judges shook theirheads. “You’re telling us thecityshoulddosomething,andthe city is telling us youshould do something,” JudgeRogerMinersaid,makingno

attempt to hide hisannoyance.

Amid the testy exchangesitwaseasytolosesightofthefactthatthehearingwasmorethanachanceforgrownmento act like adolescents.Beneath the layers of finger-pointing and name-calling,the Yonkers contempt caseraisedsignificantquestionsofphilosophyandoflaw,oftheessence of government and

thepowerofthecourts.To ruleon theappeal, for

instance, the judges wouldhavetodecideexactlywhoisthe city of Yonkers. “Thecity” was powerless tocomply, Sculnick hadargued. “The city” was atthemercyofthecouncil.Butwho is “the city”? Is it acollection of bureaucrats andelected officials, people likeNick Wasicsko and Neil

DeLuca? Sculnick’sarguments suggested that itwas.

ButJudgeSand’sorder,infact nearly all of his actions,were based on a view of thecity as something more.When Sand leveled finesagainst “the city,” he wasleveling them against itspeople, the oneswho packedthe council meetings andmarched in the streets and

made it clear how theywanted their representativesto vote. Actions haveconsequences, he was tellingthem. You protest at yourownperil.

An equally complexquestion raised by the casewas that of the right of alegislator to vote hisconscience. It was clear thatJudge Sand had the right toorder the housing into

Yonkers. This same appealscourt had upheld that rightjust before Nick took office.Alsoclearwasthathehadthepower to ignore the counciland “build” the housinghimself. But he had notchosen to use that power; hehad chosen, instead, to allowthe council to participate inthe process. The questionbefore this court was howmuchmusclehecoulduse to

ensure that participation. Itwas a straightforwardquestion, but anunprecedented one: Does ajudgehavetherighttotellanelected representative how tovote?

“Never before has afederal court commanded acity councilman, or otherstate or local legislator, howto vote on legislation,”Mercorella argued on behalf

of Hank Spallone. “Alegislator has only to answerto his own constituents andno one else. What we havehereisanattempttoerodetheintegrity of the legislativeprocess.”

Michael Sussman,speaking for the NAACP,responded that Sandwas notreally telling anyone how tovote.Hewassimplyrequiringaffirmation that the city

would implement something—namely the consent decree—that the councilmen hadalready voted for. The cityhad made an agreement andwas now trying to renege onthat agreement. Sand,Sussman argued, must nowforce the council to keep itsword.

“Does he”—meaningHankSpallone—“havearightto ignore the consent

decree?” Judge Miner askedMercorella, after both sideshad presented theirarguments.

“In his role as legislator,yes,”thelawyeranswered.

Said Miner, throwing outhis hands in frustration: “Idon’tunderstandhowanyonekeepstheirwordinthisgroupofpeople.”

In the end, the circuitcourtupheldthefinesagainst

the councilmen, anaffirmationofSand’srighttohaveimplementedthefinesinthe first place. At the sametime,thejudgestinkeredwiththe fines against the city.Saying that theformulaSandhad used could reach“unreasonable proportions,”the panel limited the fines toa maximum of $1 million aday, meaning the city wouldgobankruptonDay79rather

thanDay20.Knowing that both sides

wouldappealtheirdecisiontothe only remaining rung ontheAmerican judicial ladder,the judges extended the stayonthefinesuntiltheSupremeCourt had its chance to rule.The appeal to the SupremeCourtwasfiledwithinhours,andthedecisionwasissuedat11:55 P.M. on the night ofSeptember1.Inthatdecision,

the justices unanimouslyrejected the city’s request tocontinueadelayonthefines.Althoughtechnicallythatwasnot a rejection of the city’sbroader point—that the fineswere unconstitutional in thefirst place—the practicaleffect was the same as arejection,becausebythetimethe court would finally hearthefullargumentsagainstthefines (sometime in the fall,

when such hearings weretraditionally scheduled), thecity would already bebankrupt.

The decision surprisedNick.He never believed thatthe fines would be foundunconstitutional, but he hadhoped—he had assumed—thattheSupremeCourtwouldcontinue the stay untilOctober, givinghimamonthof maneuvering room.

Instead, tomorrow would beDay 9 of the fines, and amessenger would deliver acheck for $25,600 to JudgeSand’s courtroom, made outto the Department of theTreasury. The next day, thecheckwould be for $51,200.Theday after that, $102,400.Thedayafterthat,$204,800.

If the first part of theSupreme Court’s decisionsurprised Nick, what the

justices said next left himnearly speechless. Afterrulingthatthefinesshouldbereimposed on Yonkers, thejustices turned around andlifted them from thecouncilmen—granting themthe stay that they had deniedthe city as whole. Thecouncilmenwere freedwhilethe city kept paying. Thecalculator continued tokaching in Nick’s head. On

Day 13, the city would owethe court $409,600. Day 14,$819,200.Day15,$1million.Day 16, $1 million. Day 17,$1million.

Reporters started callingfor his reaction, and all hecould muster was “I hadhoped that it would be theotherwayaround.”

The decision alsodistressedJudgeSand.Judgescommonly say (in public, at

least) that theydonot regardit as a personal slap whenthey are reversed on appeal,and that it would not crosstheir mind to keep a mentalwin/loss ledger. Just ascommonly, no one believesthem. Before judges werejudges, they were lawyers,andthecompetitiveedgethatdrew them into theirprofessiondoesnotevaporatewith the donning of a black

robe.Addtothatthefactthatfederal judges have lifetimetenure, meaning they willreceive few promotions andno merit raises, none of thethings that tell driven peoplewhere they stand. Their rateof reversalonappeal isoftenthe only measure there is ofhow they are thought to bedoing.

Sand’s irritation at theruling of the Supreme Court

stemmed only partly fromego, however. He was farmore distressed that thejusticeshadremovedthepartofthesanctionsthatSandfeltwasmostlikelytowork.

“Had the Supreme Courtnot issued a stay, the matterwould have been resolvedwithinthenexttwodays,”hewouldsaywhentheeventsof1988 were long over. Facedwith the reality of paying

$500 a day every day, hesaid, he was certain that acouncilman would havechangedhisvote.

Nicholas Longo had adifferent reaction altogether.Awakened by a reporter attwo o’clock in the morningand asked for his opinion onthe Supreme Court’s ruling,hisanswer—somethingaboutthe rights of legislators tovoteas theysee fit—wasnot

what he was really thinking.The court, which wastheoretically above pettypolitics,hadissuedadecisionthat Longo recognized as astrokeofpoliticalbrilliance.

In lifting the finesagainstthe councilmen, but not thecity, the justicessimultaneously did twothings. They freed thecouncilmenfromthefearthatchanging their votes would

make them appear to havebuckled to save their ownwallets.Atthesametime,thedecision stripped themof themantleofmartyrdom.

The way Judge Sand hadset things up, while the citysuffered, the councilmensuffered, too, making themlooklikeselflesswarriorsfora cause. The way theSupremeCourt set thingsup,the city continued to suffer,

and the councilmenwere thereasonswhy.Now theyweremore likely to look likestubborn roadblocks,watching the city swervetoward bankruptcy, whiletheir own checking accountsweresafe.

“Well I’ll be damned,”Longothought,withamixoffearandadmiration.

In his gut he suspectedthiswas thebeginningof the

end.

NormaWaits

It was nearingnoon at Schlobohm, andalthough the September sunwas high and bright outside,Norma O’Neal’s apartment

was gray and dark. Evenbeforeshelosthereyesight,ithadalwaysfelttoNormathatthe sun’s rays stopped at theouter windowsills ofSchlobohm,asiftheydidnotdare to enter. Now thatshadows had become apermanentpartofherday,thelack of sunlight was all themorestriking.

Across the living room,against the glaring backdrop

of the window, she couldmakeoutthesilhouetteofheroldest son,Dwayne.Becausehewas so big andmuscular,and because his skin was sodark, Dwayne was the onlyoneofNorma’sthreechildrenshe could still recognize onsight. She was alwaysmistaking Bruce, the middleone,whohada smallerbuildand lighter tone, for astranger. “Bruce looks like a

littleSpanishboytome,”shewould say, andblack/Hispanictensionsbeinghigh in Schlobohm, that ledto frightening moments. OnenightshegotintotheelevatorwithBruce,butdidnotknowhim.Whenhefollowedhertoherdoor,shehithimwithherpurse. It was the same withTasha,theyoungest,whohadto identify herself to hermother every time they

passedinapublicplace.The saddest part about

losing your vision, Normawas learning, is losing thefaces of your children. Shemissed that more than shemissed her hard-wonindependence,whichshewasloath to admit was alsoslipping away. She hadworked for several monthsafter her eyes went cloudy,buteventuallystopped,inthe

middle of the summer,whenher patient’s medicationsbecame more complicated.She still did her ownshopping, but now a visit tothe supermarket took allafternoon. “Excuse me,miss,” she would say to apassing stranger. “I don’thave my glasses with me,couldyou tellme theprice?”Then she would stopsomeoneelseandask:“Could

you tellmewhich brand thisis?” Pride and practicalitykept her from asking anyonemorethanonequestion.

Once,when she needed apair of jeans, she borrowedthesix-year-oldsonofaclosefriend and took him to thestore.“Eugene,lookforasizetwo-oh. A two and then azero.Twooh,”shesaidinherpeppiest,shakiestvoice.

Eugenefoundone.

“Okay, I want you to tellmetheprice.Dotheysayonenineninenine?”

No,Eugenesaid, theysaytwoohninenine.

Norma instructed Eugeneuntil he found a pair of size20 jeans on sale for $19.99,.the most she was willing topay.Next,theysearchedforablouse,sizeFourTwo.

When she returned fromthese shopping trips, she

always told her childrenabout them, burnishing thetales from one telling to thenextuntiltheybecamecomicadventures. Her message: “Ican fend for myself.” Butback home in her apartment,the small things werebecomingbig things,andshecould not will them awaywith a rollicking good story.She burned herself whilecooking. She missed buttons

while dressing. Her morningshower made her feelawkwardandnervous.

In time, she realized sheneededsomeonetodoforherwhat she had spent yearsdoingforothers.Herchildrenwererelieved,andhelpedherfillouttherequiredMedicaidpaperwork, but Norma knewfinding an aide would bemore complicated than anyform. She understood

firsthand how hard it was tofind a home care worker inSchlobohm.

Now that Norma was onthe other side of this reality,Dwaynehadcomeduringhislunch break to wait for thehomehealthaidewhoNormaknewwould never show. Hesat in the window for nearlythree hours, hoping to proveherwrong,buthedidnotseea single woman enter

Building Two who lookedlike she might be from theagency.Unable to takemoretimefromwork,hecalledtheagencyhimself, andwas toldthat the worker scheduled toseeNormahadinfactbeenatSchlobohm that day. Whenshe got into the elevator,someone tried to rob her, soshe fled. Or so she told herboss.

Dwaynerepeatedthestory

to Norma, who shook herheadslowlyandsaid,“Liar.”She wasn’t angry. Shecertainly wasn’t surprised.She didn’t really feelanythingatall.

ShuttingDowntheCity

Every timeanyone in the Yonkersgovernment wanted to spendmore than one hundreddollars, they needed thepermissionof theEmergencyFinancialControlBoard.Asaresult, Gail Shaffer’s deskwas covered with piles ofpaper, and she spent a largepartofeverydaysayingno.

No to new trash bags for

the meals-on-wheelsprogram, to postage stampsfortheBoardofElections,tophotocopyingsuppliesforthelicense bureau. No torepairing potholes, upgradingfire hydrants, repainting thewalls of traffic court, buyingmaterialstocordonoffvacantlots.

No to the Department ofParks, Recreation andConservation, who wanted

$325 to charter a bus to takeforty senior citizens to thePlatzl Brau House restaurantfor lunch. No to the samedepartment for the $3,000 tofund the thirteenth annualAfro-American HeritageFestival in Trevor Park. No,again, to a performance inCoyne Park by the BusterLongBigBand,whichwouldhave cost the department$1,325.

Each no was met withhowlsofoutrage.

“TothepeopleofYonkerswholookforwardtoconcertsin their neighborhood, theconcert is an essentialservice,” moaned a cityspokesman.

“The festival does anawful lot for the community,it’sabeautiful thing,”wailedoneofitsorganizers.

“This isn’t saving any

money, they’re just nickel-and-dimingus,”grumbledtheparkscommissioner.

“I don’t think a $325 busride for senior citizens isgoing to run Yonkers intobankruptcy,” griped the headofoneanti-housinggroup.

Shafferwas in awe at thedepthofthedenial.“Whatthehell’s thematter?” she askedaloud, drumming herlacquerednailsimpatientlyon

the desktop. “Isn’t thereanyone in that city whounderstandsthegravityofthesituation?Isn’tanyoneinthatplacelistening?”

Thougheachindividualnowouldnotmakeadentinthecity’s looming problem, sheknew, together theywere farmore than just nickels anddimes. As Sand hadenvisionedandintended,theywere a glimpse of the city’s

possible future. Eachrejection should have giventhepeopleofYonkersa tasteof what would be if finesswallowed the entire budgetand thegovernment theyhadpilloried for years suddenlywasnotthere.

Buttheindignantwhiningmade her wonder whetherthat message was gettingthrough.Yonkers,shefeared,was like a millionaire after

the market had crashed, stillhiring limousines because“they don’t really cost thatmuchmore thancabs,”whenthe reality was that Yonkerscouldn’tevenaffordthecabs.

“It’stimetotakethebus,”Shaffer said. “When themoney runs out, the moneyrunsout.”

On September 2, whenJudge Sand received theSupreme Court’s permission

to reinstate the fines,bankruptcygrewmorelikely.Whathadseemedlikeamostfar-fetched scenario began tolookmore like destiny. Nowthatthefineswereonceagaindevouring the budget, thecontrol board’s cuts grewdeeper. The visions of whatwas yet to come grew moreominous. The concomitantshouting grew louder andlouder.

Hoping tomake thepointthat Yonkers had enteredanother realm, Gail Shaffereffectively forced some cityworkers to take the bus. Amemofromthecontrolboardordered nearly all sixty-eightcity executives andadministratorstoturnintheircity-owned Ply-mouths,Fords, Dodges, Chevrolets,and Pontiacs, the onesstamped“NYOfficial”onthe

licenseplates.NickWasicskoandNeilDeLuca, alongwiththe police and firecommissioners, were amongthefewwhowereallowed tokeep their cars. The sixmembersof thecouncilwerenot, and they did not take itwell.

“What next?” PeterChema asked. “Cut off ourlegs?”

Apoolofcarswascreated

for workers who requiredthemduring the day in orderto perform their jobs. Notsurprisingly, the workers’idea of “need” was worldsapart from the controlboard’s. Thirty requests forpool cars were received onthe first day. Only one wasapproved, allowing the cityclerktogotoameetingattheBoard of Elections office inWhitePlains.

Everyone else had to findanothermodeoftravelorstayput. Reality was becomingimpossible to ignore. ThePlumbing Bureau lost itsthree cars, and shortly after6:00P.M.thatdayawaterlineburst at the Bowling GreenStorage and Van Company,spewing one million gallonsthirtyfeetintotheair.Ittookinspectors two hours to getthere.

The Bureau of Housingand Buildings, which losteight of its twelve cars,canceled all routine buildinginspections because itsinspectors couldn’t get totheir appointments. Onlyemergency calls, like post-fire inspections or ceilingcollapses, were beinganswered.

“Taking away our carslike this is like taking the

guns away from policeofficers,”warned theheadofthe department. “If anelevator is broken down andwe can’t get there, seniorcitizens will have to use thestairs, and,believeme, that’sthenumberonecauseofheartattack.”

Thesafetyof thecitywasnottheonlyconcernraisedbythe control board’s order.Therewas also a question of

the safety of the cars. Oncesurrendered,theywereplacedincity-ownedlotssurroundedby fifteen-foot fences whichwere topped with barbedwire.No guardswere postedat the lots between midnightand dawn, however, becausetherewasnomoney for theirovertime. Vandalism andtheftseemedinevitable.

A solution soon madeitself clear when the Police

Department began runningoutofgas.Thecontrolboardhad refused to authorize ahefty fuel contract for thenext several months, sayingthat until the crisis hadpassed, gasoline should bepurchased in weeklyallotments, instead. Precinct3, which covers the city’swest side, had an empty gaspump and was borrowingfrom twootherprecincts that

were also low on gas. Thecontrol board approved theprecinct’s emergency requestfor $2,189 to buy 3,127gallons of gas, but the fuelsupplier, spooked by all thatwas happening in Yonkers,refusedtomakethedelivery.

Desperate, the precinctbartered an agreementallowing it to use the pumpsat the Department of PublicWorks (those pumps were

full,becausethedepartment’scars weren’t goinganywhere). In return,officersof the precinct agreed toguard the cars that cityworkershadsurrendered.

As the cuts mounted, so didthe fines. “What’s$200,000?” asked the localpaperonLaborDaymorning,September 5, Day 11 of the

contempt crisis. On Day 12,$192,000 would be hand-delivered to Judge Sand’soffice, Room 626 of theFederal Courthouse inManhattan’s Foley Square.Once it was delivered, thecity would have paid theaggregate sum of $204,700,which led the HeraldStatesmantodosomemath.

How much is $200,000?Slightly more than $1 a

person, enough for eachresident ofYonkers to buy a$1.35 pack of cigarettes, a$1.21gallonofgas,a73-centquart of milk, or an 89-centpound of fresh tomatoes.How much is $200,000? In1988, it took sixty-fiveaverage Yonkershomeownerstopaythatmuchin property taxes. A familywith that much saved couldpay cash for a two-family

home in the neighborhoodaroundKimballAvenue.

It would pay the salariesof ten employees at theDepartment of PublicWorksAnimal Shelter. It was thebudget for the city’sPlumbing Bureau, whichinspects plumbing jobs andgrantsplumbingpermits, andit was the annual payroll ofthe six-person Public WorksBureau, which grants

engineeringpermits.Itwouldcover the yearly operatingcosts of Nick Wasicsko’soffice, including his salary,Nay’s salary, and thepaychecks of his four otheremployees.

Two hundred thousanddollars was the clothingallowance for the city’s 401uniformed firefighters. Thefuel bill for diesel-poweredvehiclesintheDepartmentof

Public Works. The 1988capital construction programfor the city’s sewer system.The yearly budget for theDivisionofYouthServices.

Howmuchis$200,000?Alot of money. But within aday, when the daily finereached $409,600 it wouldseemlikenothing.Then, twodays after that, when theyreached$1millionaday, theold level of $200,000 would

be looked on with nostalgia.Onemilliondollarsadaywasroughly$30 to$40 foreverycitizen ofYonkers. Itwas asif every one in the cityreceived a parking ticketeveryday.

In two months, when thetotal fines reached $66million, thecity’sentirecashsupplywouldbegone.

All that money, whichcould buy so many other

things, being sent off in anunmarked envelopetransportedbyananonymouscourier.

And not one cent wasrefundable.

When the Supreme Courtupheld the fines, when thetotals reached $200,000 andmore, the councilmen beganto talk. Not to the cameras,

not to the shouting crowds,buttoeachother,forthefirsttimeinaverylongtime.

Itwasnotjustthepressureof the escalating fines thatbrought all these usuallyvoluble men awkwardly,tentatively into conversation.ItwasalsothefactthatJudgeSand had given themsomething to talkabout. Thedayafterthehighcourtruled,Sand held a short, public

session in his courtroomwhere he officially restartedthe clock that was tickingawaythetreasury.Hequicklyadjourned that meeting andgathered themajorplayers inhis back office for a second,privateone.

The councilmen “stillhave a responsibility to thecitizens they represent,” hesaid, looking even smallerthan usual now that he was

not behind his raisedcourtroom bench. “It shouldbeclearthatthefirststepthatmust be taken is compliancewiththelaw.”

If it would makecomplianceeasier,hesaid,hewould allow what he hadconsidered and rejected somany times before—thecourt-appointed commissionthat would take mosthousing-relatedmattersoutof

the council’s hands. He didnot go so far as to order theoverseer into existence,however. The councilmenwould still have to exercisesome of the responsibility hewas trying to teach them, byvoting to approve thecommission and to submit toitsauthority.

So they would have totalk. But they were out ofpractice. Never a fraternal

group, the men responsibleforYonkers’futuremovedinseparate social orbits. OnlyNeil DeLuca and NicholasLongoweretruefriends(theyplayed racquetball once aweek). Nick Wasicsko andNeil were friendly (they hadmet because, long beforeNay, they had both beendating the same woman).What tied everyone elsetogether were the posturings

and protocols of politics. InYonkers, those rules ofcivility had been a littlefrayed to begin with; by thetime theyweremost needed,they had all but unraveled.“Traitor.” “Liar.”“Demagogue.”“Embarrassment.” Thosewere just a fewof the thingsthat the defiant councilmenhad called each other inrecent weeks. Even those on

the same side were barelyspeaking.

Most of the animositydated back nine months, tothe January vote on theconsent decree. HankSpallonewas still angrywithLongo and Fagan foracceding to the plan in thefirstplace.LongoandFagan,in turn, had not forgivenChema for bolting at the lastwrenchingminute.

“His word meansnothing,” Fagan said ofChema.

More recently, Fagan hadbegun accusing Longo of“conspiring” to force Faganto change his vote, throughmethods that Fagan neverexactly made clear. “HeknowsthethingsImean”wasallhewouldsay.

Longo was far morespecific about his view of

Fagan.“He’s in outer space,” he

said. “He’s not the tower ofmaturity.”

When asked if he wastalking to his fellowcouncilman nonetheless,Longo said, “If Iwasgettingtwo hundred dollars an hour,Imightbe.”

There was a similar chillontheothersideoftheissue.Nick’s relationship with

Harry Oxman and CharlesColahadbeenfrostysincethestart of his administration,when he spurned them infavor of his short-livedcoalition. By far the mostcomplex feud, however, wasbetween Nick Wasicsko andNeil DeLuca. In theory, thetwomenwholookedsomuchalike also wanted the samething—a vote of affirmationthatwouldend the fines.But

Nick could not see past thefact that Neil remainedcordial to Nicholas Longo,whichNicksawasbetrayalintheinterestofpolitics.

“Hewantsmy job,”NicktoldNay,certainthatthecitymanagerwasplanning to runformayor.

Neil, in turn, was furiousthat Nick could notunderstand that politics wasabout maintaining

relationships, not severingthem. The young,overwhelmedmayorhadbeenstanding alone so long, Neilbelieved, that he refused torecognize when someone,namely Neil, was standingwithhim.

It was hard to talk, yetSand left themnochoicebutto talk, somost of them did.NeilandNickmanagedtobecivil long enough to agree

upon a strategy—they wouldignoreHankSpalloneandEdFagan and concentrate onswaying Peter Chema andNicholas Longo. Theytargeted Chema because herepresented southwestYonkers, where none of theproposed housing would bebuilt.Hewas thecouncilmanwho could change his mindwiththeleastpoliticalfallout.And they targeted Longo

because they expected thatChema would not have thestomach to switch his votealone.

OntheafternoonofLaborDay, the councilmen all butlocked themselves in CityHall. They started theirconversations in NeilDeLuca’s second-floorconferenceroomataboutoneo’clock, them broke intosmall groups. For the next

few hours, these clusters oftwos and threes met, brokeapart, cameback together—akindofcocktailpartyinhell.

At one point, Longo andChemaretreatedtothemen’sroom with Wasicsko andCola for some particularlyintense conversation. EdFaganlopedin.Hewasaskedtoleave.

“It felt like a bunch ofhigh-school kids,” he said,

pouting, as he retreated backout to the hallway.“Everybody was standingaround, smoking and talking,and the only thing missingwas the graffiti and the guyssinging a capella doo-wop inthestallstogettheecho.”

As the councilmen wentfromroomtoroomandgroupto group, they talked aboutmore than just the judge’sproposed commission. The

four who had voted no werefocusedonwhatamendmentsmightbemade to theplan toinduce them to change theirminds. They talked ofreducingthenumberofunits,scattering them across alarger geographical area, notbuilding any housing at all,but using money to upgradehousing that already exists,instead.

The three who had voted

yes focused on returning thetalk to reality. The judgeseemed in no mood toentertain any amendments tothe plan, they warned, untilafter the council voted toreaffirm the consent decree.There was no possibility ofnegotiation until someonechanged his vote. In themidafternoon, Spallone andFaganwalkedout,sayingthatunlessSandchangedtheplan

they would not change theirminds.

Those who remainedtalkedforseveralhoursmore,then sent out for pizza andgathered to watch SpalloneandFaganon the sixo’clocknews.

“I’m staying with myposition,”theysawFagansayas he marched out of thebuilding.

“The only thing Judge

Sand gave away was ice inthe winter-time,” they sawSpallonesay, followingclosebehind.“Nodeal.”

At 8:30, the meetingsfinally ended, and theexhausted councilmen hadtheirturntofacethemedia.

“There’s no resolution totheproblem,”saidLongo.

“It’s impossible topredictwhat the outcome will be,”saidChema.

The sticking point, saidWasicsko, glancing over athis worn-out adversaries, “isthat they want to show theirconstituents that theyaccomplishedsomethingwiththeir defiance. I think thecourtisreluctanttogivethemthatappearanceofvictory.”

Sensingsomemomentum,theEmergencyFinancialControl

Board added its own extrapush. On Wednesday,September 7, when the finesreached $409,600, GailShaffer announced sweepinglayoffs for Saturday, whenthefineswouldbe$1million.It was no less than the firststep in the slowdeconstruction of thegovernment of Yonkers. OnSaturday, 447 people wouldlose their jobs—almost a

quarter of the municipalworkforce.

Shaffer made thisannouncement despite hersuspicion that she might notreallyhavetherighttodoso.Theboardwasestablished tooversee the city’s affairs, notto arrange them, but Shafferhad run out of patience withthose who would split suchsemantic hairs. Thelegislation establishing the

boardcouldnotpossiblyhaveenvisioned a situation whereYonkers was poised tocommit municipal hara-kiri,she reasoned, so the rulescould be bent. “We’re inuncharted terrain here,” shetoldher staff, explaining thatthey should “legally, butcreatively, push theenvelope.”

Whenthefinesagainstthecity had resumed a few days

earlier, Shaffer had askedNeil DeLuca for a“DoomsdayPlan”—aday-by-daylistofexactlywhowouldbe laidoff andwhat serviceswould be cut as the debtmounted. A few days afterthat, on Tuesday September6, he had given her one, andwhenshereaditsheresolvedthat the board must do whatthecitywouldnot.

DeLuca’sgoalwastosave

as many jobs for as long aspossible.Hewouldhave laidoff 40 people the first week,and 200 people the nextweek, a savings of $8.6million. Under his scenario,the city’s money would runout, and all services wouldcease,intwomonths.

Shaffer’sgoalwastokeepthe city functioning, albeit ata bareminimum, for as longas possible. Her plan meant

laying off 600 people in thesame twoweeks, and cuttingbetween 109 and 439 moreper week until November 5.By then the only remainingcity employees would be thepolice officers and firemennecessary for bare-bonesprotection.Themoneytopaythem would last a monthlongerthanunderNeil’splan—untiltheendoftheyear.

But there was more to

Shaffer’s strategy than justsaving money. Dramatic,immediatelayoffs,shehoped,would change the politicalequation for the “spineless”council and force them tochange their vote faster thanwould gradual, threatenedlayoffs.

The two plans werebrought to the control boardfor a vote, but DeLuca’snever really had a chance,

and he was the only boardmember who voted againstShaffer’s more dramatictimetable.Watching thevote,Nick was stunned at theschedule of cuts, whichwould systematically erodeevery corner of life inYonkers. If the council didnot comply by the controlboard’s deadline—Saturday,September 10—all thelibraries would close

immediately, saving the city$3.6 million. The ParksDepartment would close thatday, too ($4.15 million),along with the Real EstateDepartment ($50,000).Everyone at the PlanningDepartmentwouldbelaidoff,except for the director andone clerk ($200,000 saved).The Personnel Departmentwould be all but eliminated($500,000)aswouldtheCivil

Service Department($150,000). The offices ofFiscalServices,Management,andInformationSystems,citymanager, corporationcounsel, and financecommissioner would be cutby one-third ($2.2 million).That would leave Neil withjust himself and onesecretary. The CommunityServices Bureau would besharply reduced ($350,000)

andtheDepartmentofPublicWorkswouldhavea fractionof its usual staff to handlesuch tasks as street cleaning,garbage pickup, and staffingthe animal shelter ($5.4million). Some streetlightswould go out as that budgetwas trimmed by one-third($470,000). City Councilclerical employees would beallowed to keep their jobs,buttheirsalarieswouldbecut

by one-quarter. Everyemployee laid off from hisjob would also lose hisbenefits, an additionalsavingsof$3.7million.

It would only get worsefrom there. During WeekTwo of the Doomsday Planmore streetlights would goout, as would many of theemployees in Nick’s ownoffice. During Week Three,cutswouldbegininthepolice

andfiredepartments.There was only one way

to prevent all this, Shafferreminded the city. Thecouncilmen knew what theyhadtodo.

“ThecityofYonkersmustconfront reality in a verydecisiveway,”shesaid.“Thetime for finger-pointing isover.The time forpunting isover.Wemust saveYonkersfromitself.”

Theresultsof thatextrapushcould be seen twenty-fourhours later, on Thursdayevening, September 8, at thenext meeting of the CityCouncil.Nicksatinhischair—theonehehadtemporarilyclaimed back from GailShaffer—and watched themayhem.

At first, it seemed likebusinessasitpassedforusualin Yonkers: the room was

packed to overflowing, thepolice strained tokeeporder,the heat was oppressive, andtemperswereshort.Butashecalled the meeting to order,and the members of thepublic approached themicrophone to speak, Nickheard that something wasdifferent.

Instead of yelling at thecouncil, the people wereyellingateachother.

“I’m tired of these idiotssupposedly representing myinterests,” shouted MarthaDarcy, a librarian whose jobwas scheduled to be cut bytheweekend.Shepointednottowardthefrontof theroom,buttowardthespectatorseatsintheback.Nottowardthosewho favored compliance, buttoward those who had beenprotestingagainstit.

One by one, frightened

cityemployeestookthefloor.“I have a wife and two

kids.HowamIgoingtofeedthem if I’m laid off?” askedRussell Deutchen, a motorequipment operator in thelibrary.

“Sixteen years with thecityisgoingdownthetubes,”said Mary Rudasill, a singleparent who worked in thecity’s Office of HumanRights.

“I’mataxpayer,too,”saidGloria Graham, her boss.“Settlethemess.”

There were a largenumber of people speakingagainst the housing, too,trying to rally the crowd totheir view that the layoffswere a noble sacrifice thatsomewouldhave tomake inthe name of a greater cause.Unemployment checks andfood stamps would help pay

thebills, theysaid,andwhenthejudgegivesinandliftsthefines,theworkerscouldallberehired.

Nick let them shout for awhile, then acted to end themeeting. He was gettingsmarter. The judge hadordered the council to meetonce a week until someonechanged his vote, and for awhile Nick had polled themembers anew each time

until he realized that he wasproviding them a forum fortroublemaking speeches.Morerecentlyhehadlearnedtosay,“Doesanycouncilmandesire to change his votetoday?”With no vote on theagenda, no councilman hadthe parliamentary right totalk,sincetherewasofficiallynothingonthetablefor themtotalkabout.

He asked his question,

received no answer, thenorderedthemeeting“recessedindefinitely.” He did notadjourn it, since the rulesrequired twelve hoursadvance public notice beforea new councilmeeting couldbe scheduled, and Yonkersdidnothavethatmuchtime.

Despite everythinghanging over his city—despite his exhaustion,despite the fact that no

solution was in sight—Nickleft the room feelingsomething close to hopeful.He had always known theywereoutthere,theDeutchensand the Rudasills and theGrahams.Hehadoftensatinthesemeetingsandwonderedwheretheywere.

By the time he got homehe was bordering onoptimistic.This hadbeen thebest meeting he’d had in

months.

On Friday, September 9,1988, Day 15, the finesreached $1 million and thelayoffs began.Black flags ofmourning were hoisted at allthreelibrarybuildings,whichwereorderedtocloseatnoon.Announcingtheclosures,onememberofthelibrary’sboardof trustees warned, “The

bleeding of city services hasbegun.”

At the Grinton I. WillLibrary, on the east side, agroup of senior citizensrefused to leave. They hadbeen playing bingo in theground-floor senior centrethere when the buildingofficially closed, and theyspontaneously decided that iftheir councilmen could bedefiant, they could show

support for those councilmenandbedefiant,too.

“If they want me out ofhere,they’regoingtohavetocarry me out like they didthosekidsinthe‘sixties,”oneseptuagenariansaid.

The bingo gamecontinued, and the winnersjokedthattheywouldchipinand buy a cemetery plot forJudge Sand. As they played,laid-off workers interrupted

to say good-bye and offerencouragement. Oneemployee, who had workedfor the library system forseven years, sent insandwiches.

“If the cops are going totakeyouaway,Iwantyoutohavefullbellies,”hesaid.

The police did come, at5:30 in the evening, and theresidents started chanting“Hellno,wewon’tgo.”

The leader of the group,sixty-six-year-old HarryPreis,shuffleduptothethreeofficers,wavinghiscane.

“What if we said ‘we’renotgoing’?”heasked.

“Oh,wehave teargaswecanbringin,”saidLieutenantGeorge Kovalik, tonguefirmly in cheek. “Everybodywho goes to jail today isgetting cornflakes. Withoutmilk.”

“Willyoupleaseescortusoutofhere?”Preisasked.

Kovaliktookhisarm.“Attaboy,Harry,”people

yelled.The library was dark and

emptybysixo’clock.

Whilethebingoplayerswerechanting, the councilmenwere talking. The million-dollar-a-day mark had

broughtonwhatPeterChemacalledthe“chillofreality.”Itwas finally time forYonkerstochooseitsfate:desegregateits housing or dissolve itsgovernment.

Theyknewtheycouldnottalk atCityHall.Thereweretoomanyeyes there, and toomany cameras. It was liketalkingnakedinaglassroom.Paul Pickelle, one of thecity’s many lawyers, offered

his Tudor-style home innearby Scarsdale, where thepress and the protesterswouldnotthinktogo.

Michael Sussman, thelawyer for the NAACP, wasthefirsttoarrive,at8:00A.M.

on Friday. He and Pickelle,adversariesforyears,tookofftheir jackets and shot somehoopsinPickelle’sbackyard.

“I was going to offer toplay you for the housing

plan,” Pickelle joked. “Butthen I saw how well youplay.”

Neil DeLuca arrived at9:00 A.M., as did MichaelSculnick, the city’s lawyeron the housing case, andlawyers for Nicholas Longoand Peter Chema. All thesemenhadbeentalkingsecretlyduringtheweek,athush-hushdinners arranged by DeLucaat restaurants in neighboring

towns.Now, over coffee anddonuts in the Pickelles’kitchen, they refined thecompromises that had beensketched out during thosedinners. They agreed tosuggest the following toJudge Sand: that the 200townhouses be reconfiguredas 100 townhouses plus 100units scattered throughoutmixed-income developments;that the controversial

seminary site be droppedfrom the plan; and that anonprofit corporation becreatedtooverseeitall.

Aftertwohoursoftalking,the lawyers phoned Longoand Chema, who had spentthemorningathome,waitingfor word. That done, theybroke for sandwiches andcoffee in the Pickelles’backyard. One thing theyforgot todowasupdateNick

Wasicsko, who was holdingthe fort back at City Hall.Whenhefoundoutabout theoff-site meeting, he wasfurious. He had called acouncil meeting for noonbecause the council had tovote to release the $819,200needed to pay the contemptfines for that day. ButDeLuca, Pickelle, Chema,and Longo were nowhere tobefound.

Nick had been sufferingfromstomachpainsallweek,burning jolts so severe theyleft him momentarily unableto speak.With no time for acheckup, he had called hisdoctor, who prescribed ulcermedication over the phone,but that made a smalldifference at best. He’d hadto keep excusing himselffromthemeetingsohecouldrun to his office and double

overinprivateagony.“Four of the key players

aren’there,andIdon’tknowwhy,andthenationalpressistwenty-five feet from the tipof my nose,” he fumed atNay. Noon came and went.Nick swallowed more painpills. Then hewent back outand recessed the meeting“untilfurthernotice.”

At2:30,MichealSussmanarrived to fill him in.Chema

and Longo came soon after.Thepaymentwasauthorized,andacheckwassenttoFoleySquare. Nick again recessedthe meeting, reserving theright to resume it again on a“two-hourcall.”

At 3:30, the lawyersgathered once again at thePickellehouse,bringingPeterChema and Nicholas Longowiththem.Theyallsatintheliving room,which had been

immaculate that morning butwhich by the afternoon wasstrewn with soda cans, beerbottles, and snacks. By 4:20,the deal was done. The twocouncilmenhadagreedtothereduction to 100 townhousesthat had beenworked out bylawyersforallsidesearlierinthe day. After months ofstalemate, it almost seemedeasy.

They should have known

that nothing in Yonkers isthat simple. At 4:30 thelawyers held a telephoneconference call with JudgeSand, who was inPennsylvania at a judicialconference. Oscar Newmanjoined in from his office onLong Island, and BrianHeffernan, who representedthe Department of Justice,was on the line fromWashington,D.C.

Michael Sussman beganthe call by telling the judgethat thecityand theNAACPhadbeennegotiating ingoodfaith. The proposed changesthat came out of thosediscussions, he said, “mightmake it a better plan, moreacceptable to thecommunity.”

Michael Sculnick spokenext, and began to tell thejudge the specifics of the

compromise. Sand cut himoff. He was angry. He hadexpected a phone callpledging complaince, andinstead all he was hearingwas a proposed list ofchanges. Just because theNAACP agreed, and theJustice Department agreed,did notmean that he agreed.Itwastoolateforthat.

“The court will notentertain” any mention of

changes, he said, “until thecouncilvotestocomply.”

Sculnickknewenoughtochange the subject. In lightof the recent progress, heasked, might the judgeconsidersuspendingthefines.

Sand said no, he wouldnotconsiderthat.

Would the judge considernot sending the checks on totheU.S.Treasury?Wouldheconsider putting them in

escrow—where they mighteventually be refunded—instead?

No,hewouldnotconsiderthat,either.

Might the council beallowed toadopta resolutionof intent, promising to adoptthe plan if the amendmentswereworkedout?

No,Sandsaid.The conference call was

over seven minutes after it

had begun. The judge’smessage was clear. Complyfirst.Negotiatelater.

“The judge was in nomood to hear new plans,”Pickelle told Longo andChema, who had beenrequired to leave the room,and who were pacing in anearby hallway while thelawyersmade the conferencecall. “He has said from thebeginning that before there

couldbeanyconsiderationofadifferentplanthelawhadtobe obeyed. This is his toughmedicine.”

About twenty minuteslater,Sand’s lawclerk calledback, saying the judge waswilling to compromise asmidge. The court wouldforgive Thursday’s $819,000fine, as well as Friday’s $1million fine, if the councilvotedtocomplyatameeting

that began before mid-nightonFridaynight.

Sand had finally figuredout how to play politicalhardball in Yonkers. Whatseemedlikeaconcessionwasreally the most intense formofpressure.Thecouncilhada$1.8 million vote on itshands.

Withsevenhoursleftuntilmidnight, all remainingenergy in the Pickelle house

was spent pressuring Chemaand Longo to change theirvoteswithoutanypromiseofafuturecompromise.Yes,theweary councilmen agreed,theywanted to end this, theywanted to stop the financialhemorrhage, but they didn’twant to break their word.NickWasicsko arrived at sixo’clock,withnewsthatuppedthe stakes even further. GailShaffer, he said, had

promised she would suspendthe layoffs if the citycomplied that night. A votewithin six hours could nowsave $1.8 million, and 630jobs.

Paul Pickelle’s wife,Karen, made beef stew fordinner. At 7:30, fifteen-year-old Matthew Pickelle turnedon the Mets game, andLongo, a rabid fan, keptwandering off to watch the

TV. At 9:55, Nick realizedthat he had five remaningminutes inwhich to give therequired two-hour warningthat therewouldbeacouncilmeeting,orhewouldmissthemidnight deadline.At eleveno’clockeveryoneleftforCityHall, with no commitmentfrom either Peter Chema orNicholasLongo.

Nick went home for aquick shower and another

dose of medication. Then hedrovetoCityHall.Hearrivedat the same time as NeilDeLuca and Paul Pickelle.The three men raced up thesteps of City Hall together,past a sea of workers whowereabouttolosetheirjobs.

Nickcalledthemeetingtoorder at 11:57 P.M., threeminutes shy of Sand’sdeadline. At 11:58 P.M. hecalledforarecess,sothatthe

clerical staff could type upthe resolution on which thecouncilmenwouldvote.

It was an arcaneresolution, listing specificbuilding incentives thatwould promote theconstruction of the 800 unitsof low-to moderate-incomehousing, but it’s overarchingmeaning was clear—byvoting these incentives intoeffect, the council agreed to

comply with the judge andmove forward with thehousing plan. It took morethan an hour to type, copy,and circulate the resolution,and Nick spent most of thattime in his office, urging thepolice chief to keep theprotestersquiet“sotheydon’tspookNickyLongo.”

Longo and Chema spentmost of that same hour inNeil DeLuca’s office, being

spooked. “Do I have anyother choice?” Longo askedDeLuca more than once. “IsthereanythingelseIcando?”

Chema called his wifetwicewhilehewaited.Duringthefirstcallhesaidhewouldchange his vote. During thesecond call he said he“couldn’tdoit.”

Just before the councilwas to reconvene, one ofDeLuca’s assistants came in

and handed everyone in theroomalistofthe630workerswho had received pink slipsearlier in the day. BothChema and Longo turnedpaleandshooktheirheadsasthey scanned the pages ofnames.

“We’re about to go frommartyrstomurderers,”Longosaid. “We’re about toeconomically murder sixhundredfamilies.”

At 12:45 A.M., thecouncilmen returned to thechamber. Police lined thewalls. Nick’s gavel couldbarely be heard against hisdesk when he reopened themeeting.

As the council memberstook their seats, MaryDormanfoundherselfputtingher hands over her eyes andstaring out through herfingers. She couldn’t bear to

watch, but she couldn’t bearnotto.

“Does any councilmember wish to change hisvote?”Nickasked.

Longo gave a shortspeech.Untiltonight,hesaid,the fines, the threats ofbankruptcy, the layoffs, thecutbacks, all of those hadbeen distant and abstract.Now they were terrifyinglyreal.

“These are people I’veshared backyard barbecueswith,”hesaid,andNickknewthefightwasfinallyover.

“I have attended theirweddings, thechristeningsoftheir children, not ascouncilman but as theirfriend,” he continued. Mary,defeated, let her hand slip,motionless,intoherlap.

The historic vote came at1:15 A.M. on Saturday,

September10,1988.NicholasLongovotedyes.

Moments later, Peter Chemadid so, too. They wouldcomply with the judge’sorder. The housingwould bebuilt.

Mary left the building, and,out of habit, stood with thecrowd on the street for awhile, but her heart was not

in it. She had been troubledall night by something morethan just the outcome of thevote. All around her in thechamber people she thoughtof as her friends wereexpecting—demanding—thatother people sacrifice theirjobs.“Weturnedintoanimalsinthere,”shethought.

Shewasstillanoviceasaprotester, and sheunderstoodthat in any cause there must

be sacrifices, but thisdidnotfeel right. The deeper doubtswould come later. For now,all she knew was that thechanting in the street seemedharsher to her tonight than ithadthenightbefore.

Nickstayedinhisofficeuntil4:00 A.M., trying to wait outthe crowd. He had expectedto feel exhilaration when the

end finally came, but all hefeltwasexhaustion.Whentheprotestersshowednosignsofleaving, he accepted a policeescortforhisshortridehome.Theofficer took the leadandNick drove right behind,inching out of the City Hallparking lot. Angry fistsbanged on the hood, thedoors, the trunk, andthreatening faces werepressed against thewindows.

The car shook from side toside, nearly flipping over.Nay was sitting in thepassenger seat next to Nick,and he reached over andgripped her cold, shakinghand. He, too, was terrified.Theyhadbeentryingtokeeptheirprivate life a secret, buthedidn’tcarewhomightsee.

After several minutes,Nick’s car was clear of theinsanity, and the dark streets

of Yonkers seemed eerilyquiet. Nick had wonsomething tonight. But hewas beginning to understandthat he had also irretrievablylostsomething.Hewouldnotunderstand exactly what hehad lost, how completely hehad lost, until later. All heknewnowwasthathewouldnever see his hometown thesamewayagain.

1989

AHouseonaHill

The house at175 Yonkers Avenue ishidden in plain sight. It sits

on one of the west side’sbusiest streets, at the top ofhill, making it visible formiles. But the only way toreach that hill is via a steep,private road, which isunmarked and easily missed.Nearly everyone can see thehouse.Practicallynoonecanfindit.

Only because of aRealtor’sarrowdidNickandNay make their way up that

pitted yet imposing drivewayinthefirstplace.Atthetime,they were not in the marketforahouse.Theywereinthemiddle of Nick’s reelectioncampaign, and were headedtotheCrossCountyShoppingCenter, on the east side, toshake some hands. Nick hadcome tohate thosecampaignstops across theSawMill.Afewweeksearlier,apasserbyhadactuallyspatathiminan

east side neighborhood, andhewouldbeveryhappyneverto have to cross the highwayagain. What he was lookingfor was not a house, but adetour, an excuse. When hesaw the “Open House” signhemadeaU-turnacrossfourlanes of traffic and drove upthehill.

Once there, itwas loveatfirstsight.NickandNaywereboth instantly smitten by the

huge,unkemptbuilding,withits withered green shinglesandpeelinggreenbrick.Theyknew they couldn’t afford it,and they had no idea how tobegin repairing it. They alsoknewtheyhadtobuyit.

Nick,whohadneverlivedin a house before, loved thespaceasmuchashelovedtheideaofhomeownership.Mostof all, they both loved theprivacy. At the time, they

were tenants in the upstairsapartment of a two-familysplit. Coming home eachnight,theywoulduseonekeyto open the main front door,then climb a flight of stairsand use another key in theirown lock. It felt like a safearrangement until the daythey found a “Spallone forMayor” sticker on thatsecond, upstairs door. Sleepwas a rare luxury for them

after that. Nick would lieawake worrying about thecampaign. Nay would tossand turn, then get out of bedyetagaintocheckthelocks.

Therewasonethingmorethatdrew them to thishouse,something beyond privacy,security, or space, somethingtheyboththoughtbutdidnotsay out loud. One seventy-five Yonkers Avenue couldbeagrandhouse.Beneaththe

hideous linoleum on thefloors and beyond thecracking acoustic tiles, theysensed there was a mayor’shouse.Maybeahomeworthyofasenator,oragovernor,ora federal judge. Buying thehilltop estate would be morethan the usual investment inthe future. It would be astatement of faith that therewas a future. If the weary,wind-worn home could be

returned to its days of glory,thenitwouldfollowthatNickWasicsko could be returnedtothoseheadydaysjustafterhis first mayoral election,when there was nothing butpossibility.

The day Nick and Nay firstsaw the house on the hill,nearlyayearhadpassedsincethe night that Longo and

Chema changed their minds.Nick had assumed—naively,henowrealized—thatonceitwas over, it would be over.Instead, the skirmishing andposturingcontinued.Propertyowners near the sites filedsuit to block the plan. Agroup of pro-compliancetaxpayers sued therecalcitrant councilmen for$166 million, chargingderelictionofduty.TheSave

Yonkers coalition launched apetition drive to recall NickWasicsko,even thoughrecallelectionsarenotlegalinNewYork State. A localcongressmanintroducedabillto refund the fines that Sandhad declared nonrefundable.Only one of the many suitsand petitions met with anyreal results. The SupremeCourt agreed to hear theappeal by the four

councilmenwhohadincurredpersonal fines and whowantedtheir$3,500back

In themiddle of all of it,just in case Nick hadsomehow missed theabsurdity of his city, cameword of Laurie Recht. Aftershe made her lone plea infavor of the housing, Rechthadbecomea localcelebrity.Shewas called a hero in theNewYorkTimesandshewas

honored as thecommencement speaker at alocal college. But thespotlightbroughtheataswellas light, and Recht filedtwenty-four police reports inthe nine months after shestood up to the crowd.Mostwere for threatening phonecalls, but one described abomb threat, anotherdescribed a swastika paintedoutside her fourteenth-floor

apartment, and a thirddetailedanattempttorunhercarofftheroad.

Secretly, police put a taponhertelephoneandinstalleda video camera outside herapartment door. Soon afterthat,Rechtreportedreceivingthree threatening calls in oneday, but no such calls wererecorded on thewiretap. Thevideo camera did catch aguilty party, however.

Reviewing the tape, thepolice clearly saw a personlooking around, thenscrawling a threateningmessage and a swastika onthe wall. That person wasLaurieRecht.

Howfitting,Nickthought,that the only other personwho stuck out her neck forthiscausewasnowbeingledawayinhandcuffs.

Heneverreallydecidedto

run for reelection. That wasnot how he phrased themental question: “To run ornot to run.” Instead he sawthe decision as one of“hanging in or quitting.” Afirst-term in-cumbent wassupposed to run again,expected to run again.To dootherwise would be anembarrassment, a declarationoffailure.ItwouldgiveHankSpallone, who was

threatening a primarychallenge, too muchsatisfaction. Nick was tootiredforafight,buthewouldalso be damned if anyonewouldthinkhewasgivingupwithoutone.

Once it became clear thatNickwasgoing to run, someof the old adrenaline cameback. It was a different kindofenergythanthatwhichhadpropelled him through his

first mayoral campaign,because he was a differentkind ofman, reforged by thefiresofthepasttwoyears.Hestill looked like a teenager,buttherewasabattle-scarredmaninside.Hisfirstracehadbeenabouthim—couldhedothis,washesmartenoughandcrafty enough, could he saywhat people wanted to hear?It was a campaign by a boyontheplaygroundwhomight

be too short for basketball,but who had the undefinablesomething that made theother kids nickname him“TheMayor.”

What the housing fighthad shown him, however,was that the rush of victoryonly lasts through electionnight.After that you have tostandforsomething.Nickhadcome into office withambitions. While he was

there,hedevelopedbeliefs.Itwas a journey that hadsobered him, but it had notbleachedhimintoasaint.Hestill wanted to win. He stillwanted to be the mayor,entranced by everything theoffice meant and all that itmight lead to. And he wasstill determined to provesomething, but this time itwasadifferentsomething.Heneeded to prove he had been

right. Elected the first timebecause of who he was not,Nickwanted towin this timebecauseofwhohewas.

The first thing he did wasspend$15,000onapollwiththe hope that it would provethere really was a silentmajority who supported hisstand on the housing. Whathe learned was not as

straightforward as that. BackinAugustof1988,hisresultsshowed, 42 percent of votershad backed the defiantcouncilmen and 37 percenthad agreed with Nick.Slightly more encouragingwasthefactthatbythespringof 1989, when Nick’spollsters called, 48 percentsaiditwastimetoaccept thecourt’sorderwhile39percentwanted to continue to fight.

Themostuseful result of thepollwasthefactthatalthoughthe general electorate wassplit between Nick (29percent) and Hank (33percent), among theDemocratswhowoulddecidethe primary—the voters thatcounted—40 percentsupported Nick and only 28percentsupportedHank.

The Wasicsko campaigndeliberatelyleakedtheresults

of their poll and waited forthe fallout. Hank Spallone,rather than simply droppingout, as Nick expected hewould, switched parties andbecameaRepublicaninstead.

Nick officially launchedhiscampaign in frontofCityHall.Acrowdofonehundredfifty stood on the stepsaround him, holding broomsandchanting“CleanSweep.”Hewasproudofhisspeech,a

portrait of a city at acrossroads.“OurroadleadstoYonkers once again being afine city,” he said. “Theirroad leads to Yonkers onceagain being a city fined.Ourroad leads to electing a CityCouncil of lawmakers. Theirroadleadstoreelectingacitycounciloflawbreakers.”

Hetriedtoignorethefactthat seven hundred peoplewereinthecrowdwhenHank

Spallone launched hiscampaign.

Nick was challenged forthe Democratic nominationby Dominick Iannacone, aformercouncilmanwhoselastrun for mayor was a loss toAngelo Martinelli in 1977.Typically, primaries are, atbest, a necessary evil,draining money andmomentumfromtheeventualcandidate. This particular

primary, however, had aninvigorating effect on itswinner. Wasicsko defeatedIannaconewith70percentofthevote,andthevictorygavehim confidence, energy,hope. He was on a roll. Hecoulddothis.

Slowly, the endorsementscame. His own party leaderswerenoticeablysilent,buthereceived high-profile unionsupport—from District

Council 37 of AFSCME,Local 1199 of Hospital andHealth Care Employees, andthe Yonkers Federation ofTeachers—as well as praisefrom big-name Democratsoutside Yonkers. SenatorDaniel Patrick Moynihancalled the race one of“national importance.”Governor Mario Cuomocalled Nick “clearly thesuperior candidate.”

Moynihan’s words thrilledhim, and Cuomo’s supportamused him, given howdistantthegovernorhadbeena year earlier. He foundfitting irony in the fact that,for a variety of logisticalreasons, the Wasicsko fund-raiseratwhichCuomospokewas held in Tarrytown, tenmilestothenorth.Nothing,itseemed, could bring MarioCuomotoYonkers.

As the campaignunfolded, Nick tried toconcentrate on thesesatisfying parts. Keeping hisgazeonthehighpointsmeanthewouldnotbedistractedbythe creeping ugliness. Hetriednottoreact,forinstance,when his posters were torndown overnight in one eastside neighborhood andreplaced with stickers thatsaid “Vote Henry Spallone.”

He tried to shrug withnonchalance when his namewas mistakenly left off theabsentee ballot. Whatrequired the mostconcentrationwas pretendingnot to see the group ofprotestersfromSaveYonkerswho appeared at all his eastside campaign events, tocatcallandjeer.Itwasoneofthat group that spat at him.He found that more

unsettling, not to mentiondownright disgusting, thanthePampershadeverbeen.

Inshort,hiscampaignwasgoingwellandhewasfeelingconfident—as long as hestayed away from the eastside. Nay would find himlyingon thecouch,unshavenand ill-tempered, when hewas scheduled to appearacrosstown.“Idon’twant togo,” he would say. “What’s

thepoint?”Ifhedidagree togo, he would make sure tostrap his .38 to his ankle,dazed by the irony that theweapon he had previouslyused to protect him in theprojectshenowneededinthesafestpartsofhiscity.

Moreoften,hewouldskipthe east side events entirely.Jim Surdoval, who hadsteeredNick throughhis firsttwo campaigns, was

managing this race, too.EveryFriday,JimwouldgiveNickastackofproclamationsforhimtopresentatthestopson his weekend campaignschedule. On Mondaymorning,thepaperswerestilllying on the seat of Nick’scar.

That avoidance instinctwaswhatledhimtohisfixer-upper house on the hill,where he placed a $210,000

bet, in the form of a bid-to-purchase, that everythingwouldwork out okay. Itwasmoney he and Nay certainlydid not have, so theyborrowed the down paymentfrom Nay’s parents—more agiftthanaloan.

The house provided thema distraction through the restof the summer—passing theinspection, filling outmortgage forms, planing

renovations. On good daystheyimaginedtheirhomeasapolitical salon, a center ofpower. On bad days theythought of it as an escape, aretreat.

Increasingly, the dayswere bad.A poll after LaborDay showed Nick losing toHankbynearlytenpoints,41percent to 32 percent.Eighteen percent of voterswere undecided, 3 percent

favored the Right to Lifecandidate, and 7 percentrefused to answer thepollsters’questions.Hislevelof campaign contributions,which had beendisappointing, became evenmore so. Hank had alreadyspent$90,000whileNickhadspent $60,000, and $40,000of that had been during hisDemocraticprimary.

Sincehehadlittlehopeof

reaching that undecided 18percent on his own dime,Nickputhishopesintheonetelevised debate he wouldhave with Hank, aCablevision News event thatwould reach 35,000subscribers. He dressedcarefully that night, trying tolookyoungandenergetic.Heinsisted on pancake makeupand powder, concerned thathewouldsweat.HeandHank

were in different rooms forthe debate—the Cablevisionproducer thought the clashwould bemore dramatic thatway—and when Hank’sflorid face come up on themonitor,Nickwaspleased tosee that it looked slightlyshiny.Televisionimagemadeall thedifference in the1960Kennedy–Nixon debates, heremembered.

The tone turned nasty,

early, when Spallone notedthat the Supreme Court hadagreed to hear his appeal ofthepersonalfines,andhintedthat this might help the citystop the housing. Wasicskoblasted his opponent forgivingthevotersfalsehope.

“The Supreme Court hasruledonall issuesof liabilityand remedy,” he said. “Thatis forever closed. Mr.Spallone’s case involves

$3,500 of his money but thehousing situation in Yonkerswillnotchange.”

Talkthenturnedtoschooldesegregation.

“The system is notfunctioning,” Spallone said.“It’s not helping anyone andthe mayor is saying it’s awonderful system and therecord shows it doesn’twork.”

“I’m not saying—” Nick

began“Itdoesn’twork,Mayor,”

Spalloneshouted.“I’m sayingwe canmake

itbetter,”Nicksaid.Later, the two candidates

were asked why they soughtthejob.Nicksaiditwas“themost important election inYonkershistory”andsaidhisreelection would “send asignal to theworld thatwhathappenedinthelasttwoyears

is not the norm here inYonkers.”

Spallone responded to thesame question by againraising his Supreme Courtcase. Nick accused him ofusing the housing issue to“advance your own personalpolitical career. You’rewillingtobankruptthecityintheprocess.”

As the mayor spoke,Spallone shouted, “The

mayorhaslosthismind.”In his closing remarks,

Nick talked about puttinghistory, and the housing,“where it belongs, behindus.”

Spalloneclosedwiththesewords: “It’s time yourecognized that you failed asa leader, and I think if theyvoteforyouagainyou’llbeadisasteruponthiscity.”

The debate seemed to

haveaneffect,andanewpollfound therace tobeavirtualdead heat. Spallone was stillahead, but by only twopercentagepoints,whichwasstatistically insignificant in apoll with an error margin of4.1 percent.Eighteen percentwerestillundecided.

Nickwenttobedthenightbefore election day thinkinghemight be able to defy theoddsonemoretime.

Hewaswrong.

Nearly70percentofYonkersvoted in themayoralelectionof 1989, twelve thousandmore people than two yearsearlier. Fifty-three percent ofthem voted for HankSpallone, and 45 percentvotedforNickWasicsko.

A ward-by-ward map ofthe mayoral vote showed a

city divided in half by theSaw Mill River Parkway.Nick beat Hank on the westside of the city, winning ineach of the six west sidewards. Hank made an equalsweep of the east side,winning there by the sameratio. There are more voterson the east side of Yonkers,and a higher percentage ofthemcameout to thepolls,afactthatdecidedtheelection.

Nick made the firstconcession speech of hispolitical career shortly after11:00 P.M. “Do not despair,”he told the crowd of 250. “Ibelieve Iwas therewhen thecity needed me. I have noregrets. I endured deaththreatsandallsortsofabuse.Ithinkinthelongrunhistorywillprovemeright.”

He didn’t really blamepeople for not hearing his

message. “Obey the law anddo what has to be done, it’snotthekindofissuethatgetsto people,” he said, after heleftthemicrophone.“It’slike‘Eatyourvegetables.’Youdoit because you have to, buthey,itsureain’tpleasant,andpeople are not going to gethighly motivated and that’sreally what worked againstme.”

Whatever the reason, the

loss hurt. That is the risk ofrunningonanidea,notjustastrategy.Whenyou lose,youlosealotmore.

On the morning afterelection day, Nick and Naymoved into the house on thehill. For her sake, he tried tobe cheerful, aman starting anew chapterwith thewomanheloved.Butdespitehisbestefforts, even his jokes weretinged with his pain. At

lunchtime the couple took abreakonthesunporch,wherethewindowsweremilky andcracked with age. “It’s a lotlike the city ofYonkers,” hesaid, his mouth smiling buthis eyes dark and sad. “Withalittlebitofwork,itcouldbegorgeous.”

Then he stood up andwalked to one of thewindows, squinting throughtheyearsofgrimetowardthe

busystreetbelow.“People driving to and

fromCityHall everydayaregoing to see my house,” hesaid. “People are going toknow right where to findme.”

BillieRowanMeetsJohnSantos

Throughoutthe eight buildings ofSchlobohm, throughout allthe public housing inYonkers, people are livingwhere they are not supposedto be. The official rules areclearonthesubject:allowingsomeonewho is not on yourlease to live in yourapartment is grounds foreviction.Butitisarulethatis

difficult to enforce and,therefore,onethatisregularlyignored.Home is a fluid andrelative concept inSchlobohm. And that is howBillie Rowan first came tomeet John Mateo Santos Jr.duringthesummerof1989—becausesomanypeoplewerewhere they were notsupposedtobe.

Billie was technicallyliving with the rest of her

family, over in Building Six,but she spent as much timeawayfromthereasshecould.Nineteen-year-old Billie wasa teenage whirlwind, partialto cornrows, colorfulAfricanprint scarves, and glitterycostume jewelry. She washappiest when she jangledand sparkled, and it was hergoalinlifetofindawaytobeforeverhappy.Fornineyears,since she first moved to

Schlobohm with her parents,brother,and twosisters, theirthree-bedroom apartment feltcramped and claustrophobicto Billie. Now that she wasfighting with her mother, itfelt even more so. JanetRowan had not approved ofBillie’s decision to drop outofschoolfourmonthsearlier,seekingadventureandtimetoshop. She insisted that herdaughtergeta job,andBillie

spent each weekday as anurse’s aide at a home formentally retarded children,the same work that hermother had been doing foryears.

Billiehated it.Oneofherdreaded responsibilities wasto bathe a ten-year-old boywho banged his head againstthe wall and wailed whilebeing washed. It was all shecould do not to let him slip

under the water, and by theend of each bathtime Billiewasusuallycrying,too.

“Idon’thave thepatiencefor this,” she would yell ather mother, begging to beallowed toquitand justhangoutwithherfriends.

“This is the real world,”hermotheryelledback.“Livewithit.”

The tension at home waswhyBillie spentmost of her

time in Building Four, withher best friend,Meeka. JohnSantos spent a lot of timethere, too. Meeka’sboyfriend,knownasMambo,was among John’s bestfriends, and although Johnwasofficiallyon the lease inhis mother’s apartment overin Building One, he spentalmost every night inMeeka’ssparebedroom.

It was there one hot

Saturday night in July thatJohn heardBillie andMeekatalkinginthelivingroom.Hehad been drinking andworsesinceearlyevening,andnow,at three o’clock in themorning, he could not sleep.So he pulled on a pair ofshorts and foundMeeka andBillie simultaneouslywatching Star Trek andpassingajointbetweenthem.John turned off the volume,

butnotthepower,sothatthepicture from the TV and thered-hot shimmer of paperturning to ash all glowedsilently in the otherwisedarkenedroom.

“Anyoneforabeer?”Johnasked, as he turned to helphimself to the contents ofMeeka’s fridge. Billie saidshewouldlikehersinaglass,andhedecidedrightthenthatshe was “quality.” Soon

Meeka hurried to herbedroom.Mambowasoneofthosemenwhodidn’tlikehiswomanbeing socialwhenhewasn’t around. Billie andJohnsatalone.

Hisbabyfacewassmooth,hisbigbrowneyesweresexy,but what attracted her first,andwhatwould hold her foryearstocome,washisvoice.It was a voice that was bothinnocent and dangerous, that

blendedYonkerswithPuertoRico, that was filled with ananger that Billie confusedwithstrength.

John could convince herof anything with that voice,and,thatfirstnight,heuseditto tell her that he wasnineteen, when, in fact, hewas only seventeen. He alsotold her that no one calledhim John, nearly everyonecalled him Hot. The

nickname, his street name,was given to him by all thegirls who could not stayaway. It was short for “HotStuff.”

Hewentontoexplainthathis constant fights at school,onesthatledtohisexpulsion,were not really his fault,because the “white guysalways provoked me.” Andhe also explained how therobberies he and his friends

“sometimes did” weren’treally robberies, because“we’reagroup,andifthere’sanother group, and we fight,then theones thatweendupbeating, we take what theyhave.” Not like “armedrobbery or nothing,” he said.Morelikethespoilsofwar.

He was the smallest, butthe toughest, he said,describing the day that hefoughtoffagangofseventy-

five wildmen in theschoolyard,allofwhom“hadbats,pitchforks,younameit.”He became tough, he said,because his father “used tobeat on me,” when he wasyoung.Notuntilhewasinhisteens,he said,didhe learn itwas because he was not hisfather’sson.

His mother was onlyfifteenwhenhewasborn,hesaid. Abandoned by theman

who’d gotten her pregnant,she was already five monthsalong when she met JohnMateo Santos Sr.—the manJohn long thought was hisfather. That man, in turn,walked out on the familywhen Johnwas twelve. “Buthe gave me his name,” heboasted to Billie. “JohnMateo Santos. First name,middle name, and last. Iwasnamedrightafterhim.”

John junior’s own son,Noel,wasbornonChristmasDayof theyearJohnhimselfturned fifteen. The baby’smotherwantedtogetmarried,John explained. He had liedto her about his age, too.“ShethoughtIwasolder,”hesaid, “but then I told her thetruth. I said, ‘Now that youknow how old I am, don’tyou think I’m too young forallthisstuff?’”

Even then, entranced andstoned, Billie realized that alot of what John was sayingdidn’tquite ring true.Amobarmed with pitchforks? Whohas a pitchfork in Yonkers?And she also sensed that allhis stories had the samecentral theme—nothing thathappened to John, not thefights,notthebaby,waseverhis fault. But that didn’tmatter toBillie.Notyet.She

was mesmerized by hisstories, spellbound by hiswords. Everything about hislife was so muchmore thanhers—more tortured, moreintense, more exciting. Hetalkedasifheknewabouttheworld.

Asthehourspassed,Johngradually moved from thesofa, to the love seat, andfinally to a spot on the floorat the base of Billie’s chair.

He looked up at her andasked,“MayIkissyou?”

Billie was impressedbecausemost guys she knewwerenevergentlemanenoughtoask.

He tapped her lips withhis.Adeeptap.

Thenhediditagain.Billie decided she would

bewithhimforever.

ANightwithoutDreams

Doreen Jameswas also having a sleeplessnight at Schlobohm. It hadbeen months since she hadslept thewaysheknewotherpeople did—from bedtimeuntilmorning,awakingrestedandalert.Mostnightsshedid

not even bother to get intobed at all. She sat in theliving room of her hard-wonapartment in Schlobohm andstared sadly at the fewfurnishings—a table andchairs,acouch,somecurtains—that she had bought atgaragesalesnearherparents’home.

Allthroughthesummerof1988—duringthemonthsthatbegan with Joe’s death and

stretched out after Jaron’sbirth—Doreen had beenwrapped in a blue, weepymood. She had no appetite,yet she seemed only to gainweight, as if her body wereswelling to match her heavyspirits. Leaden withdepression, she had grabbedtightly to the idea that anewapartment, her ownapartment, could magicallylift the sadness. When she

finallymoved to Schlobohm,in November of 1988, shespent weeks sitting listlesslyin her living room, as ifwaiting for the very walls tomake her happy. Had shebeenabletoseemoreclearly,she might have understoodthat she had never mournedthelossofJoeandthelossofherdream.“Thiswasnot thewaymylifewassupposed tobe,” she thought, but would

not say aloud. “I wassupposed to havemy collegedegree. His father wassupposedtobehere.”

Now, during the summerof1989,thesadnesslingered,and Doreen had abandonedthe illusion thatanapartmentwouldmake it go away. Therush of feeling came mostoften at night. Nights likethese. As was her ritual, shecried for a while, then

fumbledinthedrawerbyherbed, where she kept thingsawayfromherone-year-old’scuriousfingers.

ShewasproudthatshehidherstashfromJaron.Itmeantshe was not so utterly lostthat she couldn’t protect herson.Forthesamereason,sheheld fast to her other rules,too. She would not make abuy unless there werePampersandbabyfoodinthe

house. Only an addict, shetoldherself,spendsthediapermoney on drugs. And shewould not start to smokeunless she was certain thatJaron was deeply asleep.Only a hopeless soul doescrackinfrontofherchildren.

Slowly, almost drowsily,Doreen took the single crackvialfromherdrawer.Tonightthere would be just one,because five dollars was all

she could scrounge. Therewasn’tmuchmoneyleftafterthe baby food and Pampers,and she had been borrowingfrom her sisters toofrequently lately. She woulddie of shame if they did themath and told her parents.Despite Doreen’s currentaddress, Pearl and WalterJames still thought of theirdaughter as a child of thesuburbs, not the projects.

Theywouldneverunderstandhow she had got so lost andhad wandered so far fromwhereshebelonged.

Lumbering over to thewindow, Doreen pulled thegarage sale curtains shut, sothat her parents, miles awayinNewJersey,couldnotsee.Then she dropped the smallcrumble of rocks into thebowlofhersmokeshopcrackpipe, and lit a match. Her

heavy hands shook, as theyalwaysdidwhensheheldtheflame to the powder andinhaled. She coughed, theninhaledagain.

When the familiar soundof bells filled her head, sheleaned back on hersecondhand couch andsighed. Soon everythingwouldlookcrystalclear,asifsomeone had washed thewindows of her soul, turned

up the volume on herworld.She would be lifted out ofherself, out of her life, to aplace that was shiny andbrightly lit. Five dollarsbought only a few minutesthere, and when they wereover she would be moredepressedthanbefore.Butforthose fewminutes, she couldescape, leaving Schlobohm,with all its disappointmentandconfusion,behind.

DefensibleSpace

Nick thoughtlittle had been accomplishedduringhislastyearasmayor.In fact, a lot had beenaccomplished, although verylittle of it happened at CityHall. Across town, in thesquat mustard brick buildingthat housed the MunicipalHousing Authority, steady,

quiet progress was beingmade towardcomplyingwiththecourtorder.Now that thelist of sites was complete(Judge Sand had unilaterallyreplaced the seminary sitewithout asking the council),the bureaucrats, not thepoliticians, were in charge.Thedetailwork—drawingupblueprints, solicitingdevelopers, awarding thecontract—would all be done

not by City Hall but byMunicipal Housing. Andbehind every detail of thatwork,withhisfingerineverypot and his ego on the line,was Oscar Newman, thetowering architect with theAmish-style beard who hadinfuriated the city with hishelicopter search for housingsites.

ToNewman, theYonkersdesegregationfighthadnever

been about desegregation atall. It had been about hischance to testhisworldview.Thirty years earlier, anothersetoftownhouseshadcaughthiseye, thoseofCarrSquareVillage in St. Louis. Hisobservations about thosetownhouses would becomehis life’s work. Newman, anassistant professor ofarchitecture at WashingtonUniversity at the time, was

struck by the fact that thoseolder, smaller buildingsremained safe and livablewhileduringthesamedecadethe brand-new, toweringPruitt-Igoe project across thestreet was ruined byvandalismandcrime,andwassoontorndown.

Thedemographicsofbothprojectswerethesame—poorfamilies in need of public-housingassistance.Therewas

no difference in theirsurrounding neighborhoods,either, because they weredirectlyacrossthestreetfromone another. The only realdifference was the type ofstructure that comprised thehousing project—two-storyrow houses on one side,eleven-story apartmentbuildings on the other.Whatwas the dynamic of thosedesigns, Newman wondered,

that meant the differencebetweensuccessandfailure?

After years spentwalkingthroughPruitt-Igoe, andCarrSquareVillage,andcountlessother housing complexes,Newman thought he’d foundthe answer. Crime, mischief,menacing behavior—they allrequire anonymity, thefeeling that no one iswatching and no one willinterfere. In public-housing

high-rises, he concluded,there is too much space thatbelongs to everyone, and,therefore, to no one.Hallways, elevator lobbies,stairwells. Large, unassignedpublic areas without suchluxuriesasdoormen,elevatoroperators, or superintendents,henceallvisualcluessaythatnooneisincharge.

He’d had his first chanceto test his theory of

“Defensible Space” at theClason Point public housingproject intheSouthBronxin1969. The project consistedof forty-sixbuildings,mostlyrow houses, with a total of400 apartments. All thebuildingswereconstructedofexposed cement, reminiscentof army barracks. In fact,Clason Point was built tohouse munitions workersduringWorldWarII,andwas

never torn down. Becausefew of those workers hadcars, few of the apartmentsfaced the street, but lookedout on a grid of internalwalkways,instead.

Oscar did not demolish asingle building at ClasonPoint,butbythetimehewasfinished everything lookednew.First,heresurfacedeachbuilding with a stucco-likesubstancethatcouldbemade

to look like stonework orbrick.Thematerialcameinavariety of styles and colors,and Newman let the tenantsof each row house select thecoloroftheirhome.

Out front, he used ankle-height slabs of stone curbingto turn the neglectedcommunal lawn intosemiprivate front yards. Inback, he did much the samething, using inexpensive

hollow tubular steel, whichlooked like stylish iron, tocreate a series of smallerbackyards. The desolate gridofwalkwayswastransformedinto a kind of promenade.Down the center he placedbenches and decorativestreetlamps, each only eightfeet high and made of real,breakableglass.

The New York CityHousingAuthority had never

installed such an accessible,vulnerable lighting fixturebefore, and officials theretried to talk Newman out ofit. Lights in housing projectsare placed high enough thatthey are not easily reachedand are fitted with plasticcovers that can withstandpotshots. Fragile, decorativeglass fixtures were unheardof.

But Newman argued that

the reliance on theshatterproof deviceswas partof the reason that vandalismoccurred in the first place.“The materials are vandalresistant—andugly,”hesaid,“and people go out of theirway to test the resistancecapacities.”

TheHousingAuthority atClason Point had similarobjections to nearly all theother changes that Newman

proposed. The stated reasonwas that his plans were tooexpensive, but Newmanbelieved the real reason wasfar more complicated, andreflected a way of thinkingthatwasmuchmore difficulttoconfront.

It has always beenunderstood that publichousingmustnotbetoonice,thatitmustnothavefrillslikebalconies or bay windows,

thekindofthingsthatinspireenvy or hostility in thetaxpayers who paid for it.Although those in charge ofthe country’s public housingwould never phrase it thisway, the unspokenphilosophy is that we as asociety look down on peoplewho need help paying theirrent, and we want theirhousingtobedifferent.

It is this “stigma of

ugliness,” Newman argued,that was largely responsiblefor the crime rate in manyhousing projects. Making aproject look as different aspossible from itssurroundings,hesaid,“marksit off as clearly as if byquarantine.” Unfortunately,he explained, “this practicenot only ‘puts the poor intheir place’ but brings theirvulnerability to the attention

ofothers.”Oscar Newman is a

forcefulpersonality,andovertime her persuaded theHousing Authority to try ithisway.InthefirstyearafterNewman made his changes,crime in Clason Pointdropped 54 percent. Polls ofthe residents, before andafter, found that thepercentageofpeoplewhofelttheyhadtherighttoquestion

strangers increased from 27percent to 50 percent. Thetenants planted grass on thelawns that they now thoughtof as their own. When thatgrew, they went on to plantflowers and bushes, and toaddsmallwhitepicketfences.There had been a 30 percentvacancy rate in the projectbefore the redesign. Soonthere was a waiting list ofseveralhundredfamilies.The

streetlamps were notvandalized.

Over the years since herevitalized Clason Point,Newman had redesignedcountlessneighborhoods.ButYonkerswasdifferent.Itwasthe first time he would havethe luxury of starting fromscratch. Instead of doing thebest he could to correctexisting mistakes, he wasbeing handed the chance to

create something entirelynew.

When others of hisredesignedprojects failed,hecould hand off some of theblame, pointing out that theoriginalprojecthadflawsthateven he could not fix. IfYonkers failed, he wouldhave no such excuse, and hewould face the failure of alifetime of theory. But if itworked, if the townhouses

were all he expected theycould be, then the creditwouldbehisalone.

While others in Yonkersfought for their homes ortheir political philosophies,Newman fought for histheories.Hewasnot fightingto desegregate Yonkers. Hewas not even a champion ofpublic housing. He neverdwelled long on the questionof whether there should be

public housing. Instead hestarted from the reality thattherewouldbepublichousingand worked from there,battling ferociously for hisideas.

In Yonkers, Newman’s mostpublic fights were with thecouncil,buthespentfarmoretime arguing with HUD, theJustice Department, and the

NAACP. The first thing hedid, of course, was topersuadeJudgeSandtomakethe buildings townhouses inthe first place. When heentered the case in 1987, theplanonthetablewasfortwohigh-rise apartment buildingstobebuiltonone site, andathree-story walk-up to bebuilt on another. ThosedesignshadthesupportoftheNAACP, the Justice

Department, and HUD.Newman explained to all ofthem, as he had explained tothe housing officials incharge of Clason Point, thatsuch large, anonymousstructureswouldserveonlytodestabilize the surroundingneighborhood. But the morehe explained, the moreofficials he managed toalienate.

HUD was wary because

whathewasproposingwouldset a bad—read“expensive”—precedent.Although the housing itselfwould cost less, the landwouldcostmore,becausethetownhouse design would usemoreland.

TheNAACP,inturn,washostile, saying Newmanhimself was racist in hissuggestionthatalargepocketof poor people in a middle-

class area would create a defacto subculture tolerant ofcrimeanddrugs.

“He is putting arespectable gloss to basicallyracist sentiments,” blastedMichaelSussman, the lawyerfor the NAACP. “It’s thatkind of fearmongeringgarbage that reflects OscarNewman’s ideologicalbaggage.”

In the end, it was the

judgewhomade thedecisiontoadoptNewman’sscattered-site approach, a decision thatled to the endless search forbuildable sites and thateventually led to thecontempt crisis. Over thoseyears,MichaelSussmancamearoundtoNewman’spointofview,sayingthattheNAACPhad always supportedscattered sites, but worriedthat the approach would

result in too many delays.The rapprochement washelped along by the fact thatNewman stopped talking ofthe evils of high-rises, andemphasized the benefits oflow-rises,instead.

Although resigned to ascattered-site strategy, HUDcontinued to lobby for two-story walk-ups rather thantownhouses. The expensewould be less, they said,

because more walk-up unitscould be built on the sameamountofland.

Newman responded withlong memos to Judge Sand.Hecautionedagainandagainabout toomany poor, single-parent families in largeanonymousspaces.Walk-upshave communal entries,stairwells,andyards,hesaid.The townhouses, as heenvisioned them,would each

have its own front and rearyard. Each front door wouldbe close to and visible fromthe street. Each backyardwould be defined by a smallfence, and small groups ofyards would collectively befenced off from thesurrounding streets by ataller, six-foot fence. Therewould be no commonsidewalks in the clusters ofyards.

That last part, about theshared sidewalks, was alessonlearnedthehardwayatClasonPoint.Hehadmadeamistake, Newman decidedwith hindsight, when hecreated communal gatheringplaces behind some of thebuildings.Many of the areasfell into disrepair because nofamily saw the space astheirs.

“I had forgotten my own

basic rule,” he said. “Thesmaller the number offamilies that share an area,the greater is each family’sidentitywithitandthegreaterits feeling of responsibilityfor maintaining and securingit.”

Hewouldnotsidestephisown rules again. InYonkers,he insisted, there would beonly individual front andbackyards.Hefinallywonhis

point when he learned toargue not in terms ofphilosophy, but economics,the language HUD spokemost fluently. In a fifteen-page memo to one of themany deputy assistantsecretaries who revolvedthrough the case over theyears,heexplainedthatinthelong run, walk-ups were inmany ways more expensivetobuild than townhouses.He

pointed out that “whencalculating the cost of walk-upsvs.rowhouses,HUDwasusing only the initialconstruction costs, whereasthe big savings in the use ofrow housing was in theconsequent reduction inmaintenance, vandalism andsecurity costs. HUD spendsmillionsofdollarsperprojecteveryfewyears repairing thedestruction wrought by the

residents in public areas ofhigh-rise and walk upbuildings.Ourhousingwouldhavenosuchpublicareas.”

Eventually, HUD agreed.Newman’s next challengewas tocommunicate theplanto prospective builders, andbureaucracy got in the way,here, too. The MunicipalHousing Authority typicallybidsoutsuchworkbyissuinga “Request for Proposals,”

with only the most basicguidelines given for the job.All the detailed decisionswouldbelefttothedeveloperpreparing the proposal. Thepurpose of this method is toallow the developer to buildwhat he knows best, at alower cost than if he weretold to follow the authority’smore specific, predeterminedplans.

This approach worried

Newman. The usual sketchydetails given to prospectivebidderswouldnever result inthe “Defensible Space”experiment that heenvisioned. Looking for away around the process, heturned to Peter Smith, theexecutive director of theYonkers Municipal HousingAuthority.Smith,too,hadhisown mixed agenda when itcame to the housing. A

formerpriest,whoseministryhadincludedthewestsideofthecity,Smithknewtheneedfor decent housing andwanted this experiment towork for the simplest ofreasons—it would meanbetter lives for those whomoved.ButSmithwasalsoanative of Yonkers. He stilllivedontheeastside.Hesenthis children to school there,and he confessed to some

nostalgia for the old dayswhen a person’s ethnichistory could be read in hisstreetaddress.Hehadanothermotive for wanting thehousing to work. It wouldspare him further lecturesfromhiseast-sideneighboursevery Sunday when he wenttochurch.

No one knew the biddingsystembetterthanSmith,andhe and Newman tried to

persuadeHUDtoallowthemto include a schematicdrawing in the bid packages,to give builders a better ideaof the eventual goal. To anarchitect, they argued, apicture is unquestionablyworth a thousand words.HUDrejectedtheidea,sayingthat the entire point of thisprocess was to let eachdeveloperdo ithisownway.A compromise was reached,

inwhichHUDallowedmoredetailed language than wascommon in the Request forProposals, giving Newman achancetoincorporatesomeofhismostcentralideas.

Hetriedhisbest.Hefilleddozens of pages withdescriptionsofthe“two-storytownhouse units,” each its“own entity” and each with“itsownfrontandbackyard.”Thereweretobeno“lobbies,

stairways or corridors.” Andthey were to be attractive(“brick veneer at the firststory”)anddifferentfromoneanother(“variationinwindowsizes, color, texture, etc.”).The front yards should facethe street “so as to facilitatenormal patrolling by policecars.” Rear yards should beindividual but groupedtogether “to create acollectiveprivatezone.”

The developers’ responsetothiswords-onlydescriptionwaswhatSmithandNewmanhad predicted. The designssubmitted were nothing likewhat was wanted, and nocompany was awarded thecontract. Starting the processfromthebeginning,Newmanmade another plea to HUD,asking for the inclusion of aschematic drawing. AgainHUD said no. But everyone

eventually learns to play thegame around the edges inYonkers, and for the secondround of bids, Newmanflirted with the rules. Whenthe developers came to pickuptheirpackages,theyfoundapileof schematic siteplansnext to the pile of packages.They were told they couldeither pick up the site planswith their bid packages, ornot. Most of them did. This

time,Newmanreceived threeproposals that were closematchestohisvision.

In May of 1989, whileNickwasdecidingwhethertorun for re-election, adeveloper was hired. DeluxeHomes, Inc. was in far-offBerwick, Pennsylvania,where the prefabricated unitscould be put together withminimal interference fromYonkers protesters. HUD

would pay $16.1 million tobuild the first 142 of therequired 200 units of publichousing. InOctober of 1989,whileNickwascampaigning,Deluxe was completingthirty-five pages of neatwhite-on-blue constructionplans, showing details ofeverythingdowntothetowelrings. In December of 1989,days before Nick left office,thedesignsweresubmittedto

HUDtomakesuretheywerein compliance with federalrequirements and statebuildingcodes.Nickwassentacopyofthoseplans,butthefine points of architecturalblueprints were lost on him,so he never understood allthat had been accomplishedonhiswatch.

Oscar Newman, on theother hand, spent daysscrutinizing every detail of

the water-colored blueprints,sharply aware that he washoldingthefuture—thecity’sfuture, his own professionalfuture—inhishands.Yearsofreadingthesedrawingsmeantthat he could see a three-dimensionalneighborhoodonthe flat, tinted pages. Eachhome in that neighborhoodwas slightly different fromtheonenext to it, somewithpeaked roofs, somewith bay

windows. Each had anindividual yard in back andspace for a flower bed infront, allowing tenants toliterally tend to what wastheirs.

“Beautiful,” Newmanthought.“Ithadbetterwork.”

Billie’sNews(I)

Billie Rowanand John Santos were in themiddle of breaking up whenshe told him she waspregnant.

They had been togetherforthreemonthsbythen,andBilliehadstoppedworkingsoshe could be availablewhenever John wanted her.Theroutineoftheirliveswasthat it had no routine. They

wouldn’t make plans, forinstance, andwhen Johnwasready to see her, he wouldstand outside her mother’sbuilding and summon herwith awhistle, his trademarkwhistle, like a loudwarblingbird. This man, thisgentleman who had askedpermissiontokissher,wouldnevercometoherdoortogether.Shewouldhave togo tohim. Then they would hang

out—at Meeka’s, on thesidewalks of Schlobohm, atthecornerstore.

More often, though, hewould hang out with hisfriends, instead.Hewouldbegonewell pastmidnight, andBillie would wait for him,either at Meeka’s or at hismother’s, fixing hermakeup,making herself her mostattractive, knowing hewouldcomehomeforthesex.

She believed thateventually she could wearhim down,make him realizethat she really cared abouthim. She did everything shecouldthinkof tokeephimathome. When friends called,she wouldn’t deliver themessage,andwhentheycameto the door she would tellthem that he wasn’t there.She turned up the music onthe stereo to drown out their

whistles from the street, buthelefteverynight,anyway.

Before long, John felttrapped and confined by herefforts. She was nice. Heliked her, maybe even lovedher,buthedidn’tlikethewayitfelt,thiswantingtobewithonly one person. In earlyautumnhedecidedtoendtherelationship, and, as was hisway, he tried to make herleavehimfirstso itwouldn’t

behisfault.“I’m nothing but a bum,”

he said, his voice as smoothandsoftashisskin,hopingtosweet-talk his way tofreedom. “I’m not goodenough for you. Why don’tyoujustforgetaboutme?”

In answer, Billie spat hernews at him. It was herwayofshuttinghimup,ofhurtinghim back. It was also hergamble that she could keep

him.“I’m pregnant,” she said,

her huge gold hoops shakingfuriously in her ears as shespoke.“AndI’mgoingtogetridofit.”

Billie waited for John tosay what she wanted him tosay. When he didn’t, sheturnedandstompedoff.

John was not used towomen walking out on him,andhedid somethinghehad

never done before. He wentafter her. He followed Billieacross Schlobohm and intohermother’sbuilding.Forthefirst time in threemonths,heclimbed the stairs andknocked.

“It’sforyoutodecide,”hetoldher,but ifshewanted tohavethebabyhepromisedto“stickbyit.”

He also warned her thatshe shouldn’t expect him to

change.“If this is your kind of

test,toseewherewestandorsomething, don’t mess withme,”he said. “If this iswhatyou’redoing togetmeawayfrom the streets, don’t youunderstand, that’s the onlyfamilyIhave.”

Billie heard him, or saidshe did. But there wasanother message in his visit,farlouderthanhiswords.Ifa

baby had the power to bringJohnSantostoherdoor,then,Billie Rowan decided, shedefinitely should have thatbaby.

LittleFrankie

Alma Febles

was pacing the AmericanAirlines terminal atKennedyAirport, looking out thewindow,thoughsheknewtheplanewas not due for hours.Shesmokedhercigarettes,ataratefarheavierthanthefourto five packs a day she hadbeen using in recentmonths.As she struck the match tolighther tenth (maybe itwasher eleventh), she made adealwiththeheavens.

“God help me,” she saidaloud, placing her handsprayerfullyoverherred,tiredeyes,“ifFrankiegetsoffthatplane I will not smoke onemore cigarette again in myentirelife.”

About a year after Almamoved her children down toSanto Domingo, her secondhusband, Frankie’s father,movedbackdown there, too.The gossip that drifted north

to Alma said he hadmade alot of money back in theUnited States. Alma did notknowwherethemoneycamefrom, and she didn’twant toknow.

She did not hear muchabout the man for severalmonths, until one summerevening when she called thepeachhouseonCalleJ-1andwas told that five-year-oldFrankie wasn’t there. His

father had come for him, themaid told Alma. The mansaidhewashisfather,soshelet Frankie go. No, she said,shedidn’tknowwhentheboywas cominghome.Hedidn’tpackanyclothesoranything,so he probably wouldn’t beawaytoolong.

For the first week, Almafelt concern, but not panic.“Maybe he just wants tospend some time with his

son,” she told herself,although she couldn’timagine what might causethischangeofheart inamanwho had rarely seen the boyduring the past five years.“Maybethisisgood.IfIcan’tbethere,maybehisfathercanbethere.”

Shecalledthehouseeveryafternoon,causallyaskingforFrankie, swallowing hardwhen she learnedhewasnot

home. By the beginning ofthe second week she wantedtoscreamatthemaidandtellher how irresponsible it hadbeen to let Frankie go offwith that man in the firstplace. But already this year,two young women had quitabruptly, walking out on thechildren when Alma was1,550 miles away. So shechecked her rising anger andhad the same conversation

with the maid each day:“Where is he?” “He’s withhis father.” “Isn’t he back?”“No,heisn’tbackyet.”

After ten days, sherealized Frankie wasn’tcoming back. She rooted outhis father’s phone numberthrough the neighborhoodgrapevine,butdecidednot tocall him. She suspected thatthepurposeofall thiswas tofrighten or upset her, and if

she spoke to him herself hewould know he hadsucceeded.Addedtothatwasthe fact that all her calls toSanto Domingo were madecollect. She would behumiliated if he accepted thecharges,andmoresoifhedidnot.

Instead she toldhermaid,“You call his house and tellhim that I called. Frankie’sbeen there enough time. I

wanthimback.”The next day, the maid

hadamessageforAlmafromherex-husband.Shereaditasit had been delivered:“Frankie isn’t coming back.Frankiestayswithme.”

“Whatdidhe say?”Almaasked,althoughshehadheardeveryword.

“He said that Frankie’snotcomingback,”thewomansaid more slowly and more

loudly,asifAlmawashavinga problem with the phoneline, not with the messageitself.“Hesaysifyouwanttodiscuss it with him, youshouldcallhim.”

Close to hysteria, Almadialed the international callfrom work. She wouldexplainittoherbosslater.

“Who gave you theauthority?” she demandedwhen her ex answered the

phone.“Whydon’tyoubringFrankiebackhome.”

“Frankie’s my child,” hesaid, then dug the knife intoAlma’s soul. “He’sbetteroffwith me than with a maidwhodoesn’tevenknowhim,”he said. “He’s my child andhe’sgoingtostaywithme.”

Alma thought of all thenightsshedidn’tsleep,oftheheavy, crushing guilt, of thereasons that she brought the

children to Santo Domingoand the reasons that she leftthemthere.Withonetauntingcomment, he had dismissedallthat.Hehadmadeitsoundlike selfishness, likesomething she wanted to do,like a choice she had made.When she next spoke, herwords were low and angry,almostagrowl.

“I’m going to give youtwenty-four hours to send

him back home. This is mychild. I haven’t heard fromyouinalongtime.Youdon’tknow the reasons Frankie’sthereandnothere.”

Shetookadeepbreath.“IfIcalltomorrowandFrankie’snot home,” she said, “I’mgonna go there. I’mgoing togo over to your house, andI’mgoing to kill you and allof your family. Thedifference between you and

meisthatpeoplethinkyou’recrazy. You’re not crazy. Iam.”

She was speaking fasternow. The volume and thepitch were rising. The growlbecame a screech. “Eitheryou bring my child backtodayorI’mgoingtogothereand kill you and all yourfamily.TheonlypersonwhoisgoingtosurviveisFrankie,‘causehe’smine.Imeanit.”

Alma slammed down thephone and hugged her armsaround herself in thebackroom office. She wasshaking uncontrollably andfightingthetears.Shethoughtof how frightened Frankiemust be, away from hisbrother and sister, with afather he didn’t really know.He couldn’t call Leyda orVirgilio and he couldn’t callAlma. He didn’t know the

numbers,andhedidn’tknowhowtouseatelephone.Thenthe thought struck her, clearand overwhelming. Frankiedidn’t belong in SantoDomingo. “He belongs athome,”shesaid.“Withme.”

She found her boss,explained thephonecall,andasked for a $400 loan, morethan a week’s salary. Thenshe called her ex-husbandagain and changed the

specifics of her threat. “I’mgoing to send him a ticket,”she said. It was late Fridayafternoon. “You’re going toput Frankie on a plane onSunday. I want him to comehome.”

The next call was to atravel agent, a woman sheknew well from all her tripsback to the island over thepast year. Itwould take untilMonday to wire a ticket, the

agent said, but she knew ofsomeone who was leavingSaturday morning for SantoDomingo. Perhaps she couldcarrytheticket?

The arrangements weremade and the only questionwas whether Alma’sultimatum would work. Shesatbythetelephoneandtriedto calm herself enough tothink.What could she say tothe man that would

sufficientlyfrightenhim?Didhe really believe she wouldkillhim?Atthatmomentshefelt as if she could, but shedoubted that he understoodthat. He probably dismissedher threats as he haddismissedherfeelings.

She made one last phonecall that she couldn’t afford.It was a hunch, a gamble, ahopethatshe,too,couldhitacentral nerve. “If you don’t

send Frankie,” she said,trying to sound worldly andmenacing, “I’m not going togo there and kill you. I’mgoing to call the Americanembassyandpresschargestoget custody of Frankie. Youhave the money, butFrankie’s an Americancitizen. I’mgoing to put youinjailbecauseyoukidnappedFrankie,”shesaid.

Now she smoked and

prayed and hoped her threathad hit its mark. Frankie’splane was due to arrive atfour o’clock. Alma was atKennedy by two. When thehours finally passed, and thepassengers began todisembark, she knelt on thecarpet in the gate area andbegan to pray. Her prayersbecame sobs as a stream ofunfamiliarfacescameoffthejetway.Herbrother,whohad

come along to the airport,tried to quiet her. “He’s notthat crazy,” he said. “He’llputhimontheplane.”

The parade of passengersstopped. The pilot came out,andthecopilot,andtherewasstill no sign of Frankie. Theroom started reeling andAlma put her head to herknees,tryingnottofaint.

“Mama,”someonesaid,ormaybeitwasherimagination.

“Mama.”She looked up and there

was Frankie, two shadesdarker and two inches tallerthan when she’d seen himlast, holding the hand of astewardess.

Alma never smokedanothercigaretteagain.

1990

MayorSpallone

Mary Dormanfelt a flash of personaltriumph sitting in the

audience at the PolishCommunity Center, waitingfor Mayor Spallone’sinauguration to begin. Shehadboughtanewsuitforthemomentous occasion.Hank’sswearing-in ceremony wasopen to the public, and therewereathousandpeopleinthehall on this first Tuesday of1990. The section whereMary was seated was byinvitation only. As soon as

she sat down, she carefullytuckedtheengravedcardintoherpurse.Itwasakeeper.

Maryhadworkedhard sothat Hank Spallonemight bemayor. Just as the housingfightwasher firstexperienceasaprotester,Hank’srunforofficewasherfirstexperienceas a campaigner. She did alltheritualstepsofanewcomerto the electoral dance:distributing flyers, attending

rallies. This being Yonkers,she did some more unusualthings, too. She became partof the group that followedNick Wasicsko throughoutthe east side, rattling him ateverystop.

This being Yonkers, italso didn’t take long beforethe euphoria over Hank’svictory began to sour. LikeNick two years earlier,Hankhad campaignedwith a legal

appeal pending, and shortlyaftertheelectionhehadtoneddownhisrhetoric.

“We will abide by thedecision of the SupremeCourt,” he said the morningafter election day, whenaskedaboutthependingcourtdecision.“Thatiswhatlawisabout, that is what we areabout. We’ve had our fight.Wewillgetourdecisionandwe’ll work together to go

forward.”Words like these, with

their echo of earlier wordsfrom a previousmayor-elect,infuriatedsomeofSpallone’score supporters.At a councilmeeting days before theinauguration, Jack O’Toole,theheadoftheSaveYonkersFederation,tookthefloorandattackedthemanhehadspentmonths working to elect.“The people elected you to

fight and act,” he said. “Thepeople are gettingupset.Thenativesaregettingrestless.”

Mary was not yet one ofthosewhowere restless. Shestill believed in HankSpallone,hadbelievedinhimcompletely since she firstheard him speak in the daysafter the riotous meeting atSaunders High School. Hiswasthevoicethatdrewhertothe cause.Over the year that

followed,hishadbecomethevoice that represented thecause.Andbythetimeheranfor mayor, the transpositionwas complete. To MaryDorman, Hank Spallonewasthecause.

She knew a lot about theSupreme Court appeal,because she made it herbusiness to know a lot abouteverything that affectedSpallone. The case ofHenry

G.Spallonevs.UnitedStatesof America and YonkersBranch–National Associationfor the Advancement ofColored People, she knew,raisedthequestionofwhetheralegislatorcouldbefinedfornotvotingasajudgedirectedhim to. The Constitutionprotected members ofCongress from coercion andprosecution for their votes, aprotection known as the

“doctrine of legislativeimmunity.” Over the years,lower appeals courts haveextendedthatrighttoincludelocal legislators, too. Butuntil Spallone vs. U.S. thequestionhadnevermadeittotheSupremeCourt.

Maryporedoverthepagesof analysis in the newspaperthe day before the actualhearingand,thoughconfusedat first, managed to sort out

the arguments in the case.Attorneys for the councilmenwould argue that there hadbeen less extreme ways toenforce the housing planavailable to Judge Sand, likeestablishing an independentcommission to override thecouncil. The attorney for thegovernmentwouldargue thatlegislative immunity did notapplyinthiscasebecausethelegislatorshadalreadyagreed

tocomplywith theorderandthen backed out. Thequestions the justices werebeing asked to decide werethese: Did Sand tamperdangerously with theseparation of powers bytellingthecouncilmenhowtovote? Would a decision infavorofthecouncilmenmeanchaos can reign and electedofficials can break promisestoobeycourtorders?

Mary wasn’t clear whereshe stood on the subject oflegislative immunity, but shewas quite certain where shestoodon the subject ofHankSpallone.Evenifsomeoftheothers had reneged on theiragreement,shethought,Hankshould get his money backbecause he had refused tovotefortheconsentdecreeinthefirstplacesohehadneverreneged on anything. The

decision might not come formonths, and now Hank wasindisputably changing histone, but Mary was notdisillusioned. Her onlydisappointment was in howsome of her Save Yonkerscompatriots were acting.They were hearing“compliance” and“concession”whenHankwasnot saying either of thosethings.Allhewassayingwas

“waitandsee.”Thatapproachwas not a concession, Marythought, if you are certainyouwillwin.

Hank’s talk of law andpatience, she believed, wasnot moderation but growth.Now that he was the mayor,he was trying to act like themayor. She had noticed thathe had begun to talk abouthimself in the third person:“Mr. Spallone never

supported that consentdecree”; “Hank Spallonehasn’t changed his positionone iota.” Many powerfulpeople, she noticed, liked todo that. And he certainlyseemed like a mayor as hewas sworn in at the packedPolish Community Center.He spoke without a text,linking thefutureofYonkersto the future of EasternEurope, which was in the

throes of transforming itselfafterthefallofCommunism.

At the end of his speech,he presented the center withcommemorative street signs.One read “Lech WalesaDrive,” and the other read“SolidaritySquare.”

“Perhaps it will be thething that binds this councilandthiscity—forwhatitsaysis Solidarity—and I wouldhope that this represents our

city,”hesaid.

When the Supreme Courtdecision came down, eightdaysafter theinauguration, itwas welcome news. Thejustices overturned thecouncilmen’s contempt fines,by a vote of 5 to 4. Themajority opinion wasnarrowly written—it did notrule out contempt fines

altogether, but ruled thatJudge Sand had acted tooquickly against thecouncilmen in this particularinstance and should haveallowed a “reasonable” timeto see if crippling municipalfines forced them intocompliance. The justicescompletely sidestepped thequestionofwhether the finesviolated free speech andlegislativeimmunity.

Mary read every word oftheanalysisinthenewspaper.Allthearticlessaidthatwhilethedecisionwasavictoryforthecouncilmen,itwouldhavenoeffectonthehousingorderitself,whichhadalreadybeenupheldonappeal.EvenChiefJustice William Rehnquist,who wrote the majorityopinion, was careful to say:“The issue before us isrelatively narrow. There can

be no question about theliability of the city ofYonkers for racialdiscrimination…” It did notsound to Mary like this wasthe opening that Hank hadpromised, but rather thanquestionherfaithinhim,sheturned her doubts ontoherself. Maybe she wasreadingitwrong,shethought.Maybe this was somethingshecouldn’tunderstand.

She was reassured by thefact that Hank had seen thedecision as something tocelebrate. On hearing thenewshehadorderedacaseofpinkKorbel Brut champagneand a six-foot-long herosandwich for an impromptuparty at City Hall. “I don’tthinkthisistheend,”hesaid,raising his champagne glassforatoast.“Ithinkthisisthebeginning.” And if Hank

Spallone believed that, thenMary Dorman believed it,too.

JohnGoestoJail(I)

Billie was inher fourth month ofpregnancy, dreaming of

happilyeverafter,whenJohnwas arrested. She tied a newsilk scarf around her head,buttoned one of his oldcolorful shirts around herexpanding middle, and wentto seehim in a foul-smellingvisitors’ room at RikersIsland, where he explainedthatnoneofthiswashisfault.

It all started severalmonths earlier, he said,dropping his sexy, sweet-

talking voice almost to awhisper. Soon after he andBilliehadgotten together,hesaid, he went out one nightwith his good friend Stash.His purpose for the eveningwas to escape from Billie,who needed too much fromhim: “Ineeded toget away.”He was the victim here.Somehow Billie was thevillain.

He and Stash found their

waysouth,totheBronx,“likeusual,” he said, where “wewaspartying andwewent tothe clubs.” At one of thoseclubs, he said, “Stashintroducedmetoanotherguy,whoIreallydidn’tknow,butI trusted Stash, I trusted hisjudgment.

“Then we were comingback and it starts to rain. Isay, ‘We can take the train,’buttheotherguysdon’twant

to. These girls come by in acar and Stash tells them tostop. So they did and westarted talking and they saidtheycouldgiveusalift.”

Stash’sno-namefriendsatinfrontwithtwoofthegirls,while Stash and John sat inbackwithtwoothers.

“We’re all laughing andstuff. So they ask for ournamesandtelephonenumbersandIgivethemmine.Notmy

real name. Just Hot. But Igivetherealnumber.”

Unbeknownst to him, hesaid,hisfriendsdidnotdothesame.

“Then, a little bit later,”John continued, warming upto his story, “Stash’s friend,hetriestoroboneofthegirlsandthey’reallscreaming.I’mlike ‘what’s going on here?’WealltookoffandIthoughtthat was the end of it. But I

guessoneofthemwenttothecops and I’m the only onetheycouldfind,causeI’mtheonly one whose real numberthey had. Now they’recharging me with RobberyTwo.”

His excuses were soearnest,sodetailed,thatevenhe seemed to believe them.His voice was so confident,so smooth, that Billie chosetobelievehisstory,too.

John plea-bargained for aone-year sentence, of whichhewouldserveeightmonths.HetoldBilliethathervisittohim in jail made him realizethat theyweremeant to be acouple.

“Myfriendsturnedonme,the cops scaredme, and youbelievedme,”hesaid.

Billiepromisedshewouldwait for him. John promisedhewouldchange.

ToMarchorNottoMarch

When NormaO’Neal and Pat Williamsargue, they do so in theclipped shorthand reservedonly for friends who haveknown each other for years.Pat is Norma’s best friend.Theymetin1983,whenthey

were both working at theLillian Vernon warehouse,and Norma regularly heard“Pat Williams” being pagedover the intercom. One dayNorma happened tomeet thewoman whose name was sofamiliar. “Oh, you’re PatWilliams,” Norma said,deadpan. “I’ve heard a lotaboutyou.”

A few others in Norma’scircle would describe

themselvesasherbestfriend,but failing eyesight is aprofound measure offriendship,and in themonthsafter Norma lost her visionshe learned who her truestfriendswere. Therewere herchildren, of course, alongwith Phyllis David, whocame over to read themailevery afternoon. PatWilliams was there to doalmosteverythingelse.When

Norma had no choice but toquit her job, Pat helped herapplyfordisability.Whenthedisability application wasdenied, Pat walked the threemiles fromherownhouse toSchlobohm, to help Normadecipher the denial and fillout the application again.When Norma’s incomedropped from the $335 aweek she earned as a nighthealth aide, to the $189 a

month she received onwelfare,Patalwaysseemedtobe around with extragroceries, or extra cash.Norma protested, but Patdidn’t listen. She figuredNormawoulddothesameforher.

This loyalty, thisconnection,gavePattherightto speakhermind.AndwhatwasonhermindoneJanuarymorning was the upcoming

housingmarch.Shehadheardat church that a pro-housingprotest—“a black people’smarch”—was planned on theeast side.Patwasgoing, andshe wanted Norma to comealongtoo.

“It’s time people herefoughttheirownfightinsteadof letting the courts and thelawyers do it all,” Pat said.“How come the only peopletalking about this are white?

How come all the faces youseeonthenewsaboutthisarewhite? They don’t want usliving over there, well, theydon’tknowus.They’veneverseen us. And whose fault isthat? It will be your fault ifyoujuststayoverhereanddonothing.”

Norma shook her head,then pushed an errant strandof steel gray hair from herface. “It won’t make anyone

wantanyone,it’lljustmakeitworse. Just leave thingsalone.”

“You’re afraid,” Pat said.It was part observation, partaccusation.

“Afraidofmakingtroublethat doesn’t need to bemade.”

“Well I don’t scareeasily,”Patsaid.“Weshouldletpeopleseewe’rethesameas them. That we want what

theywant.”“They’ll see thatwewant

whattheyhave,”saidNorma.“They’ll see what they wanttosee.”

The conversation inNorma’s living room was asmall-scale version of onegoing on in much of theminority community inYonkers during the weekssince Hank Spallone becamemayor. The question at the

center of those conversationswas phrased with varyingdegrees of politicalcorrectness, but the heart ofthe issue was this: Whereweretheblacks?Wherewereall the people of color? Foryears, Yonkers had beenconvulsed with protests, butthey were almost all protestsagainst the housing. Citycouncil meetings were filledwith angry faces, but nearly

allofthosefaceswerewhite.Their absencewaspartof

a deliberate strategy. Fromthe first days of the courtcase, the NAACP haddecided to take what itconsidered the high road,urging its members to stayquietandworkthecourts,notthe streets. Itwould not helpthe cause, they believed, tohave angry black peopleconfronting angry white

people on the news everynight.Thestrategyworkedinthat it did prevent directconfrontation. But it was asuccesswith side effects, thesupporters of the housingbeing so quiet that theyseemed not to exist. Nickcursed them silently atmeetings,feelinghehadbeenleft out there alone to fightsomeone else’s battle. Mary,in turn, saw their absence as

evidence that minorityresidents of the west sideagreed with her and did notwantthenewhousing,either.

Overtheyears,therewererumbles of complaint on thewest side, from people whoarguedthat itwasdemeaningto askblacks to contain theiranger so that white peoplewouldn’t be frightened. Butthose rumbles were kept incheck, and the strategy of

restraintwasheld inplaceaslong as there was someoneelse who seemed to befighting the fight for them.ButbyJanuaryof1990,therewas no one else. NickWasicsko, whose mainmessage had beencompliance, had been votedoutofoffice, replacedby thedefiant Hank Spallone. Forthe first time, an appealscourt—the Supreme Court—

had turned against the judge.Public sentiment is a fluid,unpredictablething,andwhatisunheard-ofonedaymaybeunstoppable the next. Soonafter the Supreme Courtruling there was talk on thewestsideofmarchesandsit-ins. It was contagious talk.Talk like there had neverbeenbefore.

Pat Williams went to theMessiah Baptist church on

Sunday, and listened as theReverend Darryl Georgeinvited his four-hundred-member congregation tomarch on the east side. Theroute, he said, was a secret,because others might try tostop it. It was time, he said,“to bring down the wall ofracism in Yonkers.” Themarchwasjust thebeginningofanewvisibilityfor“peopleof color and conscience,”

whowould no longer remainpassive. “Previouslywehavebeen silent and donenothing,” he said. “We’veallowedthecourttospeakforus.Nowwe’resaying there’sa higher court—a moralcourt.Enoughisenough.Thisisanewbeginning.”

The most controversialpart of George’sannouncement was not themarch, but who he had

invited along on the march.The Reverend Al Sharptonand the lawyerAltonMattoxwould be there, he said, andtheywouldbringbusloadsofsupporters from outsideYonkers. They would alsobring outside attention,because controversy andpublicity followed the twomen everywhere. Sharptonand Mattox were bothadvisers to TawanaBrawley,

the black teenager whoseclaims that she had beensexuallyassaultedbyagroupof white men madeinternational headlines andwas later found by a grandjurytohavebeenahoax.TheNew York state attorneygeneralRobertAbramscalledSharpton “deplorable,disgraceful, reprehensible,irresponsible,” but Georgesaw their reputations, their

visibility, as part of theirvaluetothecause.

“We have been catchinghell,” he said. “Nowwewillraisehell.”

SaidSharpton,whoheldanewsconferencetospreadtheword:“Thisain’taone-nightstand, this is amarriage, andwe’re going to find thebaddest honeymoon suite onthe east side and engage insocialintercourse.”

The announcement of themarch brought theconversation into the openthroughout the minoritycommunities of Yonkers.Fighting back had beensomething thatnoonewouldtalk about. Now it was whateveryone was talking about.The debate became loud andpublic, urgent andeverywhere,andthedivisionsin the community were

followingfamiliarfaultlines.“Itgoesbacktotheclassic

case of Malcolm X saying‘You hit me and I’ll hit youback,’whileKingsaid, ‘Youhitme and I’ll turn theothercheek,’” said Herman Keith,a Westchester Countrylegislator and the first blackelectedofficialinYonkers.

NormaagreedwithMartinLuther King. Pat sided withMalcolm X. Pat joined the

march.Normastayedhome.There were nearly four

hundred people, mostlyblacks and Hispanics,gathered outside theMessiahBaptist Church early onSaturday morning. At theappointed hour, the millingcrowd coalesced into aparade, with Sharpton,George, and Mattox in thelead.Itwasmoreastrollthanawalk,andtherewasnoneof

the drama and violence thatmarkeddecadesofothercivilrights marches, none of thewater cannons of Selma, orthe attack dogs ofBirmingham.Nothinglikeallthose scenes engraved inPat’s mind since childhood.In fact, the one hundredpoliceofficersinfullriotgearfar outnumbered thebystandersalong the route. Itwas as if east Yonkers had

chosen to ignore themcompletely.

Two hours later, themarchersnearedSchool4onTrenchardStreet,atripof3.4miles. Although thedestination was supposed tobeasecret,School4wastheobvious choice for this rally.Themammothbrickbuilding,once proud, now boarded upandcrumbling,hadlongbeenthesymbolicheartoftheanti-

housing fight. It was alreadyslated for demolition whenJudge Sand issued his order,and Oscar Newman made itoneofthefirstsitesonhislistfor thenew townhouses.Theneighborhood fought backfiercely, full of new love forthe weed-infested, graffiti-covered structure, insistingthey would not be a trueneighborhood without it.They conveniently ignored

the fact that it was ugly—built,inthearchitecturalstyleoftheindustrialrevolution,tolooklikeafactory.

Theyhad it placedon theNational Register of HistoricPlaces,onlytolearnthat thatdid not automatically save itfrom destruction. They drewupplansthatwouldtransformit into a communityrecreation center. Localprotesters even cut the lawn

andheld a birthday party forthe 104-year-old building,completewith ice cream andcake.

So what better place tomakeapro-housingstatementthan at School 4? As themarchers neared the doomedbuilding, their energy andtheir enthusiasm increased.“Guess what?” they chanted,gleefully.“We’removingin.”

“Niggers, get out,”

someone shouted from theanonymity of an officebuilding window, one of thefirst reactions the marchershadheardallday.

“We don’t want youhere,” said another voicefromastorefrontdoorway.

And, as the group turnedleftontoTrenchardStreetandinto the schoolyard, Patclearly heard someone shout,“Go back to your own

neighborhood.”Pat did go back to her

neighborhood, on one of therented yellow school busesthatwerewaitingtodrivethemarchers home to the westside.Thatevening,shesat inNorma’s living room tellingher everything that happenedduring the day. “You shouldhave been there,” Pat said.“We showed them wewouldn’tbekickedaround.”

“Did you change anyminds?”Normaasked.

“Probablynot,”Patsaid.“Whenthosebuildingsare

built, black folks have tomove into them,” Normasaid. “You’ve just made itharder for them to do that.That’sall.”

Doreen’sFatherFindsOut

Jaron Jameswas an excited two-year-old,tugging his grandfather’shandastheywalkedalongtheglass-strewn path towardBuilding Three atSchlobohm. Doreen stayedseveral paces behind them,

marveling, as she so oftendid, at the untainted joy thather son felt at even thesimplestmoments in his life.She’d seen photographs ofherselfwiththatsamegleefulgrin,andshewonderedwhenshe’d lost that smile, andwhenJaronwouldlosehis.

Of all his favorite things,and there were many, visitsfrom his grandfather toppedthelist.WarrenJamesvisited

Schlobohm as often as hecould.Hesaidhewascomingjust to see Jaron, butDoreenknewhewasstill takingcareof her, as well. He neverlectured her on this life thatshe had chosen and neverwondered aloud whether thisindependence of herswas allshe’d expected it to be. Hejustbroughthisgifts,andhishugs. As he headed homeaftereachvisit,hewouldsay,

“You knowwhere to find usifyouneedus,”or“Ourdoorisalwaysopen.”

Doreen followed Warrenand Jaron through thebattered front door of herbuilding, thencaughtupwiththemasherfatherwasliftingher son sohe couldpush thebutton for the temperamentalelevator.Ashe touchedbackdown on the ground,something caught Jaron’s

ever-eager eye, and hereached over to pick up abroken crack vial from theconcretefloor.

“No, Jaron, hot,” Doreenyelled. He knew fromexperience with theSchlobohm radiators that“hot” was something heshould not touch. Shegrabbed the boy’s forearmand shook it forcefully, untilthe vial fell from his chubby

hand, shattering at his feet.As it did,Doreen opened hispalm and, using the onlypieceoffabricshecouldfind,wipedhishandwith thehemofher shirt, rubbinguntil thechildbegantocry.

“I’m sorry, Mommy’ssorry,”shesaid,knowingshewas trying to clean awaymorethanthetaintofthevial.

TheelevatordoorsopenedandsheguidedJaroninside.

“Filthy junkies, leavingtheir crap where decentpeopletrytolive,”shesaidasher father stepped in next toher.“Whydotheyneedtobedoingtheirshitaroundhere?”

Warren James saidnothing as the car lurchedupward. Then, as it reachedthe seventh floor, Doreen’sfloor,hesaid,“Peopletalkingabout what other people aredoing.And they’re doing the

same thing.” He spokequietly,almostawhisper,buthiswordshadtheforceofanexplosion.

There was no moremention of drugs thatafternoon. Warren’s embracewas stiff as he hugged hisdaughter good-bye. “Youknowwheretofindusifyouneedus,”hesaid.

Doreen felt her parents’disappointmentinthathug.In

the weeks that followed,although they still sentpackages for Jaron, theirvisits became few and brief.Shewas lonelyover thenextfew months. Her parents nolonger trusted her. She, inturn, no longer trusted hersisters, because she wascertain that one of them hadsquealed.

The sadness that alreadyswallowed all her days grew

deeper, and sheneededmoredrugs to make it go away.Though her craving wasgreater,herabilitytopaywasnot, since no one in herfamilywouldlendhermoneyanymore.Sheborrowedfromfriends when she could, butmostly she “borrowed” fromJaron.One by one she brokeher rules, deconstructing herimaginaryfencethatkeptherfrom becoming one of

“them.”Sometimestherewasno milk in the house, andJaron drank water.Sometimes she was not sureif she had remembered tofeed him at all. He was notalways asleep when shesmoked.Ifheinterruptedher,she shushed him, then senthimbacktobed.

Everyday,everymoment,became part of a rapidlydescending spiral. When she

was high, she was not highenough;itdidnotfeelaspureorasperfectasithadbefore.When she wasn’t high, shewas sick. Nauseous,exhausted, and profoundlydepressed, she moved evenmoreslowlythanusual.

Onenight,theworstnight,she had smoked everythingshe had and still neededmore.Sheransackedherownfew drawers, looking for

money or a forgotten vial.Even a trace of crack dustmixed with gritty lint woulddo. As she searched, shethought of other ways shemight pay for more drugs.Shecouldn’tsteal.Shewasn’tthat desperate yet. She knewthe dealers downstairssometimes traded drugs forsex. Could she do that? Herbody, already numb anddeadened,wasjustsomething

to escape from. Maybe shecould.

Just then she came uponthe tinygoldcross in Jaron’sroom, the one she hadexchanged for theengagement ring she neverwore.Itwastheonlythingofvalueinthehouse.Shehelditup by its chain and watchedas it swayed slightly fromsidetoside.Whatwoulditbeworth? Ten vials? Fifteen

vials? More? Then, with alife-changingsnap,sheletthenecklace drop from herfingers,backintothedrawer.

She had hit rock bottom.Cryingandshaking,shewentto the phone and called herparents.

“I need help,” she said,very quietly. “I’m sick andtired of being sick and tired.Mommy,pleasehelpme.”

Her parents drove over

fromNewJerseyandbroughttheirdaughterhome.

AlmaBringstheChildrenHome

By the springof1990,Almarealizeditwastime to bring her children

back to Schlobohm. Just asthere was no one momentwhenshehaddecided to fleeYonkers in the first place,therewasnosingleeventthatled to this decision, either.Insteaditwasthefeelingthat,as the months continued topass, Virgilio and Leydaseemed farther and fartheraway.

She was not there whenLeyda was bitten by a

neighbor’s dog, then hid thebitefromeveryoneforaweekuntil thewound turnedangryand red and infected. “Don’ttellyourmom,” theneighborsaid, and Leyda didn’t,fearing that Alma would beangry.FinallyafamilyfriendnoticedandLeydawenttothehospitalforantibiotics.

Nor was she there whenVirgilio was helping a paltinkerwith the old truck that

seemed to be perchedpermanently on blocks infront of his house. One day,in a rare attempt to start therolling junk heap, Virgilioandagroupoffriendstriedtopush it, and one of the rightwheels rolled over Virgilio’sleft foot. He slid a gooddistance with the wheel ontopofhisinstep,andthistimethere was no wait before hewenttothehospital.Whenhe

toldAlmaabouttheaccident,she questioned the sense ofpushing trucks that don’twork.

“Everyone’s alwaysgetting hurt over here,” heanswered. “All there is to doforfunisbadthings.”

WhattroubledAlmamorethanthegrowingrecklessnessof her children was theirgrowing fear.Over time theybecame afraid of the house,

certainthatitwashauntedbytheghostof anoldmanwhodied there one night whilerocking in his rocking chair.There were several rockingchairs in Alma’s house onCalle J-l, and Virgilio sworethattheyoftenstartedtorockontheirown.Onenight,ashewas getting undressed forbed, “the windows startedclosing by themselves,” hetold Alma. “I had my pants

down tomy knees and I justranoutofthehouse.Ihadmyshirt on, and my underwear.People were looking at me.”He ran to his grandmother’shouse, where he spent thenight.

Alma believed thatVirgilio was not just tellingstories—he really saw thesethings. Maybe his mind wasplayingtricksonhimbecausehe wanted to leave. Maybe

thehousereallywashaunted,and the eerie happeningswere a sign that it was timefor him to leave. But if thechildren were going to be indangerwhere they lived, andif they were going to beafraid of where they lived,thentheymightaswellbeindanger and afraid closer toher.Increasinglyoftenduringher sleepless hours in themiddle of the night Alma

would think of the yearswhen she was still in SantoDomingo,waiting to joinhermother in the United States.“I’ve been blaming mymotherforsolongforleavingme behind,” she decided. “Ican’t do the same thing.Wearea family.We’re four.Wehavetobetogether.”

Thefamilyoffourmovedback to Yonkers in May of1990, after Leyda and

Virgilio finished their schoolsemesters. Alma, exhaustedfromthreeyearsofworryandguilt, slept for the better partofthreedays.Whilesheslept,thechildrenmadethemselveshamburgers, which were anunaffordable luxury on theisland, and took long bubblybaths, because the peachhouse only had a shower.They elbowed each other forspace in the small apartment,

squabbling the way onlysiblings can, readjusting tobeing together. By the timeAlma awoke, they werecomplainingthattheywantedtogo“backhome.”

But Alma knew what herchildren couldn’t—there wasno“backhome.”Manythingshad become clearer to herover the years since she firstmoved her family to SantoDomingo, and the hardest to

accept was that she reallydidn’t have a home. For along time she had believedthat when life becameunbearable in Yonkers, shecould always escape into herpast,backtotheislandofherchildhood. But she had triedthat, and she had failed. Thedream had evaporated at hertouch. Santo Domingo wasnot the answer to herproblem. Did that mean that

therewasnoanswer?

NoPlaceforaBaby

John BillieSantos III was just a fewweeksoldwhenBillieRowanbrought him toRikers Islandto meet his father. Billie’s

mothertriedtotalkheroutofthe visit, asking “Why areyou bringing a baby to thatdisgusting place?” But Billiecouldn’t wait to present hersontoherman.

So she took two buses tothe subway, then took thesubway to the Queens Plazastation.Shewaitedinthecoldfor the bright orange bus toRikers, then spilled thecontents of her bag and her

pockets onto a table in thehuge, drab waiting room.Once the guards determinedthat she was not carryingcontraband, she was allowedto board another bus, a blueone,labeledCIFM.Thattookher to the CorrectionalInstitute forMen, one of tenseparate jails on the island,and the one where John wasdoinghistime.

The entire trip took more

than three hours, and by thetime she found a seat in thewindowless communalvisitingroom,shewasalmostas cranky as her baby.Manylong minutes passed beforeJohn appeared, and she triedtoexaminehermakeupintheglare from a barred window,while giving herself a silentlecturetokeepherfeelingstoherself.ShehadtobethewayJohnwantedhertobe.

Their relationship duringthe months he had been inprison was far better than ithad been when he was athome. They wrote lettersalmost daily, long, romanticprofessions of love, andJohn’s words had the sameoverwhelmingeffectonpaperas they had in person. Afterher sonogram, Billie spilledthebeansthatthebabywasaboy.At first Johnwas angry

—he had wanted it to be asurprise—but soon he wasproud, and he now had areason to “settle down, gobacktoschool,gotocollege.Iwanttodevotemyselftomyfamily.”

ItwasBillie’sideatogivethe baby both their names, asymbol of the fact that theywere forever connectedbecause of him. John arguedthat carrying thenameofhis

own father had been aburden,onehedidn’twanttoplace on his son, but heeventuallyagreed.

Finally Johnwasescortedinto the visiting room,looking as she pictured himwhen she readhis letters.Hewas dressed in his prison-issue work pants and workshirt. He had a scar on hischeek,abadgeearnedduringa knife fight shortly after he

arrived. The rules said shecould not hug him, and shecould not hand him anything—excepttheirson.

John lifted Johnny fromBillie’s arms, and gazed athim. Billie tried toconcentrateon thatgaze, andto ignore the other families,the screaming children, theguards by the doors, and theclockonthewall.

Whentheirhourwasover,

Billie bundled up the babyandgotbackonthebluebus.She made her wholecomplicated trip in reverse,arriving at Schlobohm neardinnertime. The visit hadbeen draining, but notdepressing.Eightmonths,shereasoned, was not a longtime. John obviously lovedhis son, meaning he mustlove her, too. He would behomesoon,andherlifecould

take the shape she hadoriginallyplanned.

Doreen’sFirstMeeting

Doreen kepther handbag in her lap andher eyes on the door while

waiting for the meeting tobegin. She was here in thisover-air-conditionedcommunity room onlybecause she had promisedSheilashewouldcome.

DuringthemonthsDoreenhadspentbackhomeinNewJersey, her sisters also re-enteredherlife.Barbara,whowasclosestinagetoDoreen,had taken the role of friendand confidante. Sheila, the

oldest,waslikeathirdparent,there to point out whereDoreenhadgonewrong, andalways eager to step in andmake it right. It took a longtimebeforeWarrenandPearlJamescouldtrustDoreen,andoneoftheirfirststepstowardthatgoalwasallowingher tospend time back in Yonkerswith Sheila. One of Sheila’smany plans forDoreen’s lifeincluded thismeeting, of the

Resident EmpowermentAssociation DevelopingYonkers,knownasREADY.

Sheila, who had alwaysbeen more energetic thanDoreen, was one of thefounders of READY. Whenthe rest of James family hadmovedoutofYonkerstwelveyearsearlier,Sheilahadbeenlucky enough to qualify foran apartment in the DunbarHouses, the only public-

housing project in RunyonHeights, the black middle-class neighborhood on theeast side. One of herneighbors there was SadieYoungJefferson,presidentoftheDunbar tenant council.Astern, dynamic, determinedwoman, who was partial tono-nonsense dresses andsensible shoes, Sadie raisedseven children in Yonkerspublichousing,andsheknew

well that Dunbar was thebest. But instead of countingherblessingsandcrossingherfingers, she decided thatresidentsoftheotherprojectsdeserved housing as good ashers. “If this can bemaintained thisway, then allofthemshouldbemaintainedinthesameway,”shesaid.

Sadie had beenunimpressed and angered bythe1988battletobringpublic

housing to the east side.Angry because “they saythey’re not prejudiced.Wrong. They’re prejudiced.”Andunimpressedbecauseshedid not think that blacksshould only consider theirhomes acceptable if theywere near the homes ofwhites. The solution, shethought, was not to movepeople across town wherethey weren’t wanted. The

solution would be to givethempowerontheirownsideoftown.

“If we’re going to liveplantation style,” shepreached to Sheila, “thenwecanrunourownplantation.”

During the previous year,while Doreen was losingherself to crack, Sheila wasimmersingherselfinthewaysof public housing and in thegospel of Sadie Young

Jefferson. She traveled toWashington,D.C.withSadie,to the massive publicinformation library in theheadquarters of HUD, andthey emerged twelve hourslater with suitcases full ofinformation on tenants’rights.WithSadieshelearnedhowtocalculatetherenttheyowed to Municipal Housing—30percentoftheirmonthlyhousehold income, less

certain complicateddeductions—and found thateach had been receiving arentbillthatwaswrong.Theytalked of tenant patrols, andon-sitedaycare,andin-housescreening committees thatwould keep the undesirablesoutinthefirstplace.

Sadie, whose manycareers had included grant-writing for social serviceprograms, applied for and

received private money tohelp fund her grand dreams.The National Center forNeighborhood Enterprisesgave READY $5,000, whichit used to hire lawyers andincorporate itself. Then, aphilanthropic group thatfunds nascent causesprovided $100,000 for officespace and tenant trainingprograms, and READYbecameareality.

Doreen found herself inoneofthoseofficesattendingone of those programsbecause she was trying toprove to her parents that shecould be trustworthy andresponsible.IfshespentmoretimewithSheila, the“matureone,” thenmaybeher sister’sinternalcompasswouldguideher, as well. The meetingswere a means to an end, awaytogaintheconfidenceof

herfamily.Noonewasmoresurprised than Doreen whenshebegan to look forward toSadie’steachings,andtogainconfidenceinherself.

Under Sadie’s watch,these sessions were ralliesmore than lessons, aboutrebuilding yourself as muchas rebuilding public housing.She did not lecture at thefront of the room, shechanted,andastheeventtook

on the character of a revivalmeeting, the audience beganto call out in agreement asshespoke.

“They say we are‘tenants,’” Sadie declared.“We are not tenants, we areresidents,acommunity.”

“Amen, sister,” someonesaid.

“Calling the projects‘projects,’”Sadiewenton,“Irecall projects being science

projects.Wearenotaproject.We are, I would think, acomplexoradevelopment.”

“Yousayit,girl.”“Low income,” she

shouted, “doesnotmean lowclass!”

“Amen.Amen.Amen.”“They think that all the

people in public housing arelow,thatallwewanttodoislayaroundandsmokedrugs,”Sadiesaid.Hervoicebecame

low and angry. “I live inpublic housing. I’m nothinglike they’re describing.People in public housing aredecent, educated, talented,everything that everybodyelse is—we just happen tomake lessmoneysoweneedlowerrent.”

Itwasamostunusualkindof twelve-step program.Sitting in her uncomfortablefolding chair, meeting after

meeting,Doreenwantedtobeeverything Sadie said shecouldbe.Soonafterward,shewent to her parents and saidshewasreadytotakecontrolof her own life again. Shewanted to move back intoSchlobohm.

1988Redux

Slowly, veryslowly, a proud house wasemergingfromthewhirlwindofrenovationat175YonkersAvenue.

When Nick and Nay firstbought the house, they knewitneeded“somework.”Afterthey moved in, they realizedthere wasn’t a single part ofthe house that didn’t needwork. The cost of a

professional contractor wasout of the question, andNick’s only knowledge ofconstruction was that he“knewenoughnot topickupa hammer,” so most of theoverhaulwasdonebyNick’sbrother,Michael,whowasanelectrician by trade and hadspentasummerbetweenhighschool and college workingasacarpenter.Hehadlearneda lot during that summer, he

assured Nick, and his mostdeeply ingrained lesson was“it’stooeasytohurtyourselfdoing this,”which iswhyheswitched to electrical work,instead. But the one summerof experience, along withmany nights watching ThisOldHouseonPBS,madehimcertain he could handle thejob.

Nick and Nay spent theirfirst weeks as homeowners

living in their dining room,whileMichaelknockeddowna circa-1960s wall that hadbeenerecteddownthecenterof the living room.Together,Nick, Nay, Michael, andMichael’s girlfriend, Gail,spent endless eveningsrippingugly linoleumoff theliving room floors andexposing the woodunderneath. Therewas a gapin the floor where the

dividing wall had been, soGail learned how to splicenew pieces of oak to matchthe ones that had been theresince1890.

Whenthelivingroomwasfinished, Nick and Naymoved into that larger space,andMichaelmovedontothesecond floor, where heknocked down more walls,added insulation, hired afriend to put up new

sheetrock, rewired the entireelectrical system, and retiledthehallbathroom.NowNickandNaywereabletoexpandtheir living space to includeanactualbedroom.Theyhadplans for a master bath, butthatwouldhavetowait.

The third floor was next,andMichaelandNick turnedit into an apartment for theirmother, with a bedroom, alivingroom,abathroom,and

a small kitchen. Increasinglyskilled and confident,Michaelmadeallthecabinetshimself. While pounding asledge-hammer throughancient plaster,Nick found asepia-tonedpictureofthefirstowner of the house, alongwith a photo of the buildingitselfbackwhenitwaspartofa working farm. The link tothepastmadehimfeelallthemore attached to his home.

He spent hours in thereference room of the locallibrary, poring over books ofhistoric Yonkers houses,learning more of the erratichistoryofhiscityatthesametime.

He was able to do thesethings because he reallywasn’t doing much ofanything else. The mortgageneeded tobepaid, sohewasworkingpart-timeatJohnJay

College in Manhattan,teaching a course on theworkings of localgovernment.Healsohostedaradio program on localWFAS-FM every Tuesday at1:00 P.M., called NickWasicsko, Attorney at Law.He did these things despitehissuspicionsthathewasthewrongmanforeachjob.Theonly time he had spent in acourtroomrecentlywaswhen

he sat in the audience whilethe Supreme Court heardarguments in Spallone vs.United States. And his realexpertise was not howgovernmentworked,buthowitdidn’twork.

Of course, governmentwasn’t working particularlysmoothly for those whosucceeded Nick in office,either. Hank Spallone waslooking less like a street-

smart operator andmore likeone of those hapless cartooncharacters, the kind thatfrantically throws trash cansandoldchairsintothepathofthe oncoming monster, butstill the monster keepscoming. The new federalappealSpallonehadpromisedduring his campaign wasfiled; in fact, severalof themwere, but they barely slowedthe beast, as the courts

refused to hear them. ThenSpallone vowed that thecouncil would not vote totransfer title to the fivebuilding sites to thedeveloper. Judge Sand, whohad learned a lot duringAugustof1988,didn’tbothertowaitforthecounciltovote,but simply ordered NeilDeLuca, still “interim” citymanager, to release the land.The next thing Spallone

grabbed forwas the buildingpermit for the housing. Thebuilder had been erroneouslyissued a “multifamily”permit, which carried stricterconstruction requirementsthan the correct “single-family” one. Spalloneannounced that the properpermitwouldnotbe reissueduntil land surveys and otherstudies were done. Sandshrugged with annoyance,

then ordered that DeLucareissue the permit. DeLucacomplied.Noonebotheredtoconsultthemayor.

Within a year of hislandslide election, Spallonewas openly feuding withDeLuca and with the othermembers of the council,including those who weretheoretically his allies. Hewas“incompetent,”theysaid,“an embarrassment,” “unable

to work with anyone.” Hewas also under attack fromthosewhoelectedhim in thefirst place. The distrust thathad sprouted shortly afterSpallone’s electionwasmoredeeply rootednow, andSaveYonkers had publiclyrenounced its former hero.Spallone ejected SaveYonkers members from CityCouncil meetings. SaveYonkers tookoutahalf-page

ad in the Herald StatesmanaccusingSpallone of “sellingout.” After one particularlynasty council meeting, themayorneededapoliceescorttoleaveCityHall,andthingslooked like 1988 all overagain.

“We will not stopattacking him,” warned JackO’Toole, the founder andhead of Save Yonkers.“Spallone, as far as we’re

concerned, will not bereelected mayor. The man isfinished.”

Notsurprisingly,Spallonebegan feeling trapped andbesieged. “I’m not the onlyrepresentative in this town,”he yelled back at SaveYonkers members. “Justmaybe I need a little moresupport.”

Things got so bad thatNickactuallyfeltsorryforhis

longtime nemesis. Thesympathy was coupled withbemusement at the fact thatwhileNick could notget thehousing built when he wasmayor, Spallone could notkeep the housing from beingbuilt. The inability of anymayortoaccomplishmuchofanything, Nick knew, was afunction of the way thegovernment of Yonkersworked.Therealpower—the

powertohire,fire,andspendmoney—still laymostlywiththe citymanager, except thathe was appointed by, andcould therefore be dismissedby, the members of the CityCouncil. The end result wasthatnoonewaseverreallyinchargeinYonkers.

Ironically, Nick’s onlymajor victory during hispunishing term in office wasto change the governing

structure of Yonkers. Thefrustration and paralysiscausedbythesystemhadledhim to appoint a CharterRevision Committee duringhis final year. The groupproposed eliminating the citymanager formofgovernmentand replacing it with a“strong mayor” system, aproposal that had beenmadebyseveralothercommissionsover time,but that hadnever

been approved by the voters.Under this incarnation of theplan, the jobof citymanagerwouldbeeliminatedentirely,and themayorwouldassumethe role and the salary thathad been the citymanager’s.Inaddition,anewpositionofCityCouncilpresidentwouldbe created to replace the jobthat had been done by themayor.

The proposal was on the

ballotinNovember1989,andwhile Nick Wasicsko wasdefeated, his strong mayorplan was approved. Spallonewould be the last mayor tohavea titlebutnoclout.Thestrong mayor system wouldgo into effect in January1992,meaningthecity’sfirststrong mayor would beelectedinNovember1991.

Hank Spallone clearlywanted to win that all-

important election. Just asclearly, his chance wasslipping away. In Septemberof1990,neartheheightofhisarguments with SaveYonkers, he announced thathewouldrunforreelectioninone year and two months.“I’m coming out, I’mrunning,” he said to anaudienceofonehundredstill-ardent supporters who hadgathered at the Italian City

Club. They were defectorsfromSaveYonkers,and theyhadformedtheirownsmaller,butrabidlyloyalgroup,calledConcerned Citizens. MaryDorman, still a fan ofSpallone’s,wasamember.

“Those people who thinkI’m such an easy turkey,comeonthen,”heshouted,asthe Concerned Citizens gavehim a standing ovation. “I’llbecampaigningtonight.”

If the early declarationwas supposed to scare offchallengers,itdidnot.Tothecontrary, it made Spallonelook vulnerable. OtherYonkers politicians beganthinkingthatthey,too,wouldlike to be the first strongmayor.Bytheendoftheyearthelistofrumoredcandidateswasnearingadozen,and thetalk at the house on the hillstarted to be less about

remodeling and more aboutpolitics. “I’m a mayor inexile,” Nick would joke,increasinglyoften.

Hedidnotmakeadefinitedecision. He was still toobruisedandunsteadyforthat.Buthetookdeepprideinthefact that the strong mayorplan was developed on hiswatch, and he liked flirtingwith the idea of runningagain. He also liked the fact

that others were watchinghim closely while he did.Duringhistimeoutofoffice,he had felt as if he were aghost in his own city—apolitician without a title is aman who does not exist.Politics,hewaslearning,hadthe power to break his heart,but it also gave it the powertobeat.

As the renovationsprogressed on their house,

Nick and Nay each found afavoritespot,one theywouldseek out when they neededsolaceor silence.ForNay, itwas the mirrored exerciseroom adjacent to the masterbedroom and next to whatwouldonedaybe themasterbath. For Nick, it was theliving room in his mother’sthird-floor apartment. Everymorning, after Nay left forwork, he would take his cup

of coffee and his threenewspapers, then climb thestairs to the spot where hemost liked to think and toread. What he found mostappealingabouttheroomwastheview.Hecouldsitandsiphis coffee and stare acrosstown at the unobstructedclocktowerofCityHall.

Billie’sNews(II)

John Santoswas released from prison onSeptember 11,1990, eightmonths less one day after hehad been arrested. He camehometoSchlobohmandtried,for a while, to keep hispromisetoBillie.Tryinghardto change, he worked twojobs,at anearbygroceryand

atamen’sclothingstore.Billie had moved out of

her mother’s apartment bythen, and intoBuildingFour,near Meeka and Mambo.John’s name was not onBillie’s lease. Officially, hestill livedwith hismother inBuilding One, but that wasjust a technicality. He andBillie talked about makingtheir living arrangementpermanent,justastheytalked

about getting married, butthey never got around todoing either of those things.Billie refused to marry Johnuntil they had the money todo it right. She thought awhite dress might lookfoolish, but she wantedsomething new and nice towear, and she definitelywanted wedding rings. Shehad seen some in GettySquare for $109, and was

determinedtohavethem.Somoneywas the reason

there was no wedding, or,maybe, there was anotherreason, too. The adventureBilliethoughtshewouldfindwith Johnhadnot turnedouttobesoexcitingafterall.Hewent to jail, she waited forhim, and now they had thisinfant who kept them up atnight and inside during theday. If shewanted humdrum

and routine, she would havestayed inhighschoolorkepther job bathing mentallyhandicappedchildren.

Whatever her frustrations,Billie had to admit that Johnwas goodwith their boy.Hewas fiercely attached to littleJohnny, willingly getting upto feed him in themiddle ofthe night. John and Billiefought a lot, “regular fightsabout the usual stuff,” she

described them, and oftenduring those bouts Billiewouldstormoutinangerandhead for her mother’s. “Goaheadandleave,”Johnwouldscream after her. “The babystaysherewithme.”

Between the fights theygot along, and John soondecided that he wantedanotherbaby.

“Let’s have a little girl,”hecooed.

Billie had her doubts, butshe agreed. John could bevery persuasive. When shetoldhimshewaspregnant,hepromised, not for the firsttime,tostophangingoutandusing drugs. (“I was sniffinga lot of coke,” he explained.“I did crack, too. Notfreebase,wejustusedtomixitwithotherdrugs,soIneverconsidered myself reallydoingit.”)

Billie tried to feel happy,but found herself crying,instead. Near the end of herthird month, she told John,“Oneisenough.Ididn’tevenwantthatone.”

Hewasfurious.“Whatareyou? Crazy?” he screamed.“What’s wrong with you—are you delirious?” His eyesbecamewild. It was the firsttimeBilliewaseverafraidofhim.

“You’re gonna have thisbaby,” he said, “even if I’mgoing tohave to lockyouupin this closet and feed youunder the door. You WILLhavethisbaby.”

Johnneverdid lockBillieup. He did something evenmore effective. When shewalked into her living roomthe following day, she foundhim lying ill on the floor,holding an empty bottle of

Tylenolpills.Atfirst,shedidn’tbelieve

him.“I need to go to the

emergency room,” he said,hisspeechslurred.

“You’refaking,”shesaid.“I’m going to my mother’shouse.Seeyoulater.”

When she did see himnext,itwasintheemergencyroom. “I’m sorry, I didn’tthinkyou took thepills,”she

said,sobbing.Hewipedawayhertears.“I want you to have the

baby,”hesaid.Shepromisedshewould.Notuntilyearslaterwould

he admit that he had beenfaking. He never actuallyswallowedanypills.

1991

BreakingGround

The phrase“idle gossip” does not applyinYonkers.Gossipisnotidle

here, it is purposeful andserious, aggressive andactive. For years, theexplosiveforceofgossipwasenough to bring hundreds ofpeopletoCityHall.Someonewould hear that somethingwas happening, and theywould phone people whowould phone more peopleuntil a crowd had gathered,seeminglyoutofnowhere.

Now, in the spring of

1991, gossip sent many ofthose same people into theircars to cruise the Yonkersstreets. Rumor was thatground would be broken atany moment on the newhousing, though thedeveloper, anticipatingprotests, was not sayingexactlywhen.Therewouldbeno announcement, and therecertainly would not be agroundbreaking ceremony.

Theonlywaytoknow—tobeoneofthefirsttoknow—wastogooutandlook.

Mary’s surveillancemethod was one of regulardetours. She never set out tocheck on the housing, butwhenever she was in the carfor another reason she waslikely to swing past one ormore of the sites for a quickpeek. Day after day, thesquareoflandatCentralPark

Avenue and Clark Streetlooked exactly the same, abarricaded asphalt parkinglot,onethatusedtobepartofthe Yonkers Raceway, withsmall, sweet homes allaround, much like Mary’sown home a few blocksaway. Night after night,nothing changed at theSchool 4 building, either. Itwas still a solid, seeminglyunmovablebuilding,standing

betweenTrenchardStreetandGaffney Place, where it hadbeenfor107years.

Nick’s visits to the siteswere more purposeful. Thehousing was not a side tripfor him, but a destination.Wandering the city had longbeen a hobby of his. Backwhenhewasmayor,hekeptapolicescannerathome,andifword came of somethingexciting, he would strap on

his ankle holster and be outthe door, usually taking Nayalongfortheride.Theywentto fires at two o’clock in themorningandautoaccidentsinthe middle of dinner. Theysaw broken water mains,flooded streets, and downedpower lines. After visiting ascene,theywouldrarelyheadhome, but would drive thestreetsforawhile,exploring.

WhenNickleftoffice,the

police scanner disappeared,but the drives became morefrequent. He would take thewheel almost every nightafter dinner, and, because hehad agreed not to smoke hisstogiesinthehouse,hecalledthetrips“cigarruns.”Drivingand puffing, he unwound onthe side streets that he hadcome to know by heart.SometimeshewentwithNay,orwitha friend,butoftenhe

went on his own. As rumorsof the groundbreaking grewlouder,thecigarrunswerenolonger aimless. He set outeach night wondering if itwouldbe the night, if all theyears of talk would finallytake tangible form. Forweeks, there was nothing.The empty lot on HelenaAvenue was still an emptylot, surrounded by modesthomes. The giant boulders

remained undisturbed onMidland Avenue, across thestreet from a condominiumcomplex and around thecorner from Sarah LawrenceCollege.Theduckscontinuedto swim in the pond acrossfromShoreviewDrive.

Then, early on themorning of April 12, 1991,the construction began.Onceit did, it seemed absurd tohave thought that anyone

wouldhavehad tosearchforit. With a grinding roar, thehousing announced itspresence on Clark Street, asworkers ground the asphaltparking lot into dirt. One ofthe bulldozers had a set ofmenacing shark jaws paintedon the front. Word spreadwithitsusualspeed,andsoona crowd of onlookers hadgatheredtowatch.

“It’s a dark day for

Yonkers,” Mayor Spallonesaid. “I really do think it’s atragedy.”

Naturally, there wereprotests. Two hundreddemonstratorsgatheredat thesite on Saturday, as theywouldeverySaturdayfor thenext fewmonths.They spentninety minutes marching infrontofthetoweringheapsofdirt that filled the batteredparking lot. Passing cars

blared their horns in support.Themarchers carriedeffigiesof Judge Sand, of NAACPlawyerMichaelSussman,andof the U.S. secretary ofhousing, Jack Kemp. Theytreated those stuffed symbolsmuch as the bulldozers hadtreated the asphalt. Onewoman kicked the Sussmaneffigy in the leg. Anotherwoman jabbed an Americanflagintoit.

The marches did nothingto stop the construction.Deluxe Homes, Inc. was runbyDonMeske,amanwhosehobbywasbiggamehunting,and whose wall trophiesincluded a CanadianmountainlionandanAfricanhorned white rhino. Theprotests, he said, were anannoyance, not a threat.“When you’re facing anelephant that weighs twelve

thousand pounds,” he said,“then you’ve got somethingtobescaredof.”

Mary did not join any ofthe weekly marches. Theywere organized by SaveYonkers, the group she hadbeenpartofuntilitturneditsback on Hank Spallone, andshe felt awkward andunwanted among her formerfriends. She did follow themarches from the sidelines,

however, reading thenewspaper and glimpsing theaction up close as shehappened to drive past.Viewedthroughhernewlens,the protests looked differentthantheyhadfromtheinside.She did not see warriorscommitted to a cause. Shesaw foot soldiers flailingaway at the air, at thenothingness,notrealizingthatthiswasafighttheycouldnot

win.Hadthingschanged,shewondered,orhadtheyalwayslookedthatway?

At one of the protests, aSave Yonkers member said:“Wehavetoshowwe’restillorganized. Right now itdoesn’t look too good, butyou got to fight down to thewire.It’snevertoolate.”

But you’re not organized,Mary thought. And it is toolate.

KennethJenkins,NAACPbranch president, respondedto the protests, saying: “Iunderstand fighting, but thepatient’s dead.Quite frankly,IthinkthepeopleofYonkersaretiredofthis.”

Maryrealizedthatshewastiredofit.Bonetired.

Weeks passed, andconcretefoundationsemergedat four of the sites: twenty-four at Clark Street, twenty-

eight at Midland Avenue,fourteen at Helena Avenue,forty-eight at ShoreviewDrive.Whiletheywerebeingpoured, workers quietlyremoved the asbestos frominside School 4. When thatmessy job was finished, amessier one began—abulldozer with a batteringram plowed into the two-story brick building andbegan tearing it apart. The

demolition started with theauditorium, and soonhundreds of seats were piledintheschoolparkinglot.Thedozer’s steel jaws continuedto devour the massivestructure, ripping out thewalls, the roof, the innardsand depositing the tangle ofbrick, metal, and wood ontothe weed-filled formerplayground.Thegrowlofthemachine was joined by the

hiss of water hoses, whichsprayed constantly to keepdownthecloudsofdust.

Again a crowd gathered,and again there was talk ofcontinuing the fight. WhenMarydrovetotheshelloftheschool, however, she didn’tsee anything left to fight for.All she saw was the finalcasualty of a lost cause, asight so painful that her firstreaction was to close her

eyes. She quickly openedthemagain,thenstartedattherubble for a long time,thinkingofallthereasonssheopposedwhatwashappeningand all that she had done inthefutileattempttostopit.

When she finally walkedback to her car, it was withthe mixture of regret andresignation. The fight wasover—she was as certain ofthat fact as she was sorry

about it. It had suffused herworld, and now itwas gone.MaryDormanwas no longerfightingthehousing.

DoreentheCandidate

Doreen Jamesheard the swish of the

envelope as it was slippedunder her door. That is howmessages from MunicipalHousing are delivered atSchlobohm,door-to-door,notbymailman.The only lettersthat seemed to come in themail were “letters indemand,”whenbackrentwasowed, or warnings that themarshalwas coming to carryoutanevictionorder.Doreenassumed the process was

designed to save the cost ofseveralhundredstampseverytime Municipal Housing hadsomething to say. But therewas an eerie quality to thesystem. In her two years atSchlobohm, she had neveractually seenwhoever it wasthatdistributedthemail.

This piece of paper wassent to inform all interestedtenants that candidates werebeing sought for the tenant

council. Because she hadspentsomanymorningswithSadie Young Jefferson,Doreen knew about thecouncil. More specifically,she knew that Sadie wasfrustratedwithit.

The group had beenfounded in 1971, during apointinthehistoryofpublic-housingpolicywhentheideaof self-governance was verymuchinvogue.Theinfluence

of that approach has waxedandwanedintheyearssince.Proponents, like Sadie, see itas democracy in its purestform.Critics say it is foolishto take people who havemade a mess of their livesand allow them to manageotherpeople’slivestoo.

In Yonkers in 1991, thetenant council consisted ofthree representatives fromeach housing site who met

once a month at the housingoffice on Central Avenue.Sadie had told Doreen that,on paper, the council hadbroad power, with theauthority to allocate certainfunds and request andapprove certain categories ofpolicy changes. But inpractice,Sadie explained, thecouncil worked against theneeds of the young, single,African-American and

Hispanic women who weretheoverwhelmingmajorityofpublic-housingresidents.

The problem, Doreenlearned, was that there weremorepublic-housing sites forsenior citizens (seven) thanthere were public-housingsites for families (five). Thesizeof the site didnot affectthenumberofdelegatestothecouncil,sotheseniorcitizens,most of whom were white,

hadadefactomajorityof21to15.Addtothatthefactthattheseniorcitizens,withmoreextra time, perhaps, or moreinterest,weremorevocalandinvolved, while the familyhousing delegates tended tobe less committed orinsistent.

READYcouldnotchangethe number of delegates, butit could change the clout ofthose delegates by selecting

andtrainingcandidatestothecouncil. Which is whyDoreen carefully read, thenreread,theletter.Formonths,Sadie had been telling herthatshewas“readytofly,”tobecomealeaderinherchosenhome. Doreen inhaled thepraise like a new kind ofdrug, but away from Sadieshehadherdoubts.

Thatnight,Sheilacametovisit Doreen, armed to

persuade.“Yougivemeallthattalk

about being independent andbeing in charge,” she said,holding the self-nominationform out toward her sister.“Here.Beincharge.”

Doreen waited severaldaysbeforesigninghername.Even after she dropped thepaperinthedesignatedboxattheMunicipalHousingoffice,she was not certain that this

wasanelectionshewantedtowin.

ReelectionRedux

Every majorturninNickWasicsko’sadultlife had been linked in timewith politics. He lost his

father to leukemia shortlybeforehewas first elected tothe City Council. He wassworn in as a lawyer duringhis first campaign formayor.HemetNayNoe because heran formayor, and he fell inlove with her during themonths of political siege.Hebought his first house as hefought to remain the mayor,and he proposed to Nay inthat house shortly after his

losing to Hank Spallone.Even his proposal carriedpolitical overtones. “You’rethe only one who’s reallystoodbyme,”hesaid.

In keeping with that lifepattern, politics waseverywhere in the spring of1991 as the preparations forhis wedding melded withpreparations for his possiblerun for City Hall. He wascertain that he wanted to

marry Nay. He was lesscertain about whether hewanted to enter the race formayor.Todosowouldmeana tough primary againstTerence M. Zaleski, aDemocratic state assembly-man with much the sameconstituency as Nick, butnone of the historicalbaggage. If he lost theprimary to Zaleski, or to theother Democratic candidate,

restaurateur James J.Mannion,would that seal hispolitical fate? Would twolossescompletetheagonizingtransformation from twenty-eight-year-old prodigy tothirty-two-year-oldhas-been?

The doubts and second-guessing were new to Nick,confining him like an ill-fitting suit that chafed andbound. In each of his threeother races, even the last,

disastrous one against HankSpallone,hewaspositivethatrunning was what he shoulddo, what he wanted to do.Polls, gossip, conventionalwisdom, none of those hadstopped him before. Nowtheyhadhimparalyzed.

Some days he talked ofthe strong mayor job asrightfullyhis,aplaceinlocalhistory for which he hadalreadypaidwithanguishand

sweat. Other days he fumedthatthetimingwasallwrong,that the wounds were toofreshandhiscitywasnotyetin a forgiving mood. Hewrestled with these pros andcons while also wrestlingwith the wording on theformal wedding invitations,the location of the ceremonyandreception,thestyleofthetwo pristine gold bands.Finally, fitfully, all of the

talking turned itself into aplan. He had learned that hewas one of four finalists forthe 1991 John F. KennedyProfile inCourageAward.Aprestigious honor, oneaccompanied by a $25,000check, it is given every yeartoapublicofficial“notedfortaking a principled stand onan issue in the face ofpolitical and publicopposition.” Although that

was not what many inYonkers seemed to think hehad done, it was what Nickhimself thoughthehaddone,and he seized upon thenomination as some sort ofsign. If he won, he decided,hewould run formayor, andhe would make hisannouncementontheheelsofreceiving the award. A yearearlier, Jackie KennedyOnassis herself presented the

coveted statuette to thewinner. What more couldYonkerswant fromhim thanthat?

Naywantedhimtorunformayor,andshesupportedtheProfileinCouragegameplan.Nick began spreading theword that hewould enter therace, and started to searcharound for a campaign team.One of the first people hecalledwasJimSurdoval,who

had launched his politicalconsulting career as anadvisertoNick,andwhowasnow an entrenched Yonkers“player.” Nick assumed Jimwouldwelcomehisnews.

“I’m sorry,” Jim said.“I’m committed to TerryZaleski.”

Not only was hesupporting Zaleski, he toldNick, but he and a group ofotherDemocratshadactively

recruited Terry Zaleski andencouragedhimtorun.

“He’s the highest-rankingDemocrat in Yonkers,” Jimexplained. “He has an eastside district, so he can carrythe east side. He’sprocompliance on housing,buthe’snotidentifiedwithit,likeyouare;hedoesn’thavethatnegative.”

“He’s not identified withit,” Nick snapped, “because

he hid up in Albany in ’88.He stayed as far away fromthehousingashecould.”

“Right,” agreed Jim. “Sonow he doesn’t have thatnegative. He’s a clean slate.It’s the first strong mayor.We need the Democrat withthebestshot.”

Nick, dizzywith surprise,tried to focus, to find someway to bring his formeradviser back around to his

side.“It doesn’t have to be a

negative,” he said. “I took acourageousstand,andIwasahero. I was the only one inthegoddamncitywhodidtherightthing.”

Jim sighed before heanswered. “‘Courage’ isn’tthe kind of word you use todescribe yourself,Nick, evenif we both know it’s true.That only works if other

peoplearesayingit.“Don’t try to make a

comeback as mayor,” Jimcontinued, giving the advicehe knew would most helpZaleski. “They’re not readyfor you as mayor. Run forcouncil, instead. We’llsupportyouinthat.”

Soon after his talk withJim Surdoval, Nick learnedthat the Profile in CourageAward, the linchpin in his

plan, would be presented tosomeone else. His mind, hisemotions, his lifewere all inchaos. The two subjects, thewedding and the mayoralrace, became ever moreenmeshed at 175 YonkersAvenue—hors d’oeuvres andnominating petitions, tablesettings and campaignslogans, the beginning oftheir life together and thecrossroads inNick’s political

life.NickandNaysquabbledand talked past each other,twopeoplewhowere in lovebut also in turmoil. Nayadmitted to Nick her reliefthathedidnotwintheaward,becauseitwouldbepresentedduring their honeymoon.WhatNickheardwasthatshehadnotwantedhimtowin.

In the end, Nick decidedto run for mayor anyway,more out of confusion than

resolve. He scheduled hisannouncement for May 1because it wasNational LawDay and he had, above all,compliedwiththelaw.

As that day approached,however,hestartedreceivingtelephone calls from peoplehe assumed would supporthim. “I thought you shouldknow,” they said, “I’mbehind Terry Zaleski.” Theyexplained, as Jim Surdoval

had, thatZaleskihadabetterchance because he was a“cleanslate.”TheyevenusedmanyofthesamephrasesthatSurdoval had used. The onlything they didn’t say wassomething Nick quicklyfigured out—that Surdovalhadaskedallofthemtocall.

At the last moment, Nickabruptly changed hisannouncementtoMay13,histhirty-secondbirthday,giving

himsomemoretimetothink.He asked Jim to set up a“face-to-face” with TerryZaleski,andhespentmuchofthat weekend at Zaleski’shouse, listening as Zaleskitried to talk him out of therace. Nay came, too, andwhile Nick listened to Terryinthelivingroom,NayheardmostofthesamethingsfromTerry’swife,Lynn,outinthekitchen.

“You don’t want thisnow,” the Zaleskis said.“You’re gettingmarried, youdon’t need this.” There wasmuch talk of a dividedprimary that would giveMannion the nomination andSpallone the election. Therewas mention of Nick beingappointeddeputymayoronceZaleskiwaselected.

Nickhadaskedhisfiancéetocomealongbecausehehad

come to rely on her sense ofpeople.Overtheyearshehadrealizedthatwhathefirstsawasshynesswasreallyinsight.Nay would stand quietly toone side at a political event,seemingly overwhelmed, butlater, when they would dishthe dirt after the party, shewould have noticed thingsthathadgonerightpastNick.He also asked her to comewith him to the Zaleskis’

because he feared Terrywould have some of hispolitical advisers there, JimSurdoval in particular, andNickwanted to bring a teamalong, too. But the harshreality was, he didn’t have ateam. Nay was the onlyperson who was completelyonhisside.

When they left themarathon meeting, Nay wasfull of advice. “He’s a

weasel,” she said,ofZaleski.She did not buy Terry’sarguments or believe hispromises. “Where was hewhile you were beingcrucified over the housing?HewasupinAlbany,andhedidn’tevenpickupthephoneonce to tell you to hang inthere.”

Having asked Nay’sadvice on the eve of theirwedding, he rejected it. He

held his press conference asscheduled onMay 13, but itwas a very different eventthantheonehehadoriginallyplanned. He and TerryZaleski stood side by side inthedrivewayofNick’shouseas Nick announced that hewouldnotrunformayor,butwould give his support toZaleski,instead.

It was a political andpersonal sacrifice, Nick said,

made for the good of theparty.

“This was not an easydecision for me,” he said. “IwastornbetweenwhatIfeltIwas entitled to do and whatwas helpful. I’ve beenagonizingformonthsthatthissplit could weaken thegeneral effort. The thing thatmatters is getting Spalloneand the Republicans out ofgovernment.”

The knot of reporters inthe driveway didn’t reallybelieve those were hisreasons,andneitherdidNay.She spent the next few daysarranging their rehearsaldinner and arguing politicswith him. “He’ll nevermakeyoudeputy,” she said. “If hereally thought you weren’t athreat, why did he work sohardtogetyouout?Ifyou’reafraid of another race in this

town, then admit it. Don’tpretend you’re doing this fortheparty.”

On May 15, Nick madeanother announcement. Hewould run for the CityCouncilseatfromtheSecondDistrict,theonethathadbeenheld by Peter Chema, whowouldbegiving itup to faceHank Spallone and AngeloMartinelli in the Republicanprimary.

“I want to see Terryelected,” he said, “but I alsowanttoseehimeffective,andnobody knows better than Ithat an obstructionist CityCouncil can detract from amayor’seffectiveness.”

Three days later, atnoon, Nick Wasicskomarried Nay Noe at thechurchwherehisownparentshadwed.Nick had promisedhis bride that this would not

be a political event, but thatwas not the way his lifeworked, and it was not apromise he could keep. Anarticle in the HeraldStatesmanmentioned that the“wedding ceremony is opento the public at the church,239 Nepperhan Ave.” ACablevision crew came tocover the event, a fact thatmadeNaymorenervousthanthe idea of actually getting

married. Neither TerryZaleski nor Hank Spallonewas invited, butNay noticedthem seated in the pews asshe walked down the aisle.The reception, at a countryclub in the nearby village ofNewRochelle,includedasit-downdinnerfor150.

Three days after thatparty,theWasicskosleftforatwo-week honeymoon inSpain and Morocco, where

they discussed politics muchof the time.While theyweregone, the John F. KennedyLibraryFoundationinBostonannounced that Nicholas C.Wasicsko was one of threerunners-up out of onethousand nominees for theProfile in Courage Award.The winner was CharlesLongstreetWeltner, a formerGeorgia congressman whowas recognized for refusing

to run for reelection in 1966on the same ticket as anadvocate of racialsegregation.

In a statementaccompanying theannouncement, thefoundationsaidofNick:

“Althoughhecame to theofficeofmayorwithonlytwoyears’ experience as anelected official, Wasicskodistinguished himself as a

manofconscienceunderfire.Hesummonedthecouragetouphold the rule of law anddemonstrated extraordinaryleadership for the people ofhisdividedcity.”

Someone else had finallysaiditabouthim.

TheTownhouses

Appear

InJuly,thefirstof the townhouses arrived inYonkers. It was driven toClarkStreeton thebackofaflatbed truck, and it had theeerie disembodied look thatall prefabricated buildingshave when they are still intransit.

OscarNewmanhadnever

consideredusinganythingbutprefabunitsforwhatwere,inso many ways, histownhouses. Not only werethey less expensive, but,equally important given theirhistory in Yonkers, theircreationwaslesspublic.Onlythe brick veneer would belaidatthesite,meaningtherewould be less cause forprotest and fewer targets forvandalism.Nearlyeverything

would be done three hoursaway, in the working-classtown of Berwick,Pennsylvania. Once coal-mining country, the regionhad adapted to its owninevitable realities bybecomingthehubofmodularhome construction in thenortheast.

The two huge dustyfactory buildings that housedDeluxe Homes, Inc. were

once part of a railroad carmanufacturing plant that hadclosed its doors thirty yearsearlier. The Yonkerstownhouses began in thosebuildings, as steel coilsweretransformed, amid a grindingshower of sparks, into thewall studs and trusses thatwould support the buildings.These beams were then sentnext door and placed on a1,200-foot assembly line, the

lengthoffourfootballfields.There,weldersmoldedthe

studs and trusses, creatingwall, floor, ceiling, and roofframes. The frames wereplaced in the carts that ranalong the vestigial railroadtracks, and the cartscontinuedon theirway, fromonework station to the next.Plumbing, gas, electric, anddrainage lines were added.Window frames were

installed.Plywood floors andplasterboard walls andceilings were glued andbolted on. A completebathroom, made in anotherpart of the building, wasloadedin.

Eventually the frames,each one a separate room,were attached to form alarger, single-story box. Aroof was attached. Insulationwas installed, along with

windows, doors, lighting,bathroom fixtures, kitchencabinets and counters,doorknobs, and floor tiles.Near the end of the line,workers on stilts taped andspackledseamsintheceilingsand walls. Finally, each halfof the two-piece duplex waswrapped in plastic andhoisted onto a trailer for thetrip to Yonkers. Everytownhouse arrived as a done

deal, a fait accompli. Notonlywere theunitsmadeoutof sight, they were installedquickly.Theone that arrivedatClarkStreetonJuly9wasboltedontoitsfoundationthatsame day. After that, thecompletion rate was two orthree a day. Within a week,the outline of a nascentneighborhood was clearlydrawn on Clark Street.Although Oscar Newman’s

hard-won brick veneer,cream-colored paint, andhigher-quality landscapingwould not be added untillater, the peaked roofs andbay windows were alreadyvisible, and the neighborsgrudgingly agreed that thehousing looked “prettygood.”

Therewereafewattemptsto rekindle the old fight.Someone—mischievous kids,

the FBI decided—painted“No Nigger” and “KKK” onone of the newly installedbuildings, and broke thewindows of two others.Around the same time, theCity Council tried its ownform of vandalism, brieflythreatening to withhold asewer permit for the ClarkStreetsite.HUDpresenteditsown last-minute roadblocks,skirmishing with Oscar

Newman about everythingfrom the gauge of the tubingonthebackyardfencestothelocation of the outdoor trashcans.

He lost the fight over thefences. He had envisioned awrought-ironlooktoseparatethe individual yards, butHUDwouldnotpayforeventhe faux version of wroughtiron, so he was forced tosettle for galvanized iron

chain-link instead. He hadmore success with the trashcans. The agency wantedcommunal trash cans—a bigDumpster shared by severalfamilies. It was the leastexpensive type of container,and the kind that had alwaysbeenusedathousingprojects.Newman wanted eachtownhouse to have its owninground trash can,which fitin ametal sheath set next to

the walk leading up to eachhome. Itwouldmake tenantstake responsibility for theirgarbage, he argued, if theycould not pile it on ananonymous heap somewhere.In the end, Peter Smith tookNewman’s side and clearedthe way for the individualcontainers,buthedidsowithalookthatsaid,“It’sonyourheadifthisdoesn’twork.”

The nearer the housing

cametocompletion,themoreoften Newman heard thatmessage: these townhouseswere his idea; their failurewould be his, as well. Thereis nothing more nerve-wracking than being inchesfrom a lifelong goal.Everything Newman hadlearned over thirty yearswasbuilt into the housing. So itwaswith amix of pride andjitters that Newman took

Judge Sand to visit the sitesonedreary,chillyafternoon.

Sand said somecomplimentary things, butmostlyhewasquiet.Newmancould not decide if the judgewas displeased, or simplyoverwhelmedby thephysicalembodiment of more than adecade of work. But whenthey walked into thebackyards and Sand stareddisapprovingly at the chain-

linkfencing,Newmandidnothave to wonder what theJudgewasthinking.

“They look like pigsties,”Sand said. “Is it reallynecessary to have thefencing?”

Newman took a deepbreath and explained howfencing, even the ugliestfencing,wasbetter thannoneat all. “The rear yards willtake on a very different

character once they’reoccupied,” he said. Andwithout the fencing, hecontinued,therewouldbe“nosense of ownership, nofeelingofresponsibility.”Theareawouldbecomeonehugeyard, he said, that everyonewould neglect and,eventually,noonewoulduse.

Sand shook his head inanswer.

“I hope you know what

you’redoing”wasallhesaid.

TheElectionof1991

HenrySpallone never made it ontothe strong mayor ballot. Hisprimary campaign was astudy in confusion, with a

$38,000 debt that hetemporarily repaid with apersonal loan. Peter Chemawon theRepublican primary,leadingAngeloMartinelli byone hundred votes. Spallonewas a distant third. In abizarre turn, Judge LeonardSand, a lifelong Democrat,receivedonewrite-invote.

Rejected by theRepublicans,Spallonetriedtorun as an independent, but

Chema challenged hisdesignating petitions. Fifteenhundred signatures werenecessary to qualify for theindependent line. A total of2,150 people had signedSpallone’s petitions, butChema proved that 675 ofthose were invalid under thestate’s complex and arcaneelectionlaw,leavingSpallonetwenty-five signatures shortof a second chance.Spallone

appealed the decision of theBoard of Elections, andproved to the State SupremeCourt that some of thedisallowed signatures wereactuallyvalid,but therewerenot enough of those toqualify.

Mary Dorman was in thecourtroomwhenSpallone,thefight gone out of him,accepted the decision. It wasover, he said, he would not

appeal. She was furious thathewaswalkingaway fromafight—hewhohadtaughtherhowtofightinthefirstplace.Andshewasembarrassedforhim. Here was amanwhosecareer was based on hisdefiance of a court order.Now that same career wasended by compliance with acourtorder.

Outside the courthouse,Spallonevowed that thiswas

the end of his campaign, notthe end of his career. Hewould be back, he said. Buthadn’t he also promised thathe would never permit low-income housing in Mary’sneighborhood?When groundwas broken on thetownhouses, she had stoppedbelievinginthefight,not theman. With this withdrawalfrom the race, she could nolonger believe in the man,

either. Politics was now ahabitforher,andtherewouldbe unfillable hours if it wasgone, so she spent theremaining month of thecampaign halfheartedlyworking for AngeloMartinelli,whohadnot beendisqualified from theindependent ballot. She didnot really believe inMartinelli, but for themoment that didn’t matter.

Working for him distractedher from the fact that shewould now need somethingnewtobelievein.

Terry Zaleski receivedonly36percentofthevoteonElection Day, but that wasenough to become the firststrongmayorofYonkers.Asusual, the election resultsshowed a divided city, withfive of six precincts on thewest side voting for Zaleski,

the candidate with the mostmoderate position ondesegregation,andfiveofsixprecincts on the east sidevoting for Chema, thestrongest desegregationopponent intherace.Alsoasusual,morevoterswenttothepollsontheeastsidethanonthe west side. The onlyreason Zaleski won wasbecause Martinelli took acrucial east sidedistrict from

PeterChema.Despite the slim margin,

despite the lasting divisions,Zaleski declared victorywiththe same confidence thatevery politician feels onelectionnight.“Thishastrulybeen a campaign for thefuture of the city ofYonkers,” he declared justafter11:00P.M.

While Zaleski wascelebrating, Nick Wasicsko

was home, stunned at thedirection his own SecondDistrict race was taking.Because he had won theDemocratic primary by a 3-to-1margin,andbecausethiswas a heavily Democraticdistrict, Nick had expected afairlyeasywininthegeneralelection. Instead, the earlyresults showed him losing tohis opponent, EdwardMagilton, a political first-

timer whose day job was asanoperationsspecialistinthecity Department of PublicWorks. At 10:30 P.M.,

Magilton led Wasicsko by150votes.Overthenexthouror so, the race began totighten, and with 97 percentof the votes counted,Magilton’s leadwasdown to40 votes. At midnight, Nickobtained a court order toimpoundthevotingmachines

forarecount.Hewenttobedat 2:30 in the morning,wonderingwhetherheshouldhaveconcededtheracewhenthere was no one awake tohearhim.

Morningbroughtthenewsthat more of the votes hadbeen counted, and in oneprecinct he led 137 to 60,enoughtomovehimfrom40votes behind to 30 votesahead.Bythetimehedressed

and left the house, all theremainingprecinctshadbeencounted, and he was trailingagain—bytwovotes.

Itwasseveraldaysbeforetherecount,andhespentthattime becoming increasinglycertainthathispoliticalcareerwasover.“Iblewit,”hesaid.“What am I going to donow?”

He was despondent. Hespent hours sitting by the

phone.Thereweresomecallstellinghimto“hanginthere”or “it will all work out,” buttherewerenotasmanyashethought there should be and,more important, not onewasfrom Terry Zaleski. “Isacrificed it all for thatguy,”hesaid.“Hecan’tpickupthephone?” Eventually, Zaleskidid call. What Nick neverknew was that Nay,frightened by her husband’s

growing depression, hadcontacted Jim Surdoval,demanding that Zaleski talktoNick.

The recount of all thevotingmachinesgaveNickasixteen-vote lead. Anotherfew days passed while theabsentee ballots were tallied.Nick gained another tenvotes. The final count was3,006forWasicskoand2,980forMagilton.NickwasaCity

Council member again, by amarginoftwenty-sixvotes.

PartTwo

TheRebuilding

1992

TheLottery

By twos andthrees, with fingers crossedand lucky charms palmed,

hundreds of people steppedfrom the darkness of SchoolStreet and into the bright,warm gym. As they enteredthe crowded room, theysquinted in the fluorescentlights, then scanned theendlessrowsoffoldingchairsin the slimchanceof findingaseat.

They had not expectedthat therewould be a crowd.The thunderstorm alone

should have been enough tokeep everyone at home,especially at a place likeSchool Street. No one goesoutatnightonSchoolStreet,just as no one goes out atnight in any of the otherhousing projects in Yonkers—notiftheycanhelpit.

But what was beingoffered in the gym on thisnightwasapowerfuldraw,sothe room was filled, and the

crowd was still coming. Sixpolice officers werepositioned along one wall,appearing to expect trouble.While the children ranthrough the aisles, stagingsword fights with closedumbrellas, their parentsweredistracted by the batteredmetal and Plexiglas drum onthe stage at the front of thegym.Itwas,literally,abingodrum. Peter Smith, the head

of the Municipal HousingAuthority, had borrowed itfrom the Polish CommunityCenter, two long blocksaway.

Standing on the stage,feeding 220 names into thebingo drum, Smith wasunnervedbyalltheeyesuponhim and sobered by howfittingthiscontraptionwastohis task. Itwasa toy, andhewas using it to play with

people’s lives. He knew hecould not use a computer.The people in this room,justifiably suspicious ofanything they could not see,would have no faith in acomputerlottery.Butstill,thesymbolismofthebingodrumweighed heavy on him.Wasn’t this in keeping withthe capricious nature of theentire housing case, whichhad been brought because

somelawyerssomewherehadchosen to concentrate onYonkers?Didn’titreflecttherandom, inadequatenatureofthe solution: five thousandresidentsofpublichousinginthe city, and, after all theyearsofturmoil,afirstroundof only seventy-onetownhouses? And, certainly,there could be no moreperfectway to symbolize thetwo-steps-behind-the-times

feel of Yonkers. Any othercity, Peter thought, wouldhave figured out a way toavoid such a circus. Othercities would never havegotten themselves into thismessinthefirstplace.

ToNormaO’Neal, it did notfeellikeacircus.Fromwhereshe sat, up in the front row,this was a celebration.

Tucked in her handbag,whichsheheldtightlyonherlap, were two letters fromMunicipal Housing. Shecouldnotreadtheletters,butshe knew what they saidbecause her friend PatWilliamshadreadthemaloudtohersomanytimes.BynowNorma knew the words byheart, and she expected themtochangeherlife.

The first of the envelopes

had been slipped under herdoor one January morning,looking just like every formletter from MunicipalHousing,andPathadopeneditwithoutanyparticularsenseof anticipation. But from thefirstword,itdidnotsoundtoNorma like any other lettershe had ever received. It didnot begin “Dear tenant,” likemost of the others, or “DearMiss O’Neal,” like the few

moreworrisomeones.Insteaditbegan:

Bulletin.To: AllResidents ofPublic Housingin the City ofYonkers

With theapproval of theFederal Court,tenant selection

forthenewunitsof publichousingconstructed inEast Yonkerswill be open tocurrentresidents ofpublic housingin the City ofYonkers.

142 Units ofpublic housing

will becompleted sometime near theendof thisyear.Under theprocedureapproved byJudge Sand,tenants will beselected on thebasisofanopenlottery.

The

Authority isrequesting thattenants who areinterested inmoving to thehousing indicatetheir interest byfilling out theform below. Ifyou needassistance, therent office willhelp you

complete theform.

Residentsselected for thenew units musthave a goodrent-payingrecord with theAuthority, theirapartmentsmustbe kept in aclean, sanitarycondition, and

they must haveno outstandinglease violationspendingwiththeAuthority.

The formwas due in twoweeks. Norma spent thoseweeks angling for atownhouse.Thelettersaidtherentofficewouldhelpherfillout the form, but the kind ofhelp she needed was more

direct and heavyhanded thanthat.Thelettertalkedaboutalottery,andshedidn’twanttoputher trust ina lottery.Shehad livedwith the burden ofblindnessforthreeyearsnow.Shehadlostherjobtoitandalso losther freedom to it. Itwas time it did her somegood.

She had heard that PeterSmithwasa“niceman”who“sometimes could help” and

she tried to reach him bytelephone. When that didn’twork, she learned that hewould be at an appointmentin Schlobohm one afternoon,and shewaitednear thedoorforhim.

“Mr. Smith,” she calledout, when she saw the hazyshapeofabaldingwhitemanina suit and tie.He stopped.Shehelduptheenvelopelikea ticket of admission. “I

wouldliketospeaktoyou.”Smith came closer, and

Norma could almost see hisface. “I’m legallyblind,” shesaid. “I can’t see. I’m scaredto go in and out of theapartment. Can you help mewith this?” She unfolded theletterandhandedittohim.

Smithglancedatthepieceof paper, then looked muchmorecloselyatNorma.

“There are handicapped

units at each site,” he said,“for those who qualify. Doyou require homeassistance?”

“It’shardtogethomecarehere,” she said, then, fearingthat would somehowdisqualify her, she added, “Igo every week to Guild fortheBlind.”

“Whendidyoustartgoingthere?”

“Two years ago next

March.”“Have one of the ladies

therewritemealetter,”Smithsaid.“I’llseewhatIcando.”

What he didwas sign thesecond letter, which hadarrived—by proper mail thistime—several days beforethislottery.

“You have been selectedfor an opportunity to moveinto the new housing andhave been assigned a

handicapped apartment,” itsaid. “Congratulations toyouand your family. Very TrulyYours,PeterSmith.”

With a mixture of guilt anddefiance, Doreen Jamesfound an aisle seat near themiddle of the room. Shepeeled off her raincoat,helpedJaronoutofhis,shookthe water off of each, and

settled her little boy on herample lap. She still wasn’tcertainsheshouldbehere.

Bythetimeshe’dreceivedthe application for thetownhouse lottery, Doreenhad been a member of thetenant council for severalmonths.SheshowedthelettertoSheila,whoarguedthatsheshouldthrowitaway.

“You need to stay hereand finishwhat you started,”

said Sheila, who hadpersuaded Doreen to run forthe council in the first place.“Nothingwill ever happen ifthebestpeopleleave.”

Doreenshruggedherslowsigh of a shrug. She didn’tbelieve she had “started”much of anything. She tookminimalprideinherelection,because she was the onlycandidateforherpositionandfew Schlobohm tenants even

voted. Dutifully, she heldweekly meetings for theresidents, but it was a rareevening when more thanthree people came. Thosewhodidcomespent thehourcomplaining. Guided bySadie, Doreen had grandplans: tenant securitypatrols,cooperative maintenanceschedules,aresident-runday-care center. But the tenants,she told Sheila, “didn’t want

totalkaboutnothingbuthowtheirsinkneedstobedone,ortheir closet door hasn’t beenfixedandhowtheycalledandcalled and nothinghappened.” So Doreen spentthe meetings making lists ofnames, apartment numbers,and needed repairs, andforwarding them to PeterSmith at the MunicipalHousingoffice.

Soon after her election,

she was appointed to thecouncil’sSteeringCommitteefor Comprehensive Grants,which has the power todecide how large amounts ofgrant money from HUDcouldbestbespent.This,too,soundedmorepromisingthanDoreen found it to be. Shehad countless ideas for howmoney could be used atSchlobohm: “We needsecurity.We need fences for

children in the playground.We need roof doors, frontdoors,backdoors.”Shetypedthesesuggestionsup,too,andsent them off to CentralAvenue. Usually, nothinghappened. A few of herrequests were granted, thenew doors for instance, andshe found that even moredisheartening than thesilence, because it took nomorethanafewweeksbefore

all those new doors werescarred or broken in someway. Each small action shemight take seemed soinsignificantagainsttheover-whelming whole that shewondered why she evenbothered.

“Nothing makes you feelgood?”Sheilaasked.

Doreen rubbed her tiredtemples and thought beforeshe spoke. “Yes,” she said,

“therewas one time,when awoman who I didn’t knowcame over to me and saidthankyouforhernewdoor.”

Realizing she was on thelosing end of the argument,Sheilachangedherapproach.The townhouses, sheworriedaloud, were a setup, aseductive trap, acharade thatwasintendedtofail.

“They built them fast, sothey’ll fall apart fast,”Sheila

said. “Then they can pointandsay, ‘Toldyouso.Thoseblackfolkscan’t takecareoftheir things.’YouknowwhatSadie calls them? She callsthem ‘cardboard houses.’They have to do this, sothey’redoingit,butthatdon’tmean they have to want tomakeitwork.”

Grassmaynotgrowinthecramped destitution ofSchlobohm, but rumor and

conspiracy theory find fertileground, and this was anaccusation that Doreen hadheard before. She had longsince learned to ignore suchtalk, also with a shrug—onethat didn’t quite say“nonsense,” but rather “I’llwaitandsee.”

SheshruggedhershrugatSheila, who stopped andaltered course yet again.Leaningforwardinherchair,

herhandsfoldedon the tablein front of her, her tonebecameurgent.

“You’llgetyourselfkilledoverthere,”shesaid.

Sheila ripped up theapplication that night, thencrumpled the pieces into aball and threw them away.The next morning, Doreenwalked into her building atSchlobohm and learned thatsome kid—they never did

catchhim—setapaintcanonfire in the elevator and blewthe inside of the car apart.Therewasahugehole in thefloor, the buttons weremelted, and the entireelevator (there was only onein each building) had to berebuilt.

Doreen steered Jarontoward the acrid stairwell.The three-year-old boy wastoo heavy to carry up the

seven flights, but too youngto keep his hands off theurine-coated banister. AsDoreen struggled toward thetop floor, wheezing fromexertionandanger, themuckon the stairs became a flood.Thenewdoortotheroof,sherealized, was broken, andwater from outside wasgushingdownthestepslikeariver. Somewhere on thatstaircase she decided she

could no longer be aSchlobohm representativebecause she could no longerbear to live in Schlobohm.Shewalkedbackdowntothemainoffice,askedforanotherapplication,andfilleditout.

In the weeks since then,she and Sheila had carefullyavoided all talk of the newhousing. Instead, Doreenreplayedandrevisedtheirlastconversation continually in

her head, repeating Sheila’swords, then silently arguingback with her own. Maybeshedidhaveanobligation tothe “cause,” she thought, butcouldn’t she become arepresentative on the othersideoftown?Andmaybethetownhouseswere destined tofail, she agreed, but for themomenttheywerebetterthanSchlobohm.

The only part of the

quarrelthatshedidnotrevisitduring these silent argumentswas Sheila’s warning:“You’ll get yourself killedover there.” Then, as now,she had no rebuttal. Sittinghere at the lottery, watchingthe bingo drum, she stillworried that her sister mightberight.

BythetimeAlmaFeblesand

her family arrived, the onlyvacantseatswereintheback,andtherewerenotenoughofthem for Alma, her sisterDulce,Alma’sthreechildren,and Dulce’s two. Dulce’sgrowndaughterstookFrankieandVirgiliotostandneartherear wall, and Leyda satbetween her mother and heraunt.

Alma had been surprisedthat her sister had applied to

be here tonight. This movewassomethingparentsdofortheir children,Alma thought,and Dulce’s daughters wereno longer children.Theyhadmadeitintotheirteens,outofschool, into jobs, out ofdanger. They did all thatwithout getting injured, orpregnant, or worse. ForVirgilio,Leyda, andFrankie,there were years of landmines ahead. Not only that,

Alma had learned Englishduring her years atSchlobohm while Dulce hadnot. Who would her sistertalktoontheeastside?

Alma never asked Dulcewhy she had entered thelottery.She feared that if shevoicedthequestion,hersisterwould hear her anger. In theweekssincetheysentintheirapplications, the two womentalked only about how they

would decorate theirapartments, the parties theywouldhavethere,theflowersthey would plant in thebackyards.Theynever talkedabout what would happen ifonly one was given thechancetomove.

Instead they sat, withnoise all around but silencebetween them. Leyda rubbedthe statue of the BlessedVirgin thatshehad tucked in

herpocket.Withequalfervor,Alma fingered the glossypages of the housewarescatalog she carried in herpurse.

When the letter for thehousinglotteryarrived,Almahad recently started a newjob, talking to Spanish-speaking clients over thephone at the personal injurylaw firm of Fitzgerald &Fitzgerald. The seven dollars

anhourpleasedher,butwhatshe truly relished was thefreedom. Now that thechildrenwereallolderandinschool, she could take a jobthat got her away fromSchlobohm every day, andinto another world. A worldwhere people took walks atlunchtime,worenewclothes,owned cars, and decoratedtheir windows with curtainsandpottedplants.

Thelottery,comingontheheelsof thenew job, seemedlike an omen to Alma. First,workhadgrantedher adailypass into the world beyondthe projects; next, the mailhad brought her thispermanent plan of escape.Ever since the letter arrivedshe had been feeling oddlylucky. For the first time inyears she began dreaming,and once begun, the dreams

were too delicious to stop.She knew she shouldn’t getthe children’s hopes up, andshetriedtoremindthemoftenthat there were so fewtownhouses and so manyeligible people, but she wasincapableofkeepingherownexpectations in check. Shehadforgottenhowgoodhopefelt.

Oneafternoon,shearrivedhomecarryinga large,heavy

box. “What’s that?” Leydaasked, as Alma put the boxdown on the worn counter,then opened the silverwaredrawer and began to set thetable.

“New pots,” Almaanswered. “Three of them,metal ones, heavy iron, verygood quality, in threedifferentsizes.Iboughtthemfrom a woman at work whosells through a catalog. They

cost one hundred and fiftydollars, but I can pay herthirteendollarsaweek.”

“We need new pots,”Leyda said, banging thedented aluminum one on thestove with a ladle foremphasis.

“We need neweverything,” said Alma,rummaging through thedrawer in search of spoons,which were always in

mysteriously short supply inher kitchen. She suspectedFrankie threw them away sohe would not have to washthem. “But these aren’t fornow. I’m not opening themyet. They’re for the newapartment.”

From then on, thehouseware catalogs wereAlma’s obsession. She couldnot keep herself away fromthe glossy, self-indulgent

pages. Each photo showedlifeasAlmawantedittobe—contented people in cheerfulsettings using an array ofgadgetsanditemsdesignedtomake life orderly and undercontrol.Mostoftheitemsshesent for—including the pots—were more than she couldreally afford, but thetownhouse that was fated tobe hers would need to befully stocked.Dreamsdonot

comecheap.So she ordered the pieces

of her fantasy, and carefullystored theunopenedboxes inaclosetwhentheyarrived.

“What’sthepointofapotif you can’t cook in it?”Leydawouldask.

“They’retoogoodforthisplace, I can’t explain it,”Almawouldsay.

“Just like us?” Leydaasked.Almadidn’tanswer.

Billie Rowan arrived at theSchoolStreet gymat the lastminute,soshestoodnear thedoorway, leaning hershoulderagainst thewall,notbotheringtosearchforaseat.She felt airy and untetheredas she looked around at thecrowd.Hermoodwassolightthat the simpleactofclosingherumbrellamadehersmile.Because of the storm, hermotherhadagreedtokeepthe

children fora fewhours,andBilliewas blissfully alone. Itwasanoccasionsorarethatitwas worth celebrating, soBillie had taken the time tofixherselfup,somethingelseshe had not done in months.Why put on themakeup andjewelry, she’d decided,whenthere’s no one around tonotice?But tonight, sheeventookofftherattykerchiefthathad covered her cornrows

lately.Shewasalmostcertainthat no one could see thespots where stress hadthinnedherhair.

She was stressed becauseJohnwas inprisonagain—tono one’s surprise but herown.Hehadpulledaknifeona couple whom he may ormay not have been trying torob, and had been sentencedto eighteen months at theCayugaCorrectionalFacility,

which was a five-hour busride from Yonkers. He hadbeen there when theirdaughter, Shanda MaySantos, was born, and thistime Billie did not rush herbabytoaprisonwaitingroomasshehaddonewithJohnny.If John had cared so muchaboutseeinghisdaughter,shethought, then he would havefound a way to stay out oftrouble.

ShewasangryatJohn,butshe was not through withhim.Tothecontrary,hefillednearlyallherthoughts.WhenJohn comes home, shepromised herself, I can gointo the bathroom alone.When John comes home, Ican take a shower with thedoor closed. So manysentencesinherheadseemedto start “When John comeshome…” When John comes

home,theywouldhaveareallife.Theywouldbeafamily.The children would behave.The house would be clean.Shewould learn to cook.Hewould get a job. Nothingwould be like it was before.Nothingwouldbe like itwasnow.

She tried to keep thethoughts positive, but thepinpricks of reality keptintruding. In the three years

thatJohnandBilliehadbeentogether, the amount of timehe had actually been hometotaled less than six months.He had never spent herbirthday with her. He barelyknew his son, he did notknowhisdaughter,andBilliewonderedhowmuchsheandJohn knew each other. Shedid not have a singlephotograph of the man thatwasnottakeninprison.

In one of John’s mostrecent letters, he hadredefined his aimlessness asfate.Itwasfatethatsenthimtoprison,andfatewouldtakecare of him when he cameout. Shortly after he’d sentthatletter,Billiehadfilledouttheapplicationforthelottery.She was trusting those samefates topickhernameoutofthe bingo drum, and to handher a new life, a new start.

Shebelievedthisfantasythathe could do right as fiercelyas she believed his years ofassurances that he had neverreallydoneanythingwrong.

When Peter Smithwalked tothe microphone, shortlybefore eight o’clock, thecrowd became relativelysilent. A baby began to cry,andhismotherquicklyslida

pacifierintohismouth.Therewere a few sneezes, somethroat-clearing, and morethan a handful of fidgetychildren, but overall it wasquiet enough to hear a bingodrumspin.

Smith wasted little timeintroducinghimselfbeforehepicked the first folded paperout of the drum. “Numberone,Delphina Paige.”Out inthe audience, the owner of

thatnamejumpedupanddida little dance at her seat.Nameafternamewaspickedfrom the seeminglybottomless drum, and eachwasmetbycheersortearsora fist pumped in the air in avictorysalute.

“Number nine, DoreenJames.” Doreen buried herface in her hands so Jaronwouldnotseehercry.

“Number forty-three,

BillieRowan.”Billiegrinnedat no one in particular for afew minutes, then gleefullyranhomeintherain.

As the barrel spun, thenoise level in the room rose,and Smith found himselfshoutingintothemicrophone.Alma barely heard him callher sister’s name. “Numberseventy-one, DulceManzueta.” That meantAlma’s nieces were going.

Her grown nieces whoalready had jobs andapartments of their own, anddidn’t have to spend everyafternoon locked away athome. Alma gave her sisterwhat she hopedwas a joyfulsmile, then reached for herowndaughter’shand.

Just then, Smith stoppedthe drum from spinning. Hehelduphishands, asking forquiet. “The first seventy-one

nameshavebeenchosen,”hesaid.“Thereareonlyseventy-one apartments right now.”Whathedidn’texplainatthatmoment was that 142townhouses had been built,but Municipal Housing haddecidedtofillhalfwiththosewho already lived in publichousing and half with thosewhowere on thewaiting listfor public housing. Only thecurrentresidentlistwasbeing

created on this night. “Wewill keep picking names, buteveryone else will be on thewaitinglist.”

The crowd became moresubdued. The applause thatgreeted each name washalfhearted and the air in theroom felt damp and heavy.Peoplewhoalreadyhad theiranswerbegan tohead for thedoor.Almawanted to followthem.

“Number one sixty-seven,” Smith finally said.“AlmaFebles.”

Leyda jumped from herseat, theway shewas poisedtodoallnight.Sheflungherarms around her mother’sneckandsobbed.

“They picked our name,they picked our name,” shestammered through chokingtears. Her mother simplystroked the little girl’s back.

She didn’t have the heart toexplainabout thewaiting listjustthen.

TheOtherSideoftheFence

Mary Dormanwassittingatthepockmarked

wooden table in theconference room of theGrinton I. Will Library,takingnoteson the legalpadinfrontofherandpretendingthat what she was hearingmade sense. Shewould havekilledforacupofcoffee,butalthough there was anautomatic coffee-maker ontheshelfnearthedoor,itwasalways empty. There was atelevision and a VCR, too,

but they were bothunplugged. Mary suspectedthat Bob turned all thesethings off each evening sothat there would be nodistractions,nothingtodobutlistentohimtalk.Thatwouldhavebeeneasier,shethought,ifshe’dhadaclueastowhathewastalkingabout.Allsheknew for certain was that ithad little to do with thehousing.

Bob was RobertMayhawk, who had enteredher life with a phone callseveralweeksearlier.Itwasabrief call, less than tenminutes,butsometimesthat’sall it takes to changeeverything.

“You don’t know me,”BobMayhawkhadsaid,“butyou were recommended bysomeone who thought youwouldbeperfectforaproject

I am working on. About thehousing.” He’d seemedworried that she would hangup.

“Iwouldappreciateit,”hecontinued,“ifyouwould justlistentowhatIhavetosay.”

Mayhawk explained thatherantheHousingEducationRelocation Enterpriseprogram, known as HERE,which had been hired byMunicipal Housing to help

movethenewtenantsintothetownhouses. There would bean orientation, he said,classes that everyone wouldbe required to take beforethey would be permitted tomove.Volunteers(muchlatershe would learn that therewould be a modest stipend)wereneededtohelpwiththatorientation.Thatwaswhyhewas calling.WouldMary beinterested?

She was very interested.In the months since shewatched the first townhousesarrive,Maryhadoften foundherself thinking about thepeople who would occupythem. Talk at the SaveYonkersmeetingshadalwaysbeen about the effect of thenewcomers on theneighborhood, not about theeffectoftheneighborhoodonthe newcomers. What would

itbelike,shenowwondered,to live where you are notwanted? There were rumorson the east side that armedguards would supervise themove, particularly after thepipe bomb, and thathomeowners on all sides ofthe townhouses were buyingweapons, just in case. Howcould anyone be expected tofeelsettledintheirnewhomeknowing that? The judge’s

plan was more than just anassault on her community,she decided, itwas twice theevil. Cruel not only to thehomeowners who alreadylivednearthesite,butalsotothe tenants chosen to movein.

She had shared thosethoughts with a number ofpeople and one of them hadobviously shared them, inturn,withBobMayhawk.He

did not ask her anythingabout herself formost of thephone call, and Maryassumed it was not becausehe didn’t want to know, butbecause he already knew. Infact, he asked only onequestion, near the end of theconversation, and it was lessabout thepast than about thefuture.

“How do you feel aboutthe housing right now?” he

said.“Ithinkit’swrong,”Mary

answered. “I don’t believe init. But it’s here. And thepeoplewhoaremoving in toithadnothingtodowithwhatwent on and I feel bad forthem. I don’t think theyshould be blamed for any ofthis.”

“So youwould like to beinvolvedinourproject.”

“Yes,” she said. “I

would.”Heseemedrelieved.Mary

wondered how many otherpeople he had called beforesomeonetookthejob.

The firstmeeting, like allthe others that followed inrecentweeks,washeldattheGrinton I.Will Library. BobMayhawk, slim and dapper,with close-cropped salt-and-pepperhairandthebearingofa former Marine, had turned

out tobeoneof thestrangestmen thatMaryhadevermet.During his initial telephonecall he had hinted at hisconcern for secrecy. Oncloser look, that concernwasan obsession. Do not tellanyoneabouttheworkyou’redoing here, he instructed histeam,anddonotaskmeanyquestions about that work.Mary had assumed that herfirstHEREmeetingwouldbe

an information session, thatshe would find out what shewould be doing in this newjob and when she would bedoing it.But she camehomethat first night knowing littlemore than when she left.Mayhawk said he would tellthem what they needed toknowonlywhentheyneededtoknowit.

At every meeting sincethen he had asked them to

solvea seriesofmindgamesand puzzles, all taken fromthe book he had written andpublished himself. CalledMayhawk’s Law, it had amuddy brown cover with itstitleingoldletters,anditwasfilled with odd stories. Onewas about a family whosepatriarchwasdecidingwhichof his three children shouldinherit the family business.Each child submitted a brief

memo outlining hisqualifications. Which one,Mayhawkasked,waschosen?Another puzzle was about acheetah,anostrich,agazelle,and a gnu. Giving themnonsensical informationabout each (the gazelle hassore ankles, the gnu did notuse the eastern passageway),Mayhawk instructed thegroup to “determine whichanimal used which

passageway and the order inwhich each animal finishedtherace.”

Mary knew she couldhave walked away fromMayhawk, and from HERE,andfromthecheetahsandthegnus, but something, maybethemystery of it all, broughther back every night. Shenever did figure out hisquirky guessing games,though she did come to see

that the moral of most ofthem was “assume nothing.”She took that lesson toheart,but not as Mayhawk hadintended. Instead ofwondering how the gazellemighthaveinjuredhisankles,she wondered what she didnot know, and should notassume,aboutBobMayhawk.

Thebriefbiographyinthebackofhisbook saidhehadbeen a “corporate investment

specialist”onWallStreetandthat he was the founder of“The Center for PersonalStrategic Planning,” whichheldseminarson“motivation,goal setting and goalachievement.” He had alsobeen a business professor atthe State University of NewYork.

Thathehadabackgroundin business made sense toMary. He had the air of

authority of a businessman,someone used to being incharge. His clothes werecasual,butinastudiedsortofway,asifhehadtriedhardtolook as if he wasn’t trying.Hisentiremannerwasformaland distant. Mary couldn’timagine that he had manyclose friends. Even his facewas amystery. Although hishairwasgraying,hisskinwasyouthful. How old was he?

Mary wondered. “Blackpeople,” she thought, “neverlooktheirage.”

That, of course, was thebiggest surprise. WhenMayhawk called she hadassumed he was white, andshehadalsoassumedthattheothers in this programwouldbe white—people from theneighborhood or people whoworked for MunicipalHousing. Who else to teach

thenewresidentshowtoliveon the white side of town?Instead,Mayhawkwasblack,as was his assistant, VernaEarl,andtherestoftheteam,which consisted of Verna’sdaughter, Dee, Dee’s friend,Jeff Clark, and Bea Clark,who was not related to Jeffand who was a resident ofSchlobohm.

Therewasoneotherwhiteface in the room, and

although it was familiar,Mary was not certain that itwas entirely friendly. LucilleLantzhadbeenthefounderofan anti-housing group calledthe People’s Union. LikeMary,shedescribedherfightagainst thehousingasoneofprinciple,notrace.“It’saboutunfairness,”shewouldsay,inher deep, smoke-filled voice.“WhileImuststruggletopaymy rent to live in east

Yonkers, others are allowedto live in the sameneighborhood with betterapartments paying lowerrent.” To Lucille, the keyword here was rent. ThePeople’sUnionwasasplintergroup, formed out of thebickering between thehomeownersofSaveYonkersand those, like Lucille, whowere east side tenants.But itwas not Lucille’s long-ago

allegiancetoarivalteamthatmadeMaryuncomfortable. ItwasLucilleherself.

A small, coiled woman,wound tight as her auburnpermandburninghotter thanher ever-present cigarette,Lucillewasthetypewhowasalways protesting something.Beforethehousing,therewastheschooldesegregationplan(she had been PTApresident). Before that, a

campaign for change in therules about foster care (sheand her husband, Paul, hadbeen foster parents a dozentimesovertheyears,andalsohad four children of theirown).

Eachfightmadehermorebrassy, more savvy, morepolitical. In time, she evenreworked her name to helphercause.Lantz,shedecided,was a pleasant enough

Austrian name, but it carriedno weight in Yonkers.“Lantz, how unusual,” shopclerks would politely notewhenever she paid by check.Her maiden name, Rizzetta,brought no such commentand required no explanation.“If I’m trying to get theattention of someone who’sItalian, it’s stupid to useLantz,” she decided, as shestarted signing her numerous

letters to the editor “LucilleRizzettaLantz.” “The peoplewho run this city are namedVellela, Spano, Martinelli,Spallone,” she said, “and IshoulduseLantz?”

AbouttheonlythingMaryand Lucille had in commonwasthattheyhadbothfoughtthehousingandtheyhadbothcometorealizethattheirfighthad been lost. Yet even asthey traveled to that same

conclusion, the two starklydifferent women tookstrikingly different routes.WhileMary’sdisillusionmenthad been gradual and quiet,Lucille’s had been verysuddenandverypublic.

The night before theCityCouncilvotedtocomplywithJudge Sand, the executivecommittee of the People’sUnion met at Lucille’sapartment.Thecouncilwould

cave, they all agreed, andLucille made what shethought was a practicalsuggestion. “It’s time wewoke up and smelled thecoffee,” she said. “We haveto figure out a way to makethehousingwork.”

Intheconvolutedworldofaprotestmovement,thosearefightingwords, andeveryonein the room began to shout.Until that night Lucille had

believed that people saythings in anger that they donot reallymean.By the timethefracas inherdiningroomhad ended, however, she hadcome to believe that whatpeople say in anger is whatthey really do mean, butusually have the self-controltokeeptothemselves.

“People are about to losetheir jobs,” Lucille argued.“Yonkers is about to cross a

line that should not becrossed.”

“That’sasacrificethathastobemade,”theyanswered.

“Sure,” Lucille said, “it’snot your sacrifice. You cansay that sitting in that chairbecause it’s not yourpaycheck. In some families,both the mom and dad workfor the city and they’ll belosingeverything. I can’t asksomeone to lose their salary

forme.”“Sacrifices have to be

made,”theyinsisted.“It will destroy the city,”

Lucillesaid.“Having them live over

herewilldestroythecity.”“Not as surely as being

finedamilliondollarsaday.”“Maybe you want them

livinginyourbackyard,butIdon’t want them living inmine.”

Lucille worried that herglass-topped dining tablewould shatter with all thepounding. By the end of thenight she had submitted herresignation, and she neverheard from most of theexecutive board again. Thelocalpaperranashortarticleannouncing her departure,andLucillehadspentthedaywaiting forherphone to ringoff the hook with calls

begging “Come back, weneedyou,”butnoonecalled.

Until BobMayhawk. Shehad been suspicious duringtheir first telephoneconversation,especiallywhenMayhawk refused to tell herwho had recommended herforthisjob.“Friends,”hehadsaid,butLucilledidnotthinkshe still hadany friends.Shehad been chosen, sheconcluded,asadeclarationof

change, evidence that notonlyhad theoppositionbeendefeated, it had beenconverted. Those videotapesof POWs denouncing theircountriesatgunpointcametomind.

If that was Mayhawk’sgame, Lucille decided shewouldplayit.Ifshecouldnotbeat the housing from theoutside, she might as wellkeep her eye on things from

the inside. She had not beentoanykindofpublicmeetinginYonkerssincethenightsheresigned from the People’sUnion. It felt good to have anewcause.But,sheremindedherself, this wasn’t her fightanymore. She would neverallow herself to get asinvolved in anything as shehad in 1988. This time shewasavisitor,anonlooker.

That distance gave her a

freedom that Mary sensed,but didnot understand.Longafter Mary had stoppedasking questions ofMayhawk,Lucillewasstillatit. He didn’t answer Lucilleeither, but, unlike Mary, shedidn’t seem to mind. Lucillewas equally unfazed by themysteriesofMayhawk’sLaw.Theostrichwontherace,sheannounced.Thegazellecamein second, the cheetah was

third,andthegnuwasfourth.The gazelle’s sore ankleswere irrelevant to theoutcome, a stray fact, a redherring. “Don’t be distractedby things that aren’timportant,” Lucille said,easily summarizing themysterious point of theexercise.Mayhawknodded.

Mary’s first conversationswith Lucille Lantz wereawkward. Although an

outsider to the conferenceroom would assume that thetwo women had much incommon,Mary,atfirst,couldsee only their differences.Onewasaleader,theotherafollower.Onestill thrivedonconfrontation, the other hadlost her taste for it.Onewascertain of her view of theworld, the other doubted herown judgment. Lucille wasthe confident, certain,

confrontational one, Marythought. And herself? Thecompliant, unsure, searchingone.

And yet, as Mayhawkmight say, things are notalways as they seem. True,the fight to stop the housinghad pushed Mary fromobservertojoiner.Ithadalsorechristened Lucille—firstLantz, then Rizzetta, thenback again. But change is a

process,notadestination,andthenextpartof the fight, thestruggle to implement thehousing,wouldbringawholenewsetoftransformations.

“Assume nothing,” BobMayhawkwouldsay.

Only after leaving hisclassroom wouldMary growtolearnwhatthatmeant.

AFieldTrip

A line wasforming at the corner ofAshburton and Broadway, ashort walk from Schlobohm,when Mary Dorman arrived.Seeing the crowd, she pulleda folded piece of paper fromherpocket,shookitopen,andquickly scanned the rows ofnames.Therewereobviously

more people on the line thanon the list. The letter fromMunicipal Housing hadclearlyassignedeachtenantatime—one group in themorning, one in theafternoon, two groups todayand two tomorrow.But sincethis was the first group, andeveryonewassoeager toseetheir futures, they hadapparently decided to ignoretheinstructions.

The letter also said “NoChildren,” but there werechildren everywhere. And itspecifically said only onemember of each householdcould take the trip to see thetownhouses, but no oneseemed to have come alone.Billie Rowan brought alongher brother. She wanted hismale point of view, becausethis would be John’s home,too.NormaO’Nealwaswith

her friend Phyllis, who hadbeen her eyes on so manyother important occasions.Alma’s sister Dulce broughtherdaughterRita to translatethetourintoSpanish.

The bus pulled up a fewminutes later—asleek luxurycharterratherthanthecreakyyellow school bus Mary hadbeen expecting. The seatswere blue and velvety, thewindows were tinted a dark

gray, and there was even amicrophone in the front. Itwasasifsomeonewithsomepower had worried thatputting severaldozenpeople,mostly black and Hispanic,into a full-regalia school busandbusing themacross townwould carry too loaded amessage.

Mary understood thateverystepwasapossibilitytostumble. In the weeks since

shehadstartedthisjob,she’dbeen feeling increasinglyawkward and clumsy—puzzled around Bob, self-consciousaround the tenants.That second affliction hadmade itself known only daysago, when Bob gave theHEREteamtheirfirstofficialassignment and sent themdoor-to-doorintheprojectstosurvey those who wouldmove into the new

townhouses.Mary expected to feel

fear, but instead she just feltwhite.Fornearlysixtyyears,she had thought of herselfsimply as a person—not awhite person, just a person.Evenduringtheworstdaysofthehousingfight,whenracialslurs punctuated so manyprotestmeetings, she did notthink of herself in terms ofher race. Her religion, yes.

Herfamilyancestry,yes.Butnotthecolorofherskin.

Walking the hallways ofSchlobohm, however, shestarted seeing herself as thetenantsmightseeher.White.Middle class. Irish Catholic.Proper. What more did theyneed to know? She couldalmost feel the blue of hereyes behind her chunkyprescription lenses, and herhair practically ached with

silvergray.Had all this not been so

new, shemight have steppedback and seen the obvious—thatthiswashowitfelttobeblack in a white world. Thisconstant awareness of livinginsideyourown skin iswhatthetenantsofthetownhouseswould feel every morning,walking out their door andinto a neighborhood wheretheir face advertised their

address.ButMary’sbenthadneverbeenphilosophical,andas she made her way fromone apartment to the next inSchlobohmherthoughtswentin another direction entirely.If these tenants lookedatherand saw only a set-in-her-wayswhitelady,sheworried,how could she do this job?Andifshecouldnot,whydidit suddenly bother her somuch?

As the meetings with thetenants wore on, her self-consciousnessspreadandshebecame exquisitely aware ofher words, her assumptions,the sound of her voice. Toooftenwhatshesaidturnedouttobeslightlywrong.

“Everything is so clean,”she gushed in the first fewapartments, amazed that thehomes were not grimy andrancid like the hallways.

“Yougofromthatdirty,dirtyhallway, and then you’re inthis nice house, this home,”she said. “You keep it soclean.”

She thought itwas a nicething to say, until she said itone time too many. “Yep,”one woman answered, “wetry to clean the bathroomsonce a week, whether theyneeditornot.”Thecommenthit its target, and Mary felt

stupidandsmall.Afraid shewould stumble

again,Marykeptherseatbeltonandhermouthshutduringthe first part of the bus ride,waiting until the drivercrossed the Saw Mill. Notuntil she saw her familiarneighborhoodofLincolnParkdid she feel comfortableenough to take themicrophone.

“Rightnowwe’repassing

St. John’s Church,” she saidof the building that gave herstreet its name. “I go tochurchthere.”

RitaManzuetaleanedoverand translated for Dulce.“Esta iglesia se llama St.John’s,” she said. “Piensoque esCatolica.”Would hermother make the trip to thewest side everySunday,Ritawondered, to go to churchwithAuntAlma?Orwoulda

new home mean a newchurch, someplace like St.John’s?

“That’s Morley’sSupermarket,” Marycontinued from her seat upfront. “It’s a goodsupermarket. The peoplethereareverynice.”

“There’s the YonkersRaceway,”shewenton.“I’mglad the housing was builtnear here, because, before,

when this was just an emptylot,peoplecomingoutof theracetrack would throw theirgarbage here. Now that thehousing is here, maybe theywon’t.” No one else laughedat themisguidedattemptatajoke.

Thebusturnedthecorner,from Central Avenue ontoClark Street, the site of thefirst groundbreaking and theplace where Mary first

realized that the fight wasover. The driver slowed, butdid not stop. The tenantspressed against the right-sidewindow, like airplanepassengers over the GrandCanyon. Itwas the first timethat most of them had seenthetownhouses.

“They’re gorgeous,”Phyllis raved toNorma,whosaw only the green of thetrees and the pale yellow of

the buildings, but who likedwhatshesaw.

The buzz inside the busgrew louder. Mary stoppedtalking because no one waslistening.

“That’s public housing?Not like any public housingI’veeverseen.”

“I’mgonnaplantmesomeflowers.”

“Maybemykidscanhaveaswing.”

“You could put a grillback there. You could haveyourownbarbecues.”

“Iwouldliketoknowwhythey won’t let us get off thebus. If we are allowed tomove into the neighborhood,why aren’t we allowed towalkaroundthere?”

They would walk aroundsoon, but not yet, Maryexplained, then directed thedriver past the four other

sites. First, to Tren-chardStreet,builtontheremainsofSchool4.Maryhadbeentoabirthday party for thebuilding, complete withpointy hats, candles, and acake,andshehadmourneditspassingasdeeplyas if ithadbeenaperson.NowSchool4was gone and twenty-eighttownhousesstoodinitsplace.Marycouldbarelyrecallwhatthe school building had

lookedlike.“See how convenient the

public transportation is?” shesaid, shaking off thememories and pointing to abus stop near the site. “Thenumber20busgoesrightpasthere.”

Next, to Wrexham Road,another twenty-eight units,surrounded by statelyapartment houses, down theblock from the leafy Sarah

Lawrence College. Duringthe months of constructionthesitehadbeenafavoriteofgraffiti vandals who werefond of several hugeboulders, too large to beeconomically removed, thatstood sentry between theclusters of townhouses.“Death to Sand” was afavorite message. Or“Yonkers Forever.” But asthebusdrovepast,Marysaw

no trace of the spray-paintedanger. It had been made todisappear as completely asSchool4.

“So close to the CrossCounty Shopping Center,”Mary said. “Just a short busrideaway.”

Onto Helena Avenue,fourteen units on a street ofsingle-familyhomes.Astreetalmost exactly like Mary’s.“Veryquiethere”wasallshe

said.Finally, toWhitman,with

forty-eight townhouses, thebiggest of the sites and theoneMary liked the least. Toher it seemed isolated, withno real neighbors, too muchliketheprojectsitwasmeanttoreplace.

“Thisiswherewecangetoutandlookinside.”

Mary climbed down first,then waited at the bottom of

the steps, helping theoccasional toddler. “Is thistheplace theybombed?”oneyoung mother asked,hesitating a moment beforestepping onto the sidewalk.“Whichapartmentwasit?”

Not the ones they werevisiting. Municipal Housinghad unlocked two modelapartments, both far awayfrom the now repairedbombingsite.Fornearlyhalf

anhour,thetenantspeekedinevery Formica cabinet inthose apartments, noddingapprovingly at the shinylinoleum, the two-doorrefrigerator,thegasrange,thestainless-steel sink, the oakstaircase.Theyevenused thebathrooms.

Upstairs, Norma andPhyllis paced the hallway,pretending it was dark,worrying thatNorma,unused

to stairs,would takeawrongturn one night and tumbledown the dozen steps. “Youcould put up one of thosegates,” Phyllis suggested.“The ones that keep babiessafe.”

Downstairs, Billie Rowanpaced the living room,gauging its size. All aroundher, otherswere complainingthat the 12′9′ by 12′6′ spacewas too small, but Billie

cheerfullyannouncedthatshedidn’t care. The onlyfurniture she owned was abedframe,amattress,andtheportable playpen that Johnnyand Shanda shared as a crib.“I don’t have nothing to fillup theseroomsanyway,”shesaid, walking back and forthnonetheless, mostly becauseeveryone else was. “Whenyou have nothing, theneverythingfits.”

In the kitchen, DoreenJames was opening andclosing the back door. It feltflimsy inher largehand, justas Sheila and others atREADYwarned itwouldbe.Doreen had noticed a gapunderthefrontdoor,too.Andthe window frames seemedcheap, like they would bendwith use. She thought ofpointingouttheflawsto“thebouncywhitelady”incharge

of the trip, but quicklysquashed the impulse. Shejiggled the back door again,wondering whether Jaronwould catch cold this winterbecause the townhousesweredrafty.

Outside, Rita and Dulcewere pacing the fenced-inyards—four strideswide, tenstrideslong.Notnearlyasbigas they looked from the bus,but far more land than they

had in Schlobohm. Theycouldputasmallgrilleintheyard. Alma could bringVirgilio, Frankie, and LeydaforSundaydinner.

AsRitaandDulcewalkedbackandforth,upanddown,a white couple, who Ritaassumed lived in one of theprivate homes nearby, cameand watched them from theothersideof thefence.“Thisis going to be a nightmare,”

the woman said to hercompanion. Rita did nottranslateforhermother.

Marywas smiling as the busreturnedtoSchlobohm.Ithadbeenfuntakingthesewomenacross town and, like somefairy godmother, presentingthem with their homes. Shestill thought the housingwaswrong, and that Judge Sand

had been wrong, but shefound thatshewashappyforthepeoplewhoseliveswouldchange because of thatwrong.Their excitementwascontagious, and on the rideback to theprojects shegaveher home telephone numbertoanyonewhoasked,sotheymightcallherwithquestions.

Stepping out of the bus,her smile fadedabit.Lucillewaswaitingon the sidewalk,

bouncing on the balls of herfeet as she took a few lastdrags fromher cigerette, andlooking annoyed. Mayhawkhad assigned the morningtour to Mary and theafternoon one to Lucille.Pointing to the long line andall the children, Lucilleasked, “Who are all thesepeople? What do I do, kickthemoffifthey’renotonthelist?”

Mary shrugged. “I didn’t.They all fit. Just don’t tellBob.”

“Why bother withinstructions?” Lucillewondered, as Mary walkedaway.

Thequestionwasnot justanidlecomplaint.Lucillesawthe tenants’ inability tofollowrulesasamorecosmicinability tocontrol thewholeoftheir lives.LikeMary,she

had gone door-to-door in theprojects, and had beenimpressed by the cleanlinessand order in most of theapartments. She was struckbythefact that thesetenants,whom she had long thoughtof as the enemy, were reallyprisonersintheirownhomes.But these insights, this newsympathy, did not cause hertoforgiveall.

“Theapartmentsareclean,

but what about the outside?The hallways? Thestairwells?”shewondered.“Ilive in an apartment. Myhallways are not filled withcrap.”

She knew it was chic tobelieve what Oscar Newmanbelieved, that the verybuildings are to blame. Herown life made her thinkotherwise.Decadesago,afterWorld War II, Lucille had

grownup inaplace thatwasjust like Schlobohm—butvery different. The MartinRayprojects,whichhadstoodacross the street from wheretheGrintonI.WillLibraryisnow, were built during thesame spurt of exuberantconstruction that had led tothe first projects in Yonkers.HerplaymatesatMartinRaywereallchildrenofreturningveterans, and the projects

were clean, neighborlyplaces, filled with promise.Therewasastigmabackthen—“They called us warbrats”—but hard work andgoodbehaviorweresufficienttomoveafamilyupandout.Lucille felt no hint of suchpromisehere.

No, it was not thebuildings, nor the stigma ofliving in the buildings, shebelieved. It was the way

people chose to respond totheir environment, not theenvironmentitself.

“I amnot racist, but I amprejudiced,” she’d often saidbackin1988,andthepassingyears had not changed herviews. “I see that there aredifferent characteristics thatcomewithdifferentgroupsofpeople. You aren’t gonnachange that by moving themtotheothersideoftown.I’ve

beentotheprojects.I’veseenthe awful buildings. Thegunshots. The window bars.The stench. Who destroyedthose buildings? I’m sorry.It’s not the landlord. Thelandlorddoesn’turinateinthehallways.”

Lucilleknewthattheonlytenants allowed to enter thelottery in the firstplacewerethosewhoseapartmentswereneat and whose rents were

paidontime.Shehadhoped,had assumed, that the resultwould be people most likelyto take charge of their ownlives. But the size of thiscrowd and the presence ofthese children hintedotherwise. Mary excused therule-breakers as enthusiastic.Lucille saw the sameenthusiasm, and was pleasedby that, but she also sawconfirmation that there were

thingsaboutthesetenantsthatcould not be changed bysomething as superficial as amoveacrosstown.

Everyone did fit on theoversized bus, and Lucillebeganhertour.Shetoospentan hour at the two sampletownhouses,hearingthesamequestions, reactingdifferently.

“The living rooms are sosmall,”thetenantssaid.

“Everything looks smallerwithout furniture,” Lucilleanswered. Silently shethought, “If you had broughta tape measure you wouldknow exactly what wouldfit.”

“Will we get screendoors?”theyasked.

“Icanask,”shesaid.She thought: “My

apartment’s on the secondfloor. I don’t have a yard

rightoffmykitchen.”Inspecting the empty air-

conditioning sleeves, theywondered if MunicipalHousing would be providingair conditioners. Peering inthe space upstairs set asidefor a laundry closet, theyasked about washers anddryers.

“Youneed tosupplyyourown,”shesaid.

“I’m a tenant,” she

thought. “When I find anapartment, I don’t think,‘Gimme this, gimme that.’I’m happy if I can find aplacethattakeskids.”

GettingOriented

Astheelevator

lurched upward at theWalshHouses for Seniors at 75WalshRoad,OscarNewmantried to keep his outlookpositive. Optimism did notcome easily, however,crammed as he was at theback of the tiny car, onetowering white malesurrounded by six blackwomen, a strain on thecapacity of the slow andinefficient machinery.

Tonight’s orientation sessionwas scheduled to begin at7:00 P.M., but it was alreadywell past that time, and thelobby was still filled withwomenwaiting for their turntorideupstairs.Newmanhadcome to themeeting to keephis housing plan on track.This was not a promisingstart.

Technically theorientation program was not

Newman’sdepartment.Smithhadgivencompletecontroloftenant training to BobMayhawk, whom Newmanhad not even met. It wasNewman’s sense that Smithwas keeping the two menapart, and, until recently,Newmandidnotcareenoughabout the particulars of theorientationtomakeafuss.Hewas content to focus on thedetails of the townhouses

themselves, leaving theselection of the tenants toSmith and the mysteriousMayhawk. Newman wasdeliberately uninvolved, andwouldhavestayedthatwayifnot for the recentword fromWashington.

Several days earlierHUDofficials had informed PeterSmith that, despite earlierpromises, federal fundswould not be available to

actuallymovethetenantsintothe new townhouses.Municipal Housing hadsolicited bids from localmoving companies, and thenumbers they had receivedwere staggeringly high,probablybecause themovingcompanieswerefrightenedofgoing into the west sideprojects. HUD refused toreimburseMunicipalHousingat those rates—which were

about a thousand dollars perhousehold—and in theabsence of federal moneythere would be no money,because the MunicipalHousing Authority’s budgetdid not allow for an extra$200,000.

The back-and-forthbetween Housing and HUDwas threatening to stall theentiremovingprocess,whichwasalreadybehind schedule.

Newman wanted the tenantsinto the townhouses as soonas possible, to avoid stillmore vandalism, and thecheapest solution to thisnascent and annoying crisis,he thought, was to ask thetenants to pay for all or partof their move. “They’vemoved before in their lives,”he argued toSmith, “and it’sa good bet they didn’t hire amover.Odds are they have a

relative who will do it for afewbeersandfiftybucks.”

So Newman was here tobreak the bad news to thetenants. Smith had promisedto call Bob Mayhawk andwarnhimofNewman’splans,andwhen theelevator finallyreached the eighth floor,Newmanmadehiswaytothedrafty community room.Mayhawk was standing nearthe front of the hall, looking

agitatedandstaringfiercelyattheclock,bodylanguagethatkept Newman from walkingover to say hello. He knewwho Mayhawk was withoutan introduction, and heassumed Mayhawk knew allabouthim,too.

The session did not startuntil nearly half past seven.Holdingamicrophoneinonehand and assorted papers inthe other, Mayhawk

announced that the topic ofthedaywas“TheLease.”Hethenproceededtoreadfromasampledocument,explaining,word by word and line byline,whatitmeant.Itwas,hesaid, the same lease alreadyused by the MunicipalHousing Authority for theprojects on the west side. Inother words, most of themhad already signed the paperhe was dissecting so slowly.

Buttherefresherreadingwasnecessary, he added, because“we can’t assume thatbecause you signed a leaseyouknewwhatwasinit.”

Newman, sitting near theback of the roon, wasappalled. This wasn’ttraining. This wasn’tpreparing anyone foranything. He was surprisedthat Mayhawk, an African-Americanman,waswillingto

send these new tenants intotheirnewhomeswithnorealunderstanding of what theymight face. IfNewmanwerein charge, he would teachthings straight,without sugarcoating, tiptoeing, or talkingaroundthesubject.

“You are now living in anew community that hascertain unwritten rules,” hewouldsay.“Eventhoughthisisyour frontwalk, youdon’t

walkaround in the front in abathingsuitoryoudon’ttakeachairandsunbatheinfront.Youcandoitintheback,butyou can’t do it in the front.Why?That’sarule.

“You have to know thatyou are under constantobservation by your white,middle-class neighbors,” hewould continue, goingdirectlytowhat,afterall,wastheentirepoint.“Thekindsof

behaviors that the white,middle-class people wouldtoleratefromeachother,theywillnottoleratefromyou.Soyou have to perhaps work alittle harder at it until theycalm down and accept you.That has been the case forevery group that has evermoved from working-classneighborhoods to middle-class neighborhoods of anyethnicity in this country. It’s

not going to be any differentfor you. In other societiesthey don’t worry about itbecause people don’t movebetween classes. It’s part oftheAmericanway.”

Mayhawk wasn’t sayinganythinglikethat.

“Management agrees tofurnish the following utilitiesin accordance with thecurrent Schedule of Utilitiesposted in theProjectOffice,”

hesaid,instead.“Water,heat,electricityand/orgas.”

By the time Mayhawkreached section 17 of thesecond rider to the contract,Newman was begining towonder whether Smith hadindeed called Mayhawk, andif Mayhawk ever planned tolet him speak. MaybeMayhawk hadn’t seen himafter all?On the slimchancethat that was the case,

Newmanstoodupandbeganto inch his way towardMayhawk.Mayhawk did notstop talking. Soon Newmanwas standing just a few feetaway, a silent presencedemanding an introduction.So Mayhawk made thatintroduction, then steppedaside.

Newman wasted no timeon pleasantries andimmediately explained that

the housing authority hadhoped to pay the tenants’movingexpenses,butthatthecost was far too high andHUD was unwilling toapproveit.

“Howmany of you couldafford to pay three hundredfifty dollars, or half?” heasked, aware he sounded toomuch like an auctioneergivingtheopeningbid.

Sevenhandswentup.

“How many could affordthreehundred fifty dollars, ifnot being able to pay meantnotgettingin?”

Nineteen hands, andNorma O’Neal’s was amongthem.Shewouldfindaway.

“And if you had sixmonthstopayit?”

Thirty-two hands,includingBillieRowan’s.Sixmonthswasalongtime.Johnwould be home by then. She

wouldworkoutsomething.“Morethansixmonths?”Afewmorehands.“If it cost only one

hundred dollars, how manycould afford it?” Newmanasked.

“Cien dolares paramover,” Rita said to hermother, urging her to raiseher hand. One hundreddollars.Shecouldn’triskthisforonehundreddollars.

MaryDorman,whowasatthe session per Mayhawk’sorders, was angry. Who didthis man think he was,playing with these people’slives, acting like a carnivalbarker, hawking a chance athopeandescape?

Lucille Lantz was alsoangered by the sideshow.Why are these people justsitting there, taking it? shewondered. Why don’t they

standup for themselves, takesome control? Standingbehind Newman, but in fullview of the audience, shebegan fanningat the airwithboth hands, gesturingfrantically for people to puttheirownhandsdown.

Maryjoinedin.Shenearlylaughed out loud, picturinghow they must look. Twousually respectable women,waving their arms madly,

sweatingwith the effort of itin thehot,airlessroom.Howdid she get here? shewondered.Was this simply areflex,aconditionedresponseto years of being againstwhateverOscarNewmanwasfor? Or was it something fardeeper than that? Was shebegining to see this from theotherside?

Finally, with a flourish,Newmanbrought thebidding

toaclose.“Howmanycouldarrangetheirownmove?”

Hands were raisedthroughout the room, a totalof sixty-four.Doreen refusedtoraisehersatall.Howdarethey disregard the rules likethis?

Then Newman changedthe subject. Better to covereverything in one visit, hereasoned. The builder hadmadeamistake,he said, and

the space allocated for awasher and dryer in thetownhouses would fit onlyone model, a “piggy-backcombined unit, with thewasherat thebottomand thedryerontop.”

“If we could arrange itthat you’d pay one hundreddollars” for that kind of unit“and we’d pay the rest, whocouldaffordit?”

Onlyahandortwo.

“Ifyoupaidfifteendollarsa month with your rent, andthe Housing Authority putthem in, how many of youcouldaffordit?”

That’s when the shoutingbegan.

“How much will the rentbe?”someoneyelled.

“It depends on yourincome, as it does in publichousingnow.”

“How long will we have

topaythefifteendollars?”“For as long as you have

thehouse,”Newmansaid.There were boos at that

answer, and catcalls, but asthe noise level rose, so didfifty-threehands.

“If you used commercialwashers and dryers, you’dspend five or ten or evenfifteen dollars a week, notcounting the inconvenience,”Newman screamed over the

din.Mayhawkhadgivenhimthe floor, but not themicrophone.

“Why can’t we put themachines we already ownintothekitchen,”onewomanasked. Newman raised hispalms, pantomiminghelplessness. They had seenthe size of the kitchens, sotheyshouldunderstand.

Soon after that, Newmanleft, satisfied that he had

explainedeverything,andthetownhouses could remain onschedule. His departure didlittle to calm the room,however,andMayhawkspentmost of the session trying toquiet the crowd. When thatproved futile, he didsomething Mary had neverknown him to do before. Heended a meeting fifteenminutesaheadofschedule.

Orientation session numberthree was held at the sameplace, meaning the samecrowdedelevator ensured thesame late start. The subjectwas “Home Maintenance.”OscarNewmanwasnotthere.In his place were far morefriendly representatives ofCon Edison, the SanitationDepartment, and the housingauthority’s maintenanceoffice, explaining how to

regulate the thermostat,mowthe lawn,clean thewindows,andtakeoutthetrash.

After a very long hour,Bob Mayhawk opened thefloortoquestions.Therewerea lot of those, but not manyanswers.

“Where do we keep thelawn mower?” Therecertainly were no garages atthenewsites.

The man from housing

maintenancehadno idea,butsaidhewouldcheck.

“Canwepaint?”“Onlywith off-white, flat

paint, the kind that’s therenow.”

“Howaboutglossy?”“Therulescallforflat.”“Theruleshaveneverhad

children who scribble wherethey shouldn’t. Glossy iseasiertowipedown.”

“I’llcheckonthat.”

“Canweplantflowers?”“You can put flower pots

outside, but you can’t putanythingintheground.”

“Noflowers?”“The rules prohibit

anythingthatrequiresdiggingaholeintheground.”

“Nobushes?”“There are bushes there

now.”“How about the plastic

kindofflowers?”

“I guess so, since that’snot permanent, but youshouldtrytokeepittasteful.”

“Sotherulessaythateventhough this is our home, itreallyisn’t?”

“I’llcheckonthisandgetbacktoyouwithananswer.”

Sessionfourcoveredsecurity,police patrols, andNeighborhoodWatchgroups.

“There are two-manpatrols of the west side, butonly one officer to a car onthe east side,” the policerepresentativewassaying.

“Why do we have to sitthrough this?” someonewhispered.

“… if there’s trouble,contact the PoliceDepartment, do not try tohandleityourself.…”

“They’re treating us like

dumb asses,” someone elsewhisperedback.

Again Mayhawk asked ifanyonehadquestions.

“Do the white folks haveto learn how to be goodneighbors?”

Therewassomeapplause.“If we have to learn how

toacceptthem,aretheygoingto have to take a course tolearn how to accept us?”Strongerapplause.

“What’s a NeighborhoodWatch? Who they watching,me?”Laughterandcheers.

“Arewesupposedtocrossthe street when we see thewhitepeoplecoming?”

“Isawthosewhitepeopleon television, at those CityCouncil meetings, it lookedlike they were the ones whoneeded to learn somemanners.”

At the front of the room,

Mayhawk listened to thewaveoffrustration,thengavetheonlyanswerhecouldgive—one that could not reallysatisfyanyone.

“Those are very goodpoints. Right now there arenoplansforclasses for thosewhonowlivenearthesesites.Perhaps such an opportunitywill be made available tothem. We will see what wecando.”

Orientation week finallyended.The tenantshadheardmore than they’d wantedaboututilitybills,recreationaloptions, which east sidemarkets take food stamps,which buses would get themback to thewest side. In thefinal minutes of the finalmeeting, Dee Earl, one ofMayhawk’s assistants, tookthe microphone for somepartingwordsofadvice.

The moment had beennearly a decade in themaking, and Mary expectedthat Dee would close withsomething dramatic,reminding everyone of thestruggle to get these newhomes built and themonumental significance ofbeingthefirsttoliveinthem.But Dee’s message hadabsolutelynothingtodowiththat.She spoke insteadabout

the how the move couldchange their individual lives,and Mary realized, with theshock of any sudden shift offocus, that the tenants didn’tthink of the townhouses ashistory. They just thought ofthemashome.

“Everybody here is herefor one reason,” Dee said.“Youwereinterestedindoingsomething for yourself andfor your family. And

interestedinmakingachangeinwhereyouwereliving.

“Over the next fewweeks,” she continued, “youwill have some importantdecisions to make. Youstarted out by thinking youwanted to make a move.That’s why you’re here. Isthatstillwhatyouwant?Youneed to weigh everythingthat’s been laid out beforeyou in order to decide—are

you ready for that finalmove?”

Now it was Lucille whowas surprised. This womanwas talking as if therewas achoice to be made, as if thetenantsmightactuallydeclinethe chance to move awayfrom this place to the safetyof the east side. Didn’t theyall feel lucky to have beenpickedoutofthebingodrum?Why would anyone turn this

prizedown?“A lot of you started the

program saying ‘I’m ready.No if, ands, or buts. I’mready,’”Deesaid.“That’stheway you have to feel. That’sthekindofdeterminationthisstep is going to take. Itdoesn’t allow for a lot ofdoubts or indecision. If youhave doubts starting off,you’re going to havedifficulty. If you’re not

certain that you have whatyouneed tosurvive inanewarea, you’re going to havedifficulty.

“People, things are goingtobedifferent,”shesaid,hervoice rising. “Different doesnot onlymeanbetter.You’regoing to have to make someserious decisions that willaffect the rest of your life.Are you prepared to makethosechanges?”

Slowly,Mary and Lucillewere starting to understand.Theyhadbothspentsomanyyears frightened by thetownhouses that theyhadnotseen that the tenants hadreason to be frightened bythem too. The protests, thepipe bombs. What otherdangerswerethereontheeastside? This was a chance toleave a neighborhood wherecoming home meant grime

and fear. But they would betrading that for aneighborhood where cominghome would mean prejudiceandhate.

“There’s been lots of talkback and forth about what’savailable, what’s notavailable,” Dee concluded.“Washing machines, movingexpenses. Valid questions.Butwhatitcomesdowntoisweighing your priorities.

Whatisitthatyouwant?Theanswers are going to bedifferent for every singlepersoninthisroom.”

MovingIn

It was close to2:00A.M.,andNormaO’Neal

was exhausted, but her sonDwayneandhiswife,Libby,wouldnot leave.Theysatonwhat little surface wasavailable in Norma’s brand-new living room, surroundedbyunpackedcartons,makingsmall talk and trying toswallowtheiryawns.Dwaynehad arrived at TrenchardStreet at dinnertime, beforethesunhadbeguntoset,andnow it was inching toward

dawn and they were stillthere.Norma had hinted thatshewanted them to go away—“Youmust be very tired”;“My, isn’t it getting late”—butitwasnothernaturetobeblunt, so she sat there andmade small talk, wonderingwhen on earth they wouldfinallygo.

“You sure have a lot ofstuff,” Dwayne was saying,for the third time that

evening.“Thosemovingmensureearnedtheirmoney.”

Norma was too sleepyeventonod.Ithadonlybeentwodays since thosemovingmen gathered every carefullypacked item from her oldapartment and carted it allacross town.But, in thewaythat time seems to thickenand thin with circumstance,the Norma O’Neal who hadlived in Schlobohm already

seemeda lifetimeaway fromthe one living here, in thisbrand-newtownhouse.

Despite Oscar Newman’swarnings,shedidnothavetopay for her ownmove. PeterSmithhelpedtobrokeradealwiththeDepartmentofSocialServices,and,asNormasaid,“the welfare people paid.”(Smith found money for thewasher and dryers, too, fromwithintheMunicipalHousing

budget.) Social Service rulesrequired three estimates onany job, so Tasha walked tothe three closest movingcompanies and recited hermother’s relevant statistics:five rooms of furniture, twodozen boxes, everything willbe packed in advance. Anelevatorat theoldapartment.A flight of stairs at the newapartment. At each stop,Tasha was given a sealed

envelope with a bid inside.The three envelopes weregiven to the county’s SocialServices bureaucracy, where,somehow, someone hadpicked a company andarrangedforNormatomove.

She would have like toarrive in her new life withmore.Atorientation,somanyof the people sitting aroundher had talked—at far toomuch length, if you asked

Norma—about what theywere leaving behind.Everything, they said, wouldbe new, and theywent on todescribe the red leather instore for their living room,and the dark woods theywouldpickfortheirbedroom.Normadidnot for amomentbelieve shecouldafford that.She had barely finishedpaying off the furniture shealready had. Most of it was

boughtjustbeforeshelosthereyesight and, eventually, herjob. The bedroom set, withthe matching headboard,dresser, and nightstand, waspurchased five years ago for$1,600—half down, the restat $50 a month. The three-piece wall unit, painted tolooklikemahogany,withbigglass doors and shiny brassaccents, was purchased sixyears ago, for $800, nothing

down, $50 a month. Twotelevision sets, the kitchentable with four matchingchairs, Tasha’s bed anddresser—allofitwasold,andallof itcamealongwithher.The only thing she hadpurchased since her eyeswent bad was the freezerchest in the kitchen, whichshe had bought at TraderHorn for $250, theweek shereceived her first disability

check. It was big enough tofit a month’s worth ofgroceries, saving her trips tothe market every week. Andthe only thing she had leftbehindwas part of the beigevelvet living room set—also$1,600, at Almo’s furnitureon Main Street—which shewas afraid would not fit inher new townhouse. So shegave the loveseat and thechair to her younger son and

his girlfriend, keeping thecouchforherself.

As it turnedout, theextrapieces would have fit justfine. She shouldn’t havelistened to all thecomplainingonthebusabouthowsmalltheroomswere.Ifshe had minded her owncounsel, and not a lot ofyounggirlswhodidn’tknowany better, shewould have acompletely decorated living

roomrightfromdayone.Theset was a little worn, ofcourse,becauseallherthingswore out more quickly thanthey should. None of herfurniture was made quite aswell as she wouldwant, andsheknewshewaspayingtoomuch for too little, but thatwas yet another of theindignities of living in aneighborhood where themerchantsknowyouhaveno

otherchoice.Shehadlearnedtopatchanddisguise,andshecertainlywasn’t ready tobuyanything new—except,perhaps, the lawn set PatWilliams had seen atBradlee’s, a glass-toppedtable,fourchairs,andarose-and-white umbrella. It was$600whenPatfirstnoticedit,but Norma’s nephew, whoworked there, told her thatafter the Fourth of July

weekend the prices onoutdoor furniturewere cut inhalf. And there was a smallgrill at Bradlee’s too.Wouldn’t it be nice to invitepeople to her yard for abarbecue?

“Mama? What do youthink, Mama?” Dwayne wasstill talking. “Are theneighborsnice?”

“I’ve been keeping tomyself, mostly,” Norma

answered. Why wouldn’t hegohome?

“Afewpeoplepokedtheirheads in when the moverswere here and asked if theycould come look at theapartment,” she continued,since he seemed to expect alonger answer. “People fromthe neighborhood, I think.Whitepeople.”

“You let them in?”Dwayne asked, and Norma

heardthenoteofalarminhisvoice.

“They were curious, Iguess.”

“Ma, don’t go lettingpeoplein.Youneverknow.”

“The movers were here.AndCaroline.Iwassafe.”

“HowisCarolineworkingout?” he asked, of her newhomehealthaide.

“Fine. Fine,” she said,wondering why he was so

nervous tonight andwhenhewasgoinghome.

“And the people who putBraille on the stove andthings?”

“They’re coming nextweek. They were Johnny onthe Spot when I told them Ihad moved.” Of course, heknew that already. Itwas thepart of her new life thatpleased her the most.Someone would come and

teach her how to listen fortraffic when crossing thestreet, and read the stoveknobs with her fingers. Nomorewaiting for darkness inorder to check whether aburnerwasstillonbyturningoff the kitchen lights andlookingforaglowofred.

“So, everything’s okayhere,Ma?”

“Oh yes. Everything’sokay,”Normasaid.

Then Libby spoke, forwhat seemed like the firsttimeinhours.

“I don’t think they’recoming back,” she said,lookingatherhusband.

“Who’s not comingback?”Normaasked.

“I think they’re gone,”Libbysaid.

“Who’s gone?” Normaaskedagain.

Dwayne paused a long

timebeforeheanswered.“When we came, we

parked the car out front,” hesaidfinally,“andacarloadofpeople passed and saidsomethingnastytous.”

“Whatdidtheysay?”“I’msurethey’regone.”“Whatdidtheysay?”“Libby’sright, theywon’t

becomingback.”“Whatdidtheysay?”“Nigger,gohome.”

“Oh.Isee.”“Wethoughtwe’dsethere

awhiletomakesureyouwereokay.”

“I’mokay.Nowgo.”But,oncetheydid,shedid

notsleepwellatall.Herbodyached with exhaustion, buther mind was wide awakewiththepossibilities.

To Doreen’s relief, Jaron

quicklyfellasleepinhisnewroom at Gaffney Place. Thestalling and clinging she hadexpectedneverhappened.Hejustputhisheadonthepillowand that was that, a simple,trusting gesture that toDoreen seemed to say, “Thebed is the same, Mommy isthe same, the goodnight kissisthesame.”

Doreen wished she couldfind the same kind of

comfort.Jaron’sbedwasoneof the few familiar things intheapartment,because,inherdetermination tomakeanewstart, she had left everythingbut that, thedressers,andthekitchen table behind. “That’sstaying here,” she told themovingmen at least a dozentimes that morning, as theystarted to carry the livingroom sofa toward theelevator. “Leave that here,”

shesaid,overandoveragain,when they tried to take thematching chair. Furniture,knickknacks, even someclothes stayed in theapartment when she leftSchlobohm for the last time.LetMunicipalHousingfigureoutwhattodowiththem.

As a result, the livingroom of her new townhousewas completely empty. Jaronhad spent the day careening

around itwith joy—jumping,spinning, running in circles.Then, for a change of scene,hehaddashedtothebackyardand done the same thingthere. His mother had feltsafeandsmugwatchinghim.But now that he was asleep,the living room echoed withemptiness, the backyard wasdark and threatening, andDoreen was having secondthoughts. Someone had

thrown a rock through thewindow of the maintenanceman’s car the day beforeyesterday. Sheila and theothers at READY hadwagged their tongues overthat one. Was she right tohaveignoredthem?

Doreenhadmovedheretoprotect Jaron, but in thisunchartedworld, so close onthemap,but so far in all theways that mattered from

where she had lived before,she was surprisinglyuncertain about where tostart. Protection inSchlobohm was physical—don’t touch the scummybanisters in the stairwells,don’t stare at that screamingman,don’tpickupthatcrackvial,don’tgooutsidewithoutholding Mommy’s hand. Inthis new home, with lawnsand trees and recycling bins,

shefeltsheneededtoprotecthimfromwordsandthoughts,to somehow protect hisfeelings,hisinnerworld.

Because old habits diehard,shestartedtomapoutacommunal approach to theproblem.Shouldshecirculatea petition demandingincreased security? Form acommittee to explore aNeighborhood Watch patrol?Quickly,shestopped.“Worry

aboutDoreenandJaron,”shethought.“Protectyourself.”

To that end, she hadalreadywedgedtwonewtwinbeds into the tiny upstairsbedroom, and made a homefor her sister Barbara. IfMunicipal Housing everfound out, theywould all beordered to leave, but Doreendid not think twice aboutinviting Barbara to stay.“Howcantheymakeyouturn

away your family?” SadieYoungJeffersonwouldsay.Itwashard tobehumbledbyarule that everyone wasbreaking, and, moreimportant,byarulethatkeptherfromfeelingsafe.

So her sister was here tomake things safe. Why thenwas Doreen standing in theempty living room, afraid?Shewalked the few feet intothe kitchen, and spent a few

minutes rummaging throughthe unfamiliar drawers untilshe foundwhat she had onlyjustrealizedsheneeded.

The steak knife felt rightin the palm of her weightyhands, secure and reassuringas her fingers closed aroundit. She had never oncethought of sleeping with aknife under her mattresswhenshelivedatSchlobohm.

Grasping the knife, she

started up the stairs, butstopped and turned backthrough the kitchen and outthe door to the yard, whichwas already scattered withJaron’s toys. There wereempty boxes from themove,and he was using them as ahouse,orafort,orsomething.Apot he hadwheedled fromthe kitchen lay on top of acracked wooden spoon thatDoreen had meant to throw

away.Therewereafewballs,anditwasnexttooneofthemthatDoreen spottedwhat shewanted—the aluminumbaseball bat her father hadgiven her son for Christmastheyearbefore.

Withtheknifeinonehandand the bat in the other, shestepped back into her tinyhouse. She locked the doorbehind her, turned the knob,and tugged to make sure the

lock was secure. Onceupstairs, sheplaced theknifeunder her mattress, the batunder her bed, and went tosleep.

“Happy birthday to me,happybirthday tome.”BillieRowan was humming toherself as shewalkedupanddown the stairs of 115Gaffney. This was the first

place she had ever lived thathad stairs, and she wasfascinated with them. Shewas unpacking slowly, oneitem at a time, shaking eachplate,pot,andhairbrushloosefrom its wrapping ofnewspaper.

Howcheerful tomoveonyour birthday, she thought,with boxes of surprises tounwrap. It didn’t matter asmuch that her only gift for

her twenty-second birthdaywas five dollars from hermother, tucked into aHallmark card. There wasnothing from John, yet, andthe children could hardly beexpectedtoshop.Soherownbelongingswouldhavetodo,and she felt a childlike thrillwhen the newspaper fellawayandrevealedsomethingthatbelongedinabedroomorbathroom, because it meant

another sprint up and downthe stairs. Seven steps up.Pause. Turn. Sixmore steps,andyouwereupstairs.Thosethirteenstepsmadethisarealhouse, not just anotherapartment.And,justmaybe,areal house would lead to areallife,withamanwhowashome,not inprison, and twochildren who did somethingbesidestryherpatience.

“You’ll curse those stairs

one day,” her mother hadwarnedher.Butithadbeenalong time since she hadlistenedtohermother.

By dinnertime, her fewboxes were more or lessunpackedandshehadrunoutof reasons to run up anddown. She and the kids atesome farina (shewould haveto do some shopping, soon)and sat on the bed in herbedroom, watching

television.Afewminuteshadpassed

when a noise that did notseem to come from the TVcaught Billie’s attention. Shewent down the stairs, slowlythis time,with tension ratherthan joy, but found nothingwrong in the living room orkitchen. She opened thedownstairs closet. Nothing.Thebackdoor.Nothing.Thefront door. Nothing.

Everything was quiet—soquietthatopeningandclosingallthosedoorsseemedarudeintrusion.

She went back upstairsandsettledherselfonthebedwhen there was a secondnoise, different from the lastbut equally unfamiliar. Shewent downstairs again, andagainshefoundnothing.Theproblem, she thought,wasn’tthe noise, it was the quiet.

Shecouldnotremembereverbeing anyplace this quiet.Then came another noise,anothersearch,afourthnoise,a fourth search. Finally sheturned off the television andbegan to put a few of hernewly unpacked belongings—toothbrushes, diapers forthe kids, clean underwear—intoabag.

She would go to hermother’s apartment in

Schlobohm, she decided.Afterall, itwasherbirthday.Her mother would want tospend her birthday with her.AndShandaandlittleJohnnywould be more comfortabletheretonight.Itwouldjustbefor one night. Except, ofcourse, she had all thoseerrands to run tomorrow—groceriesandthings,maybeanew outfit for John’s firstnight home—and the only

stores she really knew wereonthewestside.

Maybe she would stay athermother’stomorrownight,too.

CouncilmanNick

It had been

early in the morning whenNick first mixed the powderandwater in a plastic bucketthat had previously helddrywall Spackle, and carriedit to the end of the longdriveway. He and Michael(who had actually mixedcement once or twice beforeandshouldhavewarnedhim)pushed a long steel rod intothe sloppy mixture. ThenNick,Michael, andNay took

turnsholdingontotheheavypole,doingtheirbest tokeepit upright while the liquidlanguidlybecamesolid.

As hours passed, Naywentbackintothehouse,firstfor sandwiches, thenmagazines, then sunscreen.By midafternoon, Nick triedto rig up a support truss forthe pole, using some nearbybranches,but itonlyheld forafewminutes.

All this effort was for astreet sign that said“Wasicsko Lane.” It wasgreen and white, like all theofficialsignsinYonkers,andeven on close inspection itlookedliketherealthing.Butitwasn’t.Michael had foundacompanythatspecializedinreplicas, and he had givenone to his brother and sister-in-lawasagift,awaytohelpconfused deliverymen find

thehiddenhouse.“Shouldn’t have to wait

until you’re dead to have astreet named after you,”Michael had joked as hewatched Nick unwrap thebox.

Nick had been touchedand amused at the time, butnowhewasfeelinghot,tired,and embarrassed. The end ofhisdrivewaywasinfullviewof Yonkers Avenue, right

next to a traffic light, andeach time the cars stoppeddriverswould stareandhonkandwave. Both of his handswere cramped around thesign, so he couldn’t waveback.Theymusthavethoughthe was an idiot, standingtherehuggingapole.

Ormaybetheythoughtthesignwasreal.Thenhewouldnotlooklikeanidiot,butlikeanegotistwhonamesastreet

after himself. Hadn’t hegotten flak when he putWASICSKO on his licenseplates? Even worse, what ifthey thought that he wantedthem to think that theimitationsignwasreal?Thenhewould look likeanegotistandafraud.

Thefactwas,hesincerelyhadno interest in thekindofrecognition found in amunicipal sign. When the

townhouses were first goingup,itwasNaywhoraisedthepossibility and Nick whorejectedit.

“Wouldn’t it be great,”shesaid,“iftheynamedthemafteryou?”

No,Nickhadanswered,itwould not be great. “Theystarttonamethingsafteryouwhen you’re washed up oryou’re dead,” he said. Ifasked, he would graciously

declinethehonor.Nooneeverasked.He was painfully aware

thatnoonehadaskedaboutalot of things lately. Despitehis expectations, he had notbecome part of TerryZaleski’s inner team.Neitherhad he been invited to thelottery, although othermembersof thecouncilwerethere and a few had evenbeen given the honor of

pullingsomeofthenamesoutof the bingo drum. He hadbeen invited to a smallceremony where a fewtenants were given symbolickeys,buthewaslefttofindaseat in the audience whilepeople like Terry Zaleskigave speeches from thepodium.

A few days after thatceremony,NickandNayhadgone on a cigar run to the

townhouses to greet the newresidents. He knocked ondoors,shooksomehands,andwasinvitedtotourafewhalf-finished apartments. All thetenants were polite, but theydid not seem to know himandtheyhadnoideawhathehad done to get them there.He worried that the onlypeople in town who didremember him were theangry, unforgiving voters he

would have to face for therestofhiscareer.

Dinnertime neared on thesidewalk near YonkersAvenue. The pole no longertilted when left unattended,and Nick brought out ashovel.Hedugintotherockyearth until he had blisters,thenherolledthebucketintothe hole and covered it withdirt.

Inthewaningsunlight,he

stoodwithNay and stared atthe sign. “Wasicsko Lane.”Thepolewasslightlycrookedand an overhanging branchobscuredsomeofhisname.

SittingontheLawn

For every

cause there is a meeting.Mary’sweeksofmindgamesin the Will Library and herfurther weeks of orientationat the Walsh Senior Centerwerejustthebeginning.NowBob Mayhawk had assignedeachHEREteammemberherown housing site, at whichshe would hold weeklymeetings with her tenants.Meetings, as her husbandBuddy would gently remind

her, were not real life. Yetthey had come to define herlife, and, for the next fewmonths,theywouldbepartoflife in the townhouses aswell.

Mary’s site was ClarkStreet, within walkingdistanceofherhome,andshewasholdingherfirstmeetingoutonthelawn,inthenarrowspacebetweentwoclustersoftownhouses. It was not the

get-together Mary hadplanned, nor was it the kindthat shewas used to.Duringthe Save Yonkers and thentheConcernedCitizens days,someone volunteered theirliving room and, usually,their coffeepot. Camaraderiewas not the point of thegatherings, but it wasn’tpurelyasidelight,either.Thesense of belonging mixedwith the sense of purpose

until it wasn’t completelyclear which one brought herback to those meetings timeaftertime.

At Clark Street, however,there was no feeling ofcamaraderie and no sense ofpurpose. She had rung alltwenty-fourdoorbells,butshecould not find one personwhowouldagree tohost thismeeting at their home. Atfirst she assumed that was

because theydidn’thaveanyfurniture, or because theythought they would have tobuy the snacks, but now shebelieved it was somethingdeeper. In the projects,apartments were places toescape to, not places whereyouthrewopenthedoorsandinvited strangers inside.Neighbors were as likely tobe a source of violence as asource of friendship.

Meetings were events whereothers lectured at you, notones where thoughts andideaswereshared.

So Mary gave up onfinding a living room andsettled for thisnewlyplantedpatch of sod for her firstmeeting, grateful that itprovided some shade againstthe June sun. Mary was thefirst to take a seat, glad shewas not wearing a skirt,

hopingthatshewouldnotgohome with permanent stainson her khaki pants. Wheneveryone was settled (onlyfivepeoplecame,despite thenotes she left under everydoor), she tried to explainwhy the second meetingshouldbeheldinside.

She began with thepracticalapproach.

“We can’t keep comingouthere,”shesaid.“Winter’s

going to come.You’re goingtohavetogettogetherineachothers’homes.”

Noonevolunteered.Then she tried a more

philosophicalargument.“Youhave to get to know eachother,” she said, “and notonly because we can’t keepstandingout in the streetandhavingmeetings.Youhaveadifferent life now frompeople on the west side, but

you also have differentproblems from the people onthe east side. You’re yourown little community, andaren’t going to be able to doanything if you don’t knoweachother.Youdon’thavetolike each other, but youshould be acquainted witheach other because you needeachother.”

That seemed to work.Carolyn Dunkley, a single

mother with a handicappeddaughter, shyly raised herhand and said everyone waswelcome to come to herapartment the followingweek.

Mary spent a momentenjoying that tiny victory,then asked if anyone washaving any problems. Thelist,atfirst,wasfullofminormaintenance chores.Someone’sstovedidn’twork.

There was a hole near thelockonsomeoneelse’sbackdoor. The water in oneupstairs bathroomdidn’t turnon. “New house problems,”Mary called them, andpromised to send them alongtoPeterSmith.Thiswaseasy,she thought. Maybe BobMayhawk was wrong andtheywouldn’t need tohold ameetingeveryweek.

She was about to wrap

things up, when the womenstarted talking about“teachingtheneighborssomemanners.” The anger in thewordsmadeitclearthatsome“newhouseproblems”wouldtakemorethanawrench,oraphone call, or even a policychangetofix.Theneighbors,Mary learned, hadmade it ahabit to sit on their frontstoops and glare at the newresidents, giving the tenants

the feeling they were alwaysbeingwatched, sending themburrowing into their homes,with the doors shut and thecurtainsdrawn.

In the projects they hadkept their children inside forfear of guns and drugs. Didthey move here only to lockthe doors again, against lesstangiblethreats?

Marydidn’tknowwhattotellthem.Thecheetahandthe

gnu hadn’t prepared her forthis. Like a parent trying toadviseachildondealingwiththeplaygroundbully,shetoldthem everything she couldthinkof,andhopedthatsomeofitsoundeduseful.

“Don’t worry,” she said,“Ilivethere,andIwillnotletyouhaveanyproblems.”

“YouknowwhatIthink,”she said, “I think you’reprobably a little nicer than

theyareacrossthestreet.Youwouldn’t sit in your houseandstareatthem.”

“If Iwere you,” she said,“I would just go about mybusiness. If you see them orpass them, smile and sayhello. If they don’t say helloback, fine. But nobody canaccuse you of not beingpolite.”

That’s what they weredoing, they said. It wasn’t

reallyworking.Notonlythat,therewas the problemof thedogs. Every morning andeveryevening,twoneighborsmarchedtheirdogsacrossthenewly planted lawns and letthem do their business, as ifthelandwasstillavacantlotandthetownhouseshadneverbeen built. The woman hadthreehugewhitepoodles.Theman had a nasty-lookingRottweiler.Mary, herself the

owner of a Germanshepherd–Labradorcrossbreed, was certain thiswas some kind of protest,otherwise the dogs wouldsimply be walked in thestreet.Againshegaveadvicesheknewwouldprobablynothelpanyone.

“If you see them do it,”shesaid,“youcouldaskthemtopleaseputtheirdogsonthestreet. If youdon’t see them,

just pick it up with an oldnewspaper or something,that’swhatIdo,becauseyoudon’twantitthere.”

Lucille’s site was TrenchardStreet and Gaffney Place,where School 4 once stood,andwhichwas nowhome toNormaO’Neal,BillieRowan,and Doreen James. LikeMary, Lucille could not find

anyone willing to host thefirst meeting; she sat outsidewith the tenants on the hotasphaltoftheparkinglot.Thespot had the advantage ofallowingeveryonetokeepaneye on their children, whohad taken tousing thenewlypaved area as theirplayground.But itwasmuchless comfortable, and muchmore public, than Lucillewouldhaveliked.

She did not spend verylong introducing herself.Everyone, she reasoned,already knew her fromorientation, and the less saidthe less likely she wouldstumble into a sentence shewasn’tsureshebelieved.Sheopened with a nervous joke.“I guess I should apologizefor being white and Italian,”she quipped, running herhands briskly though her

frizzy auburn curls. She wasrelieved when there waslaughter.

“Is anyone having anyproblems?” she asked,turning her notebook to acleanpage.Asshewaitedforthe inevitable list ofcomplaints, she jiggled herpen between her thumb andforefinger, anticipating herown annoyance and tryingnottoletitshow.

There were complaints—several pages of them. Butthey were not the “gimmegimme whining” kind thatLucillehadexpected,andherreaction was therefore morecomplex than she hadplanned. The problems thesewomen spoke of reallywereproblems,Lucilleagreed,andshefoundherselfseeingthemfromtheirpointofview.

“Kitchen,” her notes said,

“grease splattered from stoveleaves stains. CouldMunicipal Housing installbacksplashtile?”

Fair question, Lucillethought.

“Staircases,” her notescontinued, “raw wood, novarnish, hard to clean.Couldstepsberefinished?”

Lucille found that areasonablecomment,too.

“Anything else?” Lucille

asked, curious about whatother glitcheswere built intothe $26 million constructionproject.

“The lawn mowers—”someonesaid,butbeforetheycould explain further therecame a scream from acrossthe parking lot. Two BigWheelstricycleshadcollided,and from where the motherssatitwasimpossibletofigureout which children were

involved and whether theywere hurt. The womenwalked to the scene of thepileupwithalackofurgencythat suggested they hadalreadydonethismanytimesbefore. Lucille stayed whereshewas,watching asDoreenJames picked Jaron off theground,thenappliedakisstoeachknee.

The gesture transfixedLucille, not because it was

extraordinary, but because itwasnot.Asthetenantsturnedandwalked back toward her,she stared at them: allwomen, all mothers, allrepresenting what she hadonce feared the most. Whileothers joined the housingfight toprotect theirpropertyvalues, or to keep out thedrug dealers, Lucille hadjoined in the name ofmorality. Public housing, she

thought, was filled withfamilies that were not whatfamilies should be—singlewomen with too manychildren, usually by differentfathers, with no interest inmarriage, and without eventhe decency to beembarrassed about theirsituation. People who floutthebasicsocialrulesofhomeand family, she believed,would flout all other rules as

well. She could not let suchpeople livenearherchildren.Andnowthosemotherswerewalking toward her, andLucille felt seared by theknowledge that right andwrongwere not as simple astheyusedtobe.

Be carefulwhat youhate,you might become it, thesayinggoes,andin1990,twoyearsafter theprotestsendedandtwoyearsbeforethisnew

housing was opened,Lucille’s youngest daughterhad become pregnant. Shewas nineteen years old then,and still in college. Thebaby’s father was someonewho quickly disappearedfrom her life and whomLucille would be happy toneverseeagain.

Abortionwasnever reallyan option. The Lantz familydid not believe in it. Lucille

and her husband, Paul,assumed from the beginningthat they would raise thisgrandchild, and shortly afterthe baby was born, Lucilleand Paul became her legalguardians, turning theirordered lives upside down.Now there were Disneyvideotapes inLucille’s livingroom,andmagneticlettersonher refrigerator, and stuffedanimals just about

everywhere. The two-year-old girl knew that Lucille’sdaughter was “Mommy” andthat Lucille and Paul were“GrandmaandGrandpa.”Shealso knew that she had adaddy, but he didn’t livenearby.

On a census list, Lucilleknew, these women sittingdown once again in theparkinglotwouldfallintothesame column as her own

daughter: single mother,never been married. Butstaring at them, studyingthem, she could not acceptthat the women of theprojects and her owndaughtersharedanycommonground. These women hadnothing to do with herdaughter, she believed, andtheir children had nothing todo with her granddaughter.Shebelievedthatbecauseshe

had to. If she could notseparate their worlds in hermind, then what had theentirefightbeenfor?

Doreen settled Jaron inher lap. As she did, shecaught Lucille’s stare andtried to decidewhat tomakeof this woman, who wasalternately helpful and harsh.Doreen had not wanted tocometothismeeting.Despiteher loyalty to READY, she

had sworn off this kind ofmeeting, because they neverseemed to solve anything.She was only here becauseLucillehad rung thebell andasked her to give this achance,butwhatshehadseensofardidnotrenewherfaith.The lists Lucillewasmakingwould get passed along toMunicipal Housing, whereDoreenhadbeensendingherownlistsforyears.

“Wherewerewe?”Lucilleasked.

“Lawn mowers,” saidDoreen.

“I think I can help withthat,” Lucille said, andexplained that she hadpersuaded the owner ofMarden Hardware, more orlessdowntheblockfromthetownhouses, to give the newtenants discounts on hoses,sprinklers,mowers,andother

lawnitems.“Ask for Howard,” she

said.“He’sveryhelpful.”Doreenclenchedherteeth,

tryingtokeephermouthshut.Theproblem isn’tbuying themowers,she thought. Iwork.Her current job, as a busmonitor,mightnotearnheralot, but she certainly knewherwayaroundastore.

“We know where to findone,”sheblurted,aloud.“The

problem is, MunicipalHousing, they don’t give usanyplacetostorethem.”

Not only that, she said,there are no gates to theyards,“soafteryoumow thefrontlawn,youhavetowheelthethingthroughthehousetomowtheback.Idon’twanttokeep dragging a dirtymowerthroughmyhouse.”

“Housing will lend you amower,”someoneoffered.

“Yes, they will,” Doreensaid.“Butyouhave togoalltheway toWaltWhitman toget it, that’s two buses, andyou sure can’t bring it backherebybus, soyoucanonlygetoneifyouhaveacar.Andthat still doesn’t keep thethingoutofmyhouse.”

“When the maintenanceman came to mow the frontlast week, I gave him extraandhemowedtheback,too,”

someoneelsesaid.“My boy will take your

money instead, he’ll start abusiness and do all thelawns,” said one of the fewmothersofateenager.

“Yourboyneverdoes thework you say he’ll do,”snapped that mother’spurported friend. “You’realwaysofferinghim,buthe’sneverinterested.”

Lucille tried to steer the

conversation to moreproductive ground. Shealmost asked, “Does anyonehere have a car?” but shestopped herself at the lastmoment, deciding that itcontainedtheassumptionthatthey probably did not. BobMayhawk had warned herabout assumptions. They tooeasilyleadtooffense.Editingherself midthought, sheasked,instead,“Whoherehas

a car?” That sounded moreupbeat and affirmative. Twowomenraisedtheirhands.

“How about this,”Lucillesuggested. “If one personborrowsthemower,theygiveasmanypeopleaspossibleachance to mow their lawns,too.Youhelpeachotherout.”Not a perfect solution, sherealized, but at least itwas astart—anactivesuggestiontocounteract the passive

complaints. Although therewerenodsofagreementfromthe women in the circle,Lucille saw little chance thatany sharing would actuallytakeplace.DoreenJamessawnochanceatall.

JohnComesHome

Billie hadhoped everything would beperfect the day John camehome fromprison, and, for alittlewhile,italmostwas.Shewoke earlier than usual thatmorning, and wrapped herhair in a new African printscarf, bought just for theoccasion. Then shestraightenedthefewpiecesoffurniture in the apartment,

wishing therewasmore of itand that the rooms lookedmore like a home. She hadmanaged to buy a dining setforthekitchen,asecondhandbed for Johnny junior, and anew crib for Shanda. Butthere was only a bed and atelevision in her ownbedroom—soon to be John’sbedroom,too—andthelivingroom held nothing butpromisesanddreams.

WhenJohnfinallyarrived,she walked with him fromroom to room, pointing outwhatwas there andwhat shehoped would be. She fearedshe had done a poor job ofdescribing the townhouse inher letters, becauseeverything he saw left himwide-eyedwithsurprise.

“This is nice. This can’tbe true.They’replayingwithyourmind,”hesaid.“Tellme

they’re notmessing withmymind.”

“No, baby,” Billieanswered,thrilledthathewasthrilled, because maybe nowhewouldstay.“Really,baby.This is ours. This is home.”ThatJohnwasn’tontheleaseand therefore had no officialright to live there was, toBillie’s mind, justbureaucratic blather that hadnothingtodowithreallife.

For the first few dayseverything was just as Billiehad hoped it would be. Johnwas at home “twenty-four/seven,” and helped takecare of the house and thekids.Itwasnothingliketheirlife in Schlobohm—no gangto tempt John away, nosummoningwhistlesfromthestreet. As the days passed,however,Billiebegan to findJohn’seveningsathometobe

astryingasshehadfoundhisnights away. After all hermonths alone, here he was,andhehadopinions.

“Why don’t the childrenhave a bedtime?” he askednear midnight one night,wanting to sharepassion,notparenting, with Billie andfinding that Johnny andShandawerewideawake.

“They go to sleep whenthey want to,” Billie

answered.“Thelatesttheygotosleep isoneo’clock in themorning.” It was anarrangementthatmadesense,she said, because “if I putthemtobedearliertheywon’tgotosleep,andthenI’llhavetokeepgoingbackand forthtohit them,soI let themtirethemselvesout.”

“Why do they just hangaround here all day?” heasked late one afternoon,

when the children were stillin their nightclothes and stillinfrontofthetelevision.

“They have a schedule,”she answered. They usuallywoke up by noon, she said,then ate some breakfast andwatchedcartoonsuntilAllMyChildren came on at one,followedbyOneLife toLiveat two, andGeneralHospitalat three. Then Billie wouldfeed themagainand let them

run around the completelyempty living room for awhile.Eventuallyitwouldbedinnertime, after whicheveryone would watch TVuntiltheyfellasleep.

“Whydon’ttheyplaywiththeotherkids?”hewondered.“Oroutside?”

She had tried that, shesaid. Johnnywould bring hisremote-control car andShandawouldtakeherplastic

truck, but the arrangementnever seemed to work. Thehitting would start, and theother mothers would alwaysblame Billie’s children, so,she said, “Now they playamongstthemselves.”

Billie did not blame Johnforthinkingthechildrenwereundisciplined and out ofcontrol, because she thoughtthesame thing.“Mykidsarebad,” she’d think. “My kids

havesomethingspecial.Theyhave something likenootherkids. They are crazy badsometimes.” They were bornthat way, she’d decided, anditdidn’thelp that their fatherwas never around to showthemwhowasboss.

She said exactly thatduring their first few fights,but thenJohnwouldsitcloseto her on the steps, looksweetly into her eyes, and

explain,ashealwaysdid,thatit was not his fault. He’dwanted to be with her, hewould say, soundingwoundedthatshecouldthinkotherwise. The law had kepthim away. “I want to makeone thing clear,” he wouldsay. “Always remember, Inever done none of this onpurpose.”

Billie found herselfapologizing.

“I’msorry,”shesaid.“It’snotyourfault.”

They never had that fightagain.Instead,theyheldtheirbattles on less dangerousground:Whydoeshealwaysleavehisdirty clotheson thebathroom floor? Why doesshealwayswearherpantssotight that she’s “showing offthegoods”?Whydon’t thosechildrenhaveabedtime?

John was not really

bothered by her nagging. Hesaw it as a sign that Billieloved him, which shebelievedshedid.

Billie, in turn, did notdwell for long on thedissolution of her dream thateverything about their newstart would be perfect. Theskirmishingwasfamiliar,andshe was used to it. It wassimply the way things werewith the two of them. If she

had thought, fleetingly, thatthingscouldbedifferent, shewas not at all surprised thattheyweren’t.

Onlytheplacewheretheylived had changed.They hadnot.

ThePrettyHouse

Alma’sdaughterLeydawasbeautifulthe morning she graduatedfromthesixthgradeatSchool29 in Yonkers, and the daywas beautiful, too. BothLeyda and the sky wore thesame shade of blue. Herdress, made as a gift by heraunt, was a floaty, satinymaterial, and years later shewould cringe with

embarrassmentat the thoughtofhowgrown-upitmadeherfeel. Pinned carefully to theprecious fabric was a singlewhitecarnation,herveryfirstcorsage.Eachgirlinherclasswore one—a gift from theirteacher.

The ceremonywas lovelyin the appropriately cornyway, and Alma wished itwould never end. Afterward,Alma, Leyda, Frankie,

Virgilio, and the assembledcrowd of aunts and cousinswent totheSizzlerfor lunch.Apparentlyeveryothersixth-grade family had the sameidea, and the restaurant wassocrowdedandtheservicesoslow that Alma began tobelieve that the fates mightrescueherandmakethemeallast long enough to preemptherafternoonplans.

But eventually the steaks

were finished, the checkwaspaid,andtheinevitablecouldnot be put off any longer. ItwastimeforAlmatotakeherchildren to the east side, tosee her sister’s newtownhouse on Midland Ave.forthefirsttime.

The afternoon they spentthere was a surprisinglypleasantone.Almafeltafewpangsof envywhen she firstwalked in and saw the

staircase,thekitchen,andthebedroom that was Dulce’salone.All thesewere smallerthan she had imagined, butsomehowmorebeautiful.Shemust have used that word adozen times during her firstfewminutesintheapartment.

“It’s so beautiful.Everythingissobeautiful.Sodifferent.”

The adults sat inside,some in the living room,

where the plants werethrivinginthesunnywindow,some in the kitchen, aroundthe new wooden table. Theyspoke in Spanish, talkingabout nothing in particular,and keeping one eye on thechildren,who ran from roomto room playing games towhich only they knew therules.

Every so often, Dulce orone of her daughters would

get up to refill a coffee cup,or brush up some cookiecrumbs,ortakeaplatetothesink, and Alma would bejolted by the simple act ofprideful ownership. Fillingtheircoffeecups,cleaningofftheirtable,placingtheirplatein their sink. Welcomingtheirgueststotheirhome.Asthey did these things, theyseemed to stand a littlestraighter or smile a little

quicker, or so it appeared toAlma.When a room is cleanand orderly, those who enterit feel cleaner, and moreorderly. A scrub brush hadbeen taken to Dulce’s life.Alma ached for her ownpurifyingnewstart.

Shethoughtofherclosetsback at Schlobohm, filledwith countless kitchen itemsshe had bought on hope andaninstallmentplan.Whathad

started with one box of potshad become a compulsion, amania,andwhenshefailedtowinthelottery,sheboughtanOster Cool Touch Toaster,thenasetofOneidaStainlessFlatware, service for four. APresto Under-Counter CanOpener followed, as did aFarberware Electric FryingPan.

As Dulce’s move hadcome closer, Alma’s closets

gradually filled withmeasuring cups and salt andpeppershakers.Sheboughtadevice to hold plastic wrap,aluminum foil, and papertowels. She owned a thirty-piecemicrowavecookingset,although she did not own amicrowave. She found asilver-plated tray at a garagesale, and she bought itbecauseitmatchedthecrystalsalad bowl with silver-plated

trim that she had found at aflea market. She wasparticularly proud of herMister Coffee ten-cup,despitethefactthatsheneverdrankcoffee.

“It’s just for guests,” sheexplained.“I’mgoingtohavepeopleover.”

By the time Dulce leftSchlobohm, Alma could fitnothing more in her closets,and she began to stack her

unopened purchases allaround the apartment. Therewas a box of percalebedsheets, pink flowers on abeige background, on thefloor of her bedroom, and asetofeggcupsunderthebed.

She was not jealous. Shetold herself this until shebelieved it. She was trulyhappy for her sister, and didnot wish that anything betakenawayfromDulce.Alma

merelywantedthesamethingfor herself. She wanted toshut herself inside Dulce’squiet,privatebedroomandgotosleep.

After a few hours at thetownhouse,Almawenttotellher children that it was timeto go home. She found themin the backyard, trying toclimb the chain-link fence,even Leyda, in her satindress. Leyda and Virgilio

walked dutifully into thehouse when Alma told themto, and started to say theirgood-byes. But Frankierefusedtomakeiteasy.

“I don’t want to go backto our house,” he said,accusingly. “I want to stayhere, at the pretty house.”Alma, fighting her ownoverpowering urge to staythereforever,hadtodragherangrysonoutthedoor.

AVisittoRemember

The doorbellswere among themany thingsthat chronicallydidnotworkin the townhouses. Whenpressed, theyrang,but itwasa muffled, apologetic sound,one that rarely managed tosummon anyone to the door.Thomas Downer tried a fewtimes, with no result, then

knocked loudly and waited.Less than a minute later, awoman’sfaceappearedattheupstairs window, her nosepressedintothescreen.

“Who’s there?” said thewoman, who DownerassumedwasBillieRowan.

“Thomas Downer,” heanswered. “I’m here on aparole visit for John MateoSantos.”

Thefacedisappeared,and

Downer heard a lot ofshuffling and shouting, thetype of noise that oftenprovided the soundtrack tohisarrivalataparolee’sdoor.He stood outside patientlywhile things were tended towithin,knowinghewouldbeadmittedsoon,notbecausehewas welcome, but becausetheyhadnochoice.Whilehewaited, he sized up thetownhouses.

Gruff, burly, and graying,Downer had been a paroleofficer for more than adecade, and he had rarelymadeahomevisit to aplaceas nice as this.A fewwhite-collar criminals, maybe—embezzlers, in particular—were likely to have nicehomes, but not ordinarythieveslikeJohnSantos.

Technically, Downerknew,hehadtherighttohaul

Johnoutofthesetownhousesandbacktojail.Outlessthanthree weeks, the man hadalready broken the rules.WhenJohnwasfirstreleased,he listed his address as 132Bruce Avenue, home of hismother, Carolina Santos.Downerhadmadeastandardsurprise visit to that address,planning ahead in case John“messed up” and had to betaken into custody by police.

Downer noted the layout ofthe apartment, where all thebedrooms, closets, andwindows were, where anybackdoors were, whereJohn’s room would be, ifthere were any dogs. Theapartment checked out andwas approved. During hisfirst meeting with John,Downermadeitclearthat“ifyouplantomoveoutofthere,youaskme,first.”

ButnowDownerdoubtedthatJohnhadeverintendedtolive on Bruce Avenue. Allevidence was that he wasliving here, with BillieRowan, on Gaffney Place.This did not come as asurprisetotheofficer.Hehadlearned to form quickimpressions of his parolees,and his opinion of JohnSantos was that he was“unnaturally agreeable.”

During their first meeting,twenty-four hours after Johnwas released, the youngmansmiled and nodded whileDowner explained the rulesofparole:“findajoborgotoschool, submit to randomdrug and alcohol tests, stayaway from ‘knowncriminals’” and askpermissionbeforeanytripoutof the countryor anychangeofaddress.

“What a little weasel,”Downer thought at the time,watching John smile. “He’sso‘yes,yes,yes.Yessir.Nosir.’” Experience had madeDowner suspicious of peoplewhoare “docile andagree toeverything you tell them.”Usually, he’d learned, “it’sjustafront.”

Standing outside the doorof John’s new home,however, Downer knew he

wasnotgoingtobustthemanforbreakingtherules.Hehadlongsinceresignedhimselftofighting only the fights thatmean something, and evenfrom the front stoop it wasclear to him that this was abetter neighborhood than theone he had already approvedonthewestside.WhatwouldbethepointofmusclingJohnformakingamove that gavehimabetterchance?

It was John himself whofinally opened the door. Heasked Downer to come in,thenintroducedhimtoBillie,who was standing near thekitchen, with one hand oneach child’s head, trying tohold them still. Downer saidhello, keeping an eye out foranysignsofphysicalviolenceagainst her or the children.ThatwouldbeenoughtosendJohnbacktojail.

Thenheaskedifhecouldhavealookaround,andBilliegave the tour, starting withthe small kitchen (Downermade a mental note of thebackdoortotheyard)andtheliving room (no furniture,Downer noted, but the floorwasclean).

Upstairs, Downer wascarefultorememberwhichofthe two bedrooms belongedtoJohnnyJr.andShanda.(“If

Ihavetocomeinthereinthemorning to take him, I don’twanttoterrifythechildrenbykicking in the wrong door,”he thought, but did not say.)He specifically asked whereJohn slept, too, because thatwas most of the reason hewasthere.Helookedthroughthe bedroom closet, findingmaleclothesthatappearedasif they would fit John. Heopened drawers, counted the

numberofpillowsonthebed,andmade sure that the roomseemed to be shared. He lethimself into the bathroomwherehepaidcloseattentionto the toiletries (twotoothbrushes, shavingsupplies). Itwas, hedecided,“very apparent” that JohnSantoswasinresidence.

Back downstairs, Downerexplained the rules to Billie:“Icomebythehouse.Imight

comebyearly. Imight comeby late. I need to check thathe lives here. That there areno drugs or alcohol. Noillegalactivityofanysort.Doyou agree to allow me intoyourhouse?”

Billie nodded, hoping themanwouldn’tcometoooften.Hewas a reminderof John’spast,apastshewas trying toforget.

“DoyouagreetohaveMr.

Santosstayingwithyou?”She nodded again, a

simplegesture.Shecouldnotimagine at the time howDowner’s memory of thatnodwouldonedayshatterhernewlife.

Not long after that,Downer left. As he walkedpast the town-houses, towardhis car, he found himselfunusuallyoptimistic.Thereisa saying among parole

officers: “One-third of yourpeople will make it becauseofwhatyoudo,one-thirdwillmake it in spite ofwhat youdo, and one-third will notmake it, no matter what youdo.”

HewasbeginningtothinkJohn Santos might make it.He still thought he was aweasel, lying toDowner andto himself about his plans.But luck can help even a

weasel.Bymovinghere,TomDowner thought, the weaselmight have lucked into afuture.

Dogs,Drains,andDecisions

Mary’s

second tenant meeting washeld indoors, at CarolynDunkley’shouse,anditwasa success.Carolyn providedsodaandcoffee,andputoutaplate fullof little sandwichesand another stacked withpickles cut into tiny slices.Therewasabowloficeinthemiddle of the coffee table,surrounded by paper platesandnapkins.Marystoppedatthebakeryon theway to the

meetingandbroughtaboxofyeasty, chocolate bakerycookies. This meeting feltlikeaparty.

Nine people filled thelivingroom,andMary,afteraweek of study of her lists,knew most of their names.Thefirstitemofbusinesswasto pick a place for the nextmeeting. When CynthiaNapper, one of a handful ofmarried women in the

townhouses,volunteeredrightaway,Mary resisted theurgetocheer.

Next,theyelectedofficersfor what would ideallybecome the Clark Streettenant association. Per BobMayhawk’s instructions, theywere to elect a president,vice-president, and secretaryfor each site. Flush withsuccessatthecozyfeelofhersecond meeting, Mary added

herowntouchtoMayhawk’splan and decided that ClarkStreetshouldhaveatreasurer,too.

“If you’re going to haveyour meeting in someone’shouse, every week, thenmaybe that week they’re notgoing to have themoney forall the food you want to putout,” she said. “This wayeverybody can put in fiftycents and let the treasurer

holdontoit.”Theproblemsraisedatthe

second meeting wereessentially the same as thoseraised at the first, althoughthe details varied slightly.The dogs were still usingtheir lawns as toilets. Theneighbors were still staring,stonefaced, from across thestreet.CynthiaNappertoldofherfirstnight inthehousing,when she looked out her

windowandsawayounggirlfrom one of the nearbyapartment buildings liftingthemetalsleeveofCynthia’sin-ground trash can—Newman’streasuredtrashcan—and sprinting back home.Cynthia’shusbandopenedthedoor and shouted at the girl,whokeptrunning.Thestaringneighbors just sat on theirporches.Noonedidanythingtostopthechild.Cynthiawas

convincedthattheadultssentthegirloverinthefirstplace.

The new secretary wroteall the comments down, andMary promised to take themto Peter Smith the nextmorning. She was certainCynthiawould get new trashcans, she said. And maybeSmith could have the policecaptain come over to talk tothem about the dog problem.As for the staring, if Mary

couldfigureoutawaytostoppeople from talking andstaring, she would use it inherownlife.

Lucille’ssecondmeetingwasnotassuccessful.Onceagainshe found herself sitting intheparkinglot,although,thistime, there were a fewmoretenants in attendance, andthey had brought their own

chairs.She tried to follow

Mayhawk’splan,andholdanelection, butwhen she askedforvolunteers,noonewantedanyofthepositions.

“You can’t governyourselves without officers,”Lucille said, looking aroundthe circle. Her gaze stoppedat the person she thought tobe themost likely candidate,the one Lucille had come to

thinkofas“thetalkyone.”“Don’t look at me,”

Doreensaid.“Idon’twanttogovernanyone.”

“Youwouldn’tbedoingitalone,” Lucille said. “Therewillbeotherofficers,too.”

Doreen lookedaround thecircle. “I don’t see otherofficers,”shesaid.

“I think you’d be good atthis,”Lucillesaid.

“I don’t think I’m

interested.”“Well then,” Lucille said,

in a voice so achingly peppythat it did not sound like herown.“Whydon’tweallthinkabout this and hold theelectionsomeothertime?”

She noticed with reliefthat a green Oldsmobile hadchugged into one of thespacesontheothersideoftheparking lot. Tony DiPopolohad arrived. Bob had urged

the inclusion of local civicgroupsinthesemeetings,andDiPopolo was certainly partof a local civic group. Shehad invitedhimherebecauseshe thought a guest speakerwould keep this frombecoming yet another gripesession. As he walked fromhiscar,shewonderedhowtointroducehim.

“Tony represents theCross Country Homeowners

Association,” she said.Then,quietly,whilehewasstilloutof earshot, she added that heoften said things that wereracist,butitmightnotmatterbecause they might have ahard time understandinganything he had to say.DiPopolo’s heavy Italianaccent coupled with hisstaccato style of speechmeant that few people couldfollow him on first

acquaintance.“You have to get used to

it,” Lucille whispered. “Youconcentrate completely, andhe’sclearandunderstandableforawhile,butthenyoulosehimagain.”

Whatshechosenottotellthe group was of the onememorable moment, soonafter the contempt crisis hadended, when Tony DiPopolowas clearly understood by

everyone.Hestoodupduringa City Council meeting andintroduced himself, despitethe fact that everyone in theroomknewwhohewas.“Mr.Mayor,”hesaid,“mynameisAnthony DiPopolo. Irepresent the Cross CountyHomeowners Association.Mr. Sheingold,” hecontinued, turning hisattentions toward a localnewspaper reporter who had

coveredthestandoff,andwhohappenedtobeJewish.“Whyyou come to City Hall?”DiPopoloranted.“Whydon’tyou get lost, you liar? Howcome there’s all this Jewishtalk around town—MichaelSussman, Mr. Oxman,whatchacall Oscar Newman.…

“Wegive$9billiontothestate of Israel. Every yearfrom1948untilnow,wegive

$348million.…Thisiswhiteliberal.… You run thenewspapers. You run thebanks. How come you don’ttellpeoplethetruth?

“For forty years, wediscriminate, Mr. Sheingold?Why don’t you get lost, goback to Israel where youcome from?… You whiteliberals, you use yourrelativesforpoliticalreasons.Idon’tgiveadamnwhat the

hell you are, thank you verymuch. We were born in thiscity.…Whoknowswhorunsthis city? The white liberal,whiteIsrael.

“How about thenewspaper, Mr. Sheingold?Who runs the newspaper?Youhave all your paisans? Inever see no ItalianAmericans, no IrishAmericans. All you want isJudgeSand,thegod.Yougot

to face the truth, OK? Theblack American, he is in theminority.… He became themajority and the whiteAmericans in Yonkers,U.S.A., he became theminority. And that’s thetruth.”

Lucille was,understandably, surprisedwhen this same TonyDiPopolo announced that hiscivicgroupwouldliketoplay

a part in helping thetownhouse tenants adjust totheir new homes. Shewondered if his feelings hadchanged, or just his tactics.Hedidn’tkeepherwonderingfor long. After thankingLucilleforinvitinghimtothemeeting, he turned to thewomen and told them theyshould be grateful toprotesters like himself forforcing the court to build

townhouses instead of high-rises. Then he accused themof having a hand in the anti-establishment lyrics of thesongsby therap singer Ice-T.Theriots inLosAngeleswere somehow their fault,too.Hismonologueseguedtothe subject of day care, andhe said he didn’t understandwhy anyone at Gaffneywould need day care, sincenoneofthemworked.

“I work, thank you verymuch,” snapped Doreen. “Iwork at jobs it would breakyourbacktodo.”

Go girl, thought Lucille.Maybe I could talk her intoofficeafterall.

Having said his piece,DiPopolo went home, andLucille braced for what sheassumedwouldbeoutrage.Itnevercame.Thetenantsspentno more than a few minutes

dismissing himwith raunchynames,andthentheydroppedthe subject, as if theyexpected nothing better fromhimandwerenotsurprisedatwhattheygot.

Only Lucille remainedupset.Shewouldneverspeaktoanyonethatway.Orwouldshe? Hadn’t she? Her ownexact words had never beenas harsh as Tony’s, but shehad certainly sat inmeetings

andcheered ashe andothershad spoken.Shehad listenedtohisspeechesforyears,andthey had never angered her.Atworst, shehad recognizedhis excess and excused it aspart of the fight, a well-intentioned crusader going alittle overboard, or becominga little too emotional, in thenameofthecause.

When she had first readthe transcript of DiPopolo’s

diatribebackin1988,shehadfelt a form of sympathy.“PoorTony,”shehadthoughtback then, “he means well.He just doesn’t realize howracist he is.” Now, sitting atTrenchard, the man’sremembered words soundedvery different, and she knewitwasshe,andnotthewords,that had changed. Is itpossible to “meanwell,” shewondered for the first time,

when the underlyingmotivationisracist?

With the visitor gone, themeeting continued, and onceagain,thetenantsrecitedtheirlists of complaints: lawnmowers, screen doors,washers and dryers. Lucillehad heard it all before. Sheknew the problems so wellshe could have raised all ofthem herself. But rather thanbeing annoyed by the

repetition, she was, for thefirsttime,saddened.

Yes, these women hadcomplained before. Butapparently no one hadlistened,becausenothinghadchanged. Just as she hadheard what Tony had saidbefore, but it didn’t shock orbotherher,becauseshedidn’treallyhear.

A woman named RoseCampbell began to speak.

Rose was one of the tenantsLucille liked the most. Tiny,shy, and certain that a singlerule infraction would get hertossed out of her new home,she spent hours every daycleaning up around hertownhouse, sweeping thesidewalks and picking upotherpeople’strash.Sowhenshe received a letter fromMunicipal Housing,announcing that her

mandatory house inspectionwouldbeheldonWednesdaybetween 9:00 A.M. and noon,shetookthemorningofffromwork, without pay, andwaited.

When the inspectors hadnot arrivedby2:00p.m., shecalledtheMunicipalHousingoffice and was told thatinspectionsstopforthedayat2:00P.M., and that shewouldbeputonthescheduleforthe

nextday,ifpossible.“But I have a letter that

saystoday,”shesaid.Bringitdownandshowit

tome,shewastold.“That means two buses

and I have two smallchildren,”shesaid.

Lucille went home thatnight troubled by everything—by Tony DiPopolo andRose Campbell and theapathy and the complaints

and by the fact that no oneseemed to be listening toanyoneelse.Later thatweek,she dialed MunicipalHousing. Disguising hervoice, as she had learned todo during the protest days,she used the name of one ofher tenants in place of herown, and asked to be putthrough to someone whocould help her. She spent along timeonholdbefore she

wasdisconnected.She made several other

tries that afternoon, and eachtime she called she used adifferent name and describeda different problem. Thepeoplesheneededtospeaktowere either away from theirdesks or on the phone. Shewas transferred repeatedlyandplacedonholdendlessly.She left a fewmessages, butno one called her back. She

did not get an answer to asinglequestion.

There was a torrentialrainstorm three days beforeMary’s third tenant meeting,and the drainage system atClark Street turned upwanting.Theslopeofthesitesent water rushing from thebackyards on one side of thesiteintothebackyardsonthe

other side, where it satpuddledfordays.

Uncertainwhat to tell thedistraught tenants, Marysuggested they write a letterto Peter Smith. BobMayhawk hadn’t approvedsuchactivism,butitfeltright.

“I’mnotsurewhathecando,but I’msurehewillsendthe engineers out to dosomething,” she said. Andshe believed that. Unlike

Lucille, she had not lost herfaithinthegoodintentionsofMunicipalHousing.

Theletterwaswritten,andalthough it started as acomplaintabouttheflooding,itquicklybecameachronicleofotherproblemsaswell.ToMary, it read like aDeclarationofIndependence.

To Peter Smith,Executive

DirectorMunicipal

HousingAuthorityFromClarkandLoring StreettenantsClark andLoring Streettenants wouldlike to informthe Municipal

HousingAuthority of thefollowingproblems:1.Thedrainsinthebackyards inthe houseson ClarkStreet areinsufficienttohandlethe

run off fromthe naturalhills in thebackyardsonLoringAvenue, andthe raincollectedmake thebackyardsfull of mudthatdoesnot

dry upeasily.

2.Maintenancemen aremowingsomepeople’sback andfront yards,but notothers,onanarbitrary

basis. Sincemany of uscan notaffordmowers, werequest thatthis serviceremain butbe availableto alltenants.

3. We would

like aclarificationof the cablepolicy.Manytenantswould like toobtain cable,butweretoldby the cablecompanythatwecouldnot have

cable for ayear becauseof housing.We do notunderstand.

4.Maintenancemen havebeenwalkinginto ourhomeswithoutpermission

of thetenants,which iscontrary toMHApolicy.

5. The tenantsabove thehandicappedunits do nothave accessto anybackyard.

We wouldlike tosuggest thatgates beinstalled toprovideaccess to thebackyards.These gatescan beinstalledeasily

because theyare cornerhouses.

6. The tenantsthatliveoverthehandicappedunits haveoneentrance. Isthisnotafirehazard?

They haveonlyonewayoutifthereisafire.

Thank you foryour time in theabovematters.Sincerely,Tenants, Clarkand LoringStreets,Yonkers,N.Y., The JudgeAlbert Viarillo

Townhouses

Mary promised to deliverthe letter to Peter Smith thenextmorning.Flushwith thepotential power of that firstletter, the tenants decided towrite a second one, to themanwith theRottweilerwhowas still walking his dogacrossthetownhouselawns.

Wetheresidentsof the Clark St.townhouseswould like toinform you thatyour dogs havebeeneliminatingonourproperty.Please beconsiderate andwalktheminthestreet whilepassing our

houses. Do notpermit them tourinate ordefecate on ourlawns as theypass by. Thankyou, the tenantsof Clark St.townhouses.

Marypromisedshewoulddeliver that letter, too,althoughshesuspecteditwas

apromiseshecouldnotkeep.Nooneinhergroupknewtheman’sname.Theythoughthelived on Belmont Avenue,probably on the second floorof an apartment buildingthere, because they hadfollowedhimonceandseenalightturnoninasecond-floorwindow shortly after heentered. But the onlyway tobe certain that the letterreacheditsintendedrecipient,

Mary knew, was to standoutside the townhouses untilthe man and his Rottweilerwalkedby,andhandittohimherself. There were limits tohow far she would go to dothisjob.

Long before Mary andLucille expected it, BobMayhawk announced thattheir involvement with the

housingwasover.“Just like that?” Mary

asked.“Thejobisdone.”“You mean the funding

ranout?”Lucilleasked.“Imeanthejobisdone.”They would never get

more of an answer fromhimthanthat.

The decision, whateverthe reason, made sense toLucille. “We had a role to

play and we played it,” shesaid,aroleshewasproudof,but one that was finished.“We can’t hold their handsforever.”

Mary, however,announced that, whateverMayhawk said, she was notleaving. She would continuetovisitthetownhouses,togoto tenant meetings, and tohelp if they asked her to. “Ican’t just drop them, I’m

sorry,” she said. “I can’t justsay,‘Well,so,you’reonyourown.’”

Mary thoughtLucillewasabandoningthecause.Lucillethought that Mary was tooclose to it. Each sensed thatshe stood in a place that theother could not understand.Mary had started the HEREprogram as a follower and,over the months, she hadgrown into a leader. She no

longerneededHankSpalloneto tell her what to think orBob Mayhawk to tell herwhat to do. All on her ownshewasdoingmoregoodforherembattledcitythananyofthe protests had ever done.Lucille, on the other hand,had started full of answersand left with nothing butquestions. She had beendetermined to keep herdistance.Butnowshewasso

close that her vision wasblurred and she felt she waslosing sight of the differencebetweenthetenant’slivesandherown.

AfterMayhawkdisbandedhis program, Lucille wenthome. Mary went over toClarkStreet.Shehadworktodothere.

In response to the letterfromthe tenants,PeterSmithhadaskedapolicecaptain to

attend the weekly tenantmeeting that night to see ifsomething could be doneabout the dogs. Determinedthat therebeaproper turnoutfor themeeting,Mary beganknockingondoors,remindingpeople to come. Where noonewashome,sheleftanote.By 7:00 P.M., the designatedlivingroomwasfull.

Marybeganbyexplainingthe problem to the captain.

“People are walking theirdogs on the lawn. They areletting the dogs go all overthe lawns. I guess when itwasa lot theyused to let thedogs just run across it. Onelady comes out with thesethree poodles, and lets themgo to the bathroom on thisnicelady’slawn.”

Whileshewastalking,thewomanshewastalkingabout—theownerofthepoodles—

happened to walk by. Marypointedherouttothecaptain,who sent his deputy outsidetotalkwithher.Thoseleftinthe roomkeptup the flowofthe conversation, but no onewas really paying attention.They were all trying topretend they weren’t achingtowatchfromthewindow.

Afterwhatfeltlikealongtime, the lieutenant cameback and said only that he

hoped “it wouldn’t happenanymore.” A short whilelater, the man with theRottweiler came out fromwhereveritwasthathelived.Perhaps alert to the presenceoftheofficers,hewalkedhisdoginthestreet,takinggreatpainstocleanupafterthepet.

Billie’sNews(III)

Withaviolentwave of nausea and despair,Billie Rowan faced the factthat shewaspregnant. Itwasthe third time in four yearsthat she’d had this samesickeningrealization,andshewonderedwhat itwas like tobe happy about a pregnancy.This time, like the last two

times, the thought made hermiserable.

John, she knew, wouldwant her to have this baby,even more fiercely than hehad wanted her to have theothers. He lorded over thetownhouse like it was hispersonal accomplishment,something that he owned.“The perfect place for afamily,”hesaid,boastfulthathe lived herewhile everyone

else he knew still lived backover there. That was theproblem, Billie knew. Thismight be the perfect place.But theywerenot theperfectfamily.

The fights that startedwhen John first came homehad gotten worse over themonths. They fought aboutthe clothes he left in thebathroom, and whose turn itwastotakeoutthetrash.

“Oneshoe’soverhere,theother shoe’s over there,”Billie yelled one afternoon.“Why don’t you pick theshoesup?”

“That’s what I have awoman for,” he yelled back.“Soyoucanpickmeup.”

Theyfoughtaboutmoney,and what brand of soap tobuy,andabouttheirchildren.

“You’re screwing themup,” he said. “You let them

do whatever they want andthenyouscreamandhitthem.That’snottherightwaytodoit because you’re confusingthe child and then theybecome emotionallydisturbed.”

“Theybecomedisturbed,”Billie snarled, “because theirfatherkeepsgoingofftojail.”

Billie was certain that anew baby would only makethe fighting worse, but she

wasequallycertain that Johnwoulddisagree.“I’llchange,”he would say. Or “A babywill strengthen the bondbetween us.” Or “Let’s getmarried.”Or“Whenit’sborn,I’ll take care of it; youdon’thavetodonothing.”

Whenshecouldnotputitoff any longer, she told him.He said all the things shethought he would say—andonethingmore.

“Itworked,” he chuckled,with a broad grin, as heexplainedhowhesabotagedacondom so that she wouldbecomepregnant.

Itwasatest.“I felt that the love you

felt for me wasn’t there nomore,”he said.“So Iwantedtoseeifitwasstillthere.Youknowwhy?You always say,‘Ineverwantedthesekids.’Iresentedthat.Iwantedtosee

ifitwastrue.”Now Billie and John had

somethingnewtofightabout.“I’mnot feelingreadyfor

anotherbaby,”shesaid.“How could you destroy

somethingthatwemade?”heyelled.

Billie knew he meantsomethingthathemade.

“I just can’t handleanotherchild,”shesaid.

“How can you destroy

Life? It’s destroying Life,”Johnsaid.“ForgethowIfeel,about the baby and gettingcloser.ThisisanotherwayofGodsayinglifemustgoon.”

John knew that Billieworried about God. Thoughshe was not a religiouswoman, she had alwaysplanned to become religiousone day, when she felt moreworthy. She had raremoments when she felt

unexpectedly calm or happy,and she thought that maybethat was what it was like tosense the presence of theLord.Andonceortwice,shebelieved she experienced amiracle, like the day she hadno money and no Pampers,and she absentmindedlyreached into the pocket of ajacketandfoundafive-dollarbill. But these wereexceptions to hermore usual

feeling that she was not yetgoodenoughforreligion.

Her fear of God, and herloveforJohn,madeherfoggywith in decision. Shescheduledoneappointmentatalocalclinic,butleftwithouthaving the abortion. Everyevening for aweekafter thatshewouldfindherself tellingJohn thatshewouldhave thebaby. They would lie downtogether and prod tenderly at

herabdomen,talkingof“littlefeet, little clothes, littlenoses.”Then,everymorning,Billie would wake up andpress her hand to that sameswelling abdomen and think,“What am I doing? I can’thavethisbaby.Idonotwantto have this baby. I cannothandlethisbaby.”

A week after her firstappointment, she made asecond one. She didn’t tell

John. She awoke early thatmorning, left her childrenwith John’s mother, and hadanabortion.

DoreenFindsHerVoice

Doreen James

sat in the parking lot ofGaffney Place, her largeframebalancedonthenarrowwoodenchair shehadhauledover from her kitchen,waiting for her meeting tobegin.Circumstancehadonceagainputher incharge—thistimeshewasthepresidentofthis townhouse tenantassociation. There had neverbeen a full election for theposition, but Lucille had

calledandsaidthatshewouldnot be coming to meetingsanymore, and since Doreenwasthepersonwiththemostexperience at Trenchard andGaffney, Lucille thought itwouldmakesenseifshetookover.Doreenwassurprisedathow excited she was aboutthe title. She was alsoworking hard not to let thatexcitementshow.

She had prepared for this

meeting as carefully as sheknewhow,determinednot torun meetings as Lucille hadrun them, or as she herselfhad run them back inSchlobohm. She would not,forexample,startbyaskingifanyonehadanyproblems.Ofcourse they had problems. Ifshe let them list them, theywould be here all afternoon.Instead, she made her ownshort list of problems, all

chosenbecauseshehadideasonhowtofixthem.

When the other womenwere seated, Doreen startedwith the easiest item on thelist—a party. It was aresponse to the fact that thefew organized activities overon the west side were notavailabletothoseonthissideof town. The children wouldcome home and announce,“Mommy, we’re going to

Playland,” because theirfriends back in Schlobohmhad told them thatMunicipalHousing was having a trip.When theirmotherscalled toinquire, however, theylearned that the buses wereonly for those who lived onthewestside.

“That’s not right, we’remunicipal housing, too,”Doreen’s neighbor AnnaSheetshadrantedinDoreen’s

living room a few daysearlier. “You’re thepres-eee-dent,” she said, pronouncingeach syllable with greatsarcasm.“You’resupposedtofixthis.”

Aparty in theparking lotwould not be a trip toPlayland, Doreen knew, butshe liked the idea of doingsomething exclusive to thetownhouses. There had to besomewaytogetthesewomen

tojointogether.“We could have a

barbecue for our kids beforethey go back to school,” shesuggestedtothegroup.

“That’s a great idea,”someonesaid.

“You can use my grill,”Annasaid.“Idon’tuseit.”

Doreen wanted to stressthat this was more than justtalk.

“I’m talking about really

getting together,” she said.“Doing things like neighborsaresupposedtodo.”

“At least we can dosomething together,” Annasaid. “We can’t go on notrips.”

“Let’s start a fund,”Doreensuggested.“Ifyouallwant to donate $5, if youwant to donate food stamps,if you want to donate greenstamps…”

“Whydon’t everyone justbring something,” Annaasked, “and save all thistalking?”

That idea caught hold fora few moments, untilsomeone asked how theywouldbesurethat“everyonedoesn’tbring the same thing,like maybe everyone willbring hot dogs.” Grouporganizationandplanningareskillsthatgetlittlepracticein

theprojects,andthesewomenwere out of shape. Aftermuchdiscussion,Doreenhadthe idea that a sign-up listmight solve the problem. Ifeveryone wrote down whatthey were bringing, shesuggested, they could avoidduplication.

The date was set for theSunday of Labor Dayweekend, and it was agreedthat they would all meet in

the parking lot with theirgrilles,chairs,andfood.

“We’re really notsupposed to use the parkinglot,”Doreensaid.“MunicipalHousing sent us a lettersaying they don’t wantchildrentorunintheparkinglot. But I could care less.Children need someplace torun.”

Itemonehadgoneexactlyasplanned,soDoreenmoved

ontoitemtwo.“Let’s talk about theCon

Edbills,”shesaid.A month after they had

moved in, the tenants hadreceived their first utility billin the mail, something mostof them had never paidbecause heat and electricitywereincludedintherentbackin the projects. During thelate 1980s, however, HUDhad changed the rules and

required that all new unitsmust be equipped with theirownthermostats. Itwasdoneasanattempt to saveenergy,and money, and to give theresidents some practice atlivingwithaneyeonthecostof keeping warm. But therewasnomentionofthisaddedexpense of the townhousesduringorientation, and to thetenantstheunexpectedarrivalof a Con Ed bill merely

lookedunfair.Asthemonthspassed,and

theConEdbillskeptcoming,utilities became a majorpreoccupation at thetownhouses and, notsurprisingly, a hot-buttontopic at Doreen’s firstmeeting.

“It’s a double standard,”Anna said. “Why should wehave to pay something thatthe people across town

don’t?”This was a tougher

problem than the Labor Dayparty, but Doreen had put iton her agenda because shehadmadesomecallsdirectlyto Peter Smith, and she hadsome answers and someideas.

Municipal Housing couldnot simply assumeresponsibility for the tenants’utility bills, Peter told her.

The new federal rules, hesaid,requiredthat thetenantsthemselves pay the bills.However,hesaid,thosesameregulations also permit localhousing departments toreduce the tenant’s rent inorder to offset the bills. The“allowance” for a two-bedroom townhouse, he said,would be $109 and for athree-bedroom townhouse itwouldbe$129.

Doreen’s explanation didnotmakeanyofher listenershappy. She knew that itwouldn’t, because they hadnot yet turned on their heatand already their bills werebetween $70 and $80 eachmonth. The amountsMunicipal Housing wasoffering would not cover thecostoncewintercame.

“Why dowe have to payany bill at all?” Anna

repeated.“They pay most of it,”

Doreensaid.“Ifyoukeepthebill down to $109 orsomething then they pay thewholething.”

“How can we do thatwhentherearegapsunderthedoor?Youcanlookunderthedoorandseetheoutside.Thewind is already blowing in.We’llbefrozenwhenitreallygetscold.”

Doreenuncappedherpen.“How many other peoplehavegapsundertheirdoors?”

Nearly everyone raisedtheirhands.Doreensuggestedthenextpartofherplan.

“Maybe you should allcall PeterSmith and tell himthat,” she said. “It’s good totalk to one another like this,butIthinkthemoreofusthatcall Peter Smith, thenmaybesomething will happen.

Remember thisnumber,793-8400. Call there and ask forPeter Smith. Tell him you’recold and you can’t afford topayfortheheat.Tellhimthatthey got double standards.Tell him there’ll be a lot ofsick babies and people willstart using kerosene heaters.…”

“Tell him we’re freezingourassesoff,”Annasnapped.

“Be polite,” Doreen

warned.Across the parking lot, a

familiar car caught Doreen’sattention. Few of the tenantshere had cars, and she knewmostofthevehiclesandtheirowners. This car did notbelong to anyone in thetownhouses, and yet she hadseenitbefore.

The driver got out andwalked toward the group ofwomen. Short, thin, and

birdlike, he, too, lookedfamiliar.

“My name is TonyDiPopolo,” he said, and hisunmistakable accentrefreshed Doreen’s memory.She wondered how he daredcome back again. Shecertainlyhadnotinvitedhim.ButsheheededtheadviceshehadjustgivenAnnaandtriedherbesttobepolite.

It wasn’t easy. Soon into

the conversation DiPopoloreturned to the theme of hisearlier visit by restating hisbelief that most of theresidents of the townhousesdidnotwork.

“I don’t think it’s any ofyourbusinesswhoworksandwho doesn’t,” Doreen said.“We’re all human beings,howeverwe take care of ourkids.”

“Yes, yes,” DiPopolo

agreed. “You’re a humanbeing. I’m a human being.That’smypoint.”

Doreenwasconfused.“Soyou’renotfightingus

anymore?”sheasked.DiPopolo shook his head

vigorously, but, to Doreen’smind,notconvincingly.

“Howam Igoing to fightyou?” he asked. “There’s nomore fighting to do. Thefighting’sover.”

“Are you with us oragainstus?”someonesaid.

“I’m with you,” heanswered. “What are youtalking about? We want toworktogether.”

Doreen wasn’t sure shereally did want to worktogether,andshewasn’tatallclear about what this manwanted to work on, but shebelievedeveryonedeservedachance to prove they had

changed,soshegaveashrugand turned the conversationback to the subject of theheat. Within moments,DiPopolojoinedin.

“Why shouldyoupay theheat?” he yelled, trying tomakehimselfheardabovethehalf-dozenothervoices.“Youdon’t own the apartments.You can’t afford it. I’ll dothis for you. Write downeverything you want, put it

downonapieceofpaper,andI’ll bring it to the secretary,I’lleven type it. I’llgo toallthe politicians, and to thecouncilmen, and to thecongressmen and the mayorand to Peter Smith, andtogetherwe’ll say, ‘Howcanyou expect these people topay this?’We’ll be together.Ifnobodyisgoingtolistentous,we’ll go to the televisionandthenewspapers.”

The monologue leftDoreen off balance. Thewords sounded right, butthere was something aboutthisthatfeltwrong.

“You say you want torepresentus,right?”shesaid,slowly, trying to put herfinger on the problem as shespoke.

“You want me to?”DiPopolo asked, withsurprise. “I’ve got ameeting

withthemayorinacoupleofweeks. We can talk to himthen. It’s a meeting on adifferent issue, you know,aboutthemovies,attheCrossCounty area over there.There’s gonna be fivemovietheaters.Wedon’tknowwhatkindofpeoplearegoingtobethere.A lotof teenagers.Wehavetostopthat.”

Suddenly, Doreen knewwhathadbeenbotheringher.

“Can I ask you onething?”shesaid,carefullybutfirmly. “Not to put you off,but why are you so againsteverything? Why do youknock everything before yougetitup?Youdon’tevengetit up before you knock it.These teenagers need thingshere,somethingtodo,sotheywon’t be tearing aroundmaking trouble. It’s betterthanbeingoutonthestreet.”

There were nods ofagreementaroundthecircle.

“Sounds like it wouldmakethecitysomebusiness,”someone said. “I’m alwayshearing that the city needsnewbusiness.”

“Soundslikeagoodplacefor a movie theater to me,”said someone else. “Itwouldbe closer to us and wewouldn’thavetotravelallthewaydownCentralAvenue.”

This will have to end,Doreenthought.Therewillbeno more outsiders telling ushow to live. She lookedsquarely at Tony DiPopolo.“We want your help, if youreally mean it,” she said,firmly. “But you don’trepresentus.Werepresentus.When you go to talk to themayor, or whoever, wewantyou to go with one of ourdelegates so we can know

exactlywhat’sgoingon.”“We’ll go together, tell

himeverything thatyousaid,andI’llbringitbacktoyou,”DiPopolo agreed quickly—aman who had fought thehousingbeingputinhisplaceby a womanwho had defiedhimandmovedin.

“No,” Doreen said,correcting him. “You’re notgonnahavetobringitbacktousbecausewe’regonna send

oneofourdelegates,andourdelegate’sgonnabringitbacktous.Idon’twantyoutogetamisunderstandingwhenyouleavehere.Youdon’thavetoreport about your meeting,because we’ll send ourdelegate and she’ll explaineverything. You’re just thereto stand behind us. We willrepresentourselves.”

TheBeginningoftheEnd

Memory isselective and fame isaddictive, a combination thatallowed Nick Wasicsko toforget the burn of thespotlight and to rememberonly the adrenaline rush ofbeing at the center of it all.

Astheonememoryfaded,theother grew more tantalizing.Nick was determined to feelthatrushagain.

Had he had his fifteenminutes? If so, they weren’tenough. Would he ever giveanother State of the Cityaddress? Would eleventelevision cameras be rollingwhen he did? He was onlythirty-three years old. Hewasn’t willing to be finished

yet.He had hoped to regain

someof theglory,orat leastsome of that feeling ofconnectedness, by rejoiningthe city council. But dailycontact with Terry Zaleskimade him feel not like aplayer, but like more of anoutsider. It also made himfeel likeanidiot,foractuallybelieving that it could havebeen otherwise. Zaleski,

chosen because he was ablank slate, was showinghimself to be a secretive anddifficult man. “We backedhimbecausehewanted tobeagoodmayorbuthedecidedat some point that he wasgoingtobeElliottNess,”saidJim Surdoval, who had beenone of the first to leaveNick’s camp for Terry’s.Zaleski seemed to seecorruption everywhere,

launching countlessinvestigations. Wordinevitably reached thenewspapers, ruiningreputations, which, Nickbelieved, was the main goalof the inquiries in the firstplace.

He was certain he was atarget of one or another ofthose investigations.Vincenza Restiano, the CityCouncil president, was

certain that she, too, wasbeing watched, and thisgnawing,unsettlingsuspicionsoon became the basis of amostunusualfriendship.Nickwas a man who had fewfriends. Until Restiano, noneof those friends were otherpoliticians. But VinniRestiano was not the usualtypeofYonkerspolitician, inways that went beyond theobviousfactthatYonkershad

always been a man’s town.Scattered and emotional,nervousinthisnewlycreatedjob, she needed Nick’s help.Thepositionof“CityCouncilpresident” was really Nick’sold “mayor” post, butwith adifferenttitle.SoonNickwasspending more time in heroffice than in his own,strategizing, even role-playingthewayshecouldrunan upcoming council

meeting. Nick’s drink ofchoicebynowwasSambuca,and the council presidentstartedtokeepabottleinherofficecredenza.

They talked about morethanjustthehowsofpolitics,they talked about the whys,also. Restiano had been amember of the City Counciluntil1987,thevolatileyearinwhich Nick was electedmayor,andshe’dlostherseat

to Nicholas Longo becauseshe favored compliance andhedidnot.Sosheknewwhatit was like to lose yourdreams because of yourbeliefs. She also understoodhow incomplete Nick feltwithoutthosedreams,andshehadfelthisfearthathemightneverfeelcompleteagain.

Sheonce confided to himthat she had been sodespondent after her 1987

lossthatshecouldunderstandhow people could considertaking their own lives. “Ithought about it fromElection Day to Christmas,”she said. The type of soulattracted to politics, sheknew,beginstoconfusevoteswithlove,anditpainedhertogo out in public in the daysaftershewasdefeated.“Theydidn’tsay,‘VinniI loveyou,VinniIloveyou,VinniIlove

you,’”shesaid.Over the months, Nick

WasicskoandVinniRestianotalked about politics, andabout life, and, more andmore, about Terry Zaleski.Although his most recenttwenty-six-vote victory lefthim no reason to trust hisinstincts, Nick believed thatZaleskicouldbebeateninthenext mayoral election. Thevoters, he thought, would

soon tire of Zaleski’s“politics of investigation,”and Nick planned to be inposition when they did. Hewould never step aside forTerryZaleskiagain.

Partly out of crankinessand partly according tostrategy, Nick began a verypublic series of skirmisheswith the mayor. BySeptember of 1992 he wasembroiled in one of the

nastiest, a convoluted tug-of-warovertheYonkersParkingAuthority. Hewho holds themoneyholdsthepowerinanycity, and the ParkingAuthority brought in $2.5million in revenueeachyear,fromparkingfinesandfeesatthe city’s thirty garages.Nick’s brother,Michael,wasamemberoftheboardoftheParkingAuthority,ajobNickhadgivenhimbeforeleaving

office.Oneof thefirst thingsZaleski had done when hehimself became mayor wasask Nick to ask Michael tohelpoustthemanwhorantheagency—John Zakian, whohad been a supporter ofAngelo Martinelli, the manZaleskihadjustdefeated.

At the time that Zaleskimade his request, Nay alsoworked at the ParkingAuthority, and her boss was

JohnZakian,puttingher in aprecarious, uncomfortableposition. Nick, still trying toshow he was a team player,didashewastold,andoustedZakian,even though itmeantrisking his wife’s job. Now,nine months later, Nick wastrying to show he was not ateamplayer.Hewashisownman, and he could get hiswayat theParkingAuthorityif hewanted to.Robert Jean,

who had replaced JohnZakian, was an affableenough administrator, whohad never really doneanything to Nick. But thiswas politics, nothingpersonal, and Nick andMichaelbeganlobbyingothermembers of the board toremove Bob Jean. Citing afew irregularities in thewording of Jean’s contract,theyarguedthatheshouldbe

votedoutofhisposition,andreplacedwithJohnZakian.

By this time,Nay, still atthe Parking Authority, washappily working for RobertJean. The first she knew ofher husband’s plan to oustanotherofherbosseswas anarticle in the newspaper onemorning, which said thatNickbelievedthattheagencywasnotbeingwellrununderRobert Jean’s watch. It

quotedNickassayingthatthereason he believed this wasbecauseNayhadbeentellinghimso.

“You’re trying to crucifyme, aren’t you?” Nay asked,knowing that she had nevertoldhimanysuchthing.

He promised her that herjob was secure. “When Johncomes back,” he said, “he’llbe happy to have you workforhim.”

Terry Zaleski, however,did not want John Zakianback. He realized this waspart of a bigger plan, and hewanted to stop it, now.Council elections are on adifferent cycle from mayoralones, and Zaleski made itclear to Nick that he wouldhave to defend his councilseat in one short year,whichwas two years before hecould challenge Zaleski for

theprizeposition.Themayorsent the message that Nickwouldfaceatoughprimary—Zaleskiwouldmakesurethathe did—unless Nick stoppedthis shoving match over theParkingAuthority.

Seeinghowimportantthissquabble had become toZaleski made Nick all themore determined not to lose.He was having fun. Thescramble for votes on the

Parking Authority boardmight not compare to theheady tension of the summerof 1988, but it was anadrenalinerush,nonetheless.

Sensing that Nick wouldnot back down, Zaleski triedto compromise. He woulddismissRobert Jean, he said,and launch a search for areplacement—anyone butJohnZakian.

Certain that he had the

votes he needed to get hisway, Nick refused to talkabout compromise. HoursbeforethevoteonSeptember16, Zaleski sent JimSurdoval over to the houseon the hill to try to talk toNick. Nick, thrilled that theZaleski forces were actuallycoming to him, upped thestakesbyrefusingtoopenthedoor. Jim Surdoval used hiscar phone to call the house,

and Nick didn’t answer thephone, either. Eventually,Surdoval left, and theWasicskos headed for themeeting. Nick wasanticipatingvictory.Naywasworrying that her husbandwaslosinghismind.

They watched, nervously,as Michael Wasicsko putfortharesolutioncontainingalistofchargesagainstRobertJean, including

insubordination, derelictionof duty, and malfeasance. Itcalled for his dismissal andthe reinstatement of JohnZakian.

Reading from a preparedspeech, Jean answered thecharges in detail. Slowly itbecame clear to Nay that hewas blaming most of thealleged wrongdoing on her.She was too angry to speak.Michael tried to, but he did

notgettosaymuch.“You’re trying to cut his

throat,” yelled a boardmemberwhosidedwithJean.“Lethimtalk.”

Intheend,thekeyvote,amanNickwas sure he’d hadonhisside,votedtokeepthesittingadministratorinoffice.He had been persuaded, hesaid, by Robert Jean’sanswerstotheaccusations.

Two weeks later, Robert

JeanfiredNayWasicsko.“Basically she was

terminated because, in ouropinion,shenotonlywasnotcompetent but was doingeverything possible tosabotage the operation of theoffice,” he told a newspaperreportercoveringthestory.

The Wasicskos barelyspoke for days. They rattledaroundsilently in theirgrandhouse, staring at the

renovations that they couldnotcompletebecauseNaynolongerhadasalary.

“How could you playpolitics with our life?” sheaskedhim.

Hedidn’tpromisetostop.He only promised that thenexttimeheplayed,hewouldwin.

Therewas anopening fora deputy city clerk at CityHall, a job that essentially

reported to Nick’s closefriend, Vinni Restiano. JohnSpencer, a Republican whowas also at odds with TerryZaleski, nominated Nay forthe position. A few days ofarticles and editorialsfollowed, saying theappointmentwas a nepotisticconflict of interest, since thecityclerkworkedfortheCityCouncil. Those accusationsdidn’t wound Nay, not

because her skin hadtoughened, but because shethoughttheyweretrue.

“Itisaconflictofinterest,absolutely,”shetoldNick.

But in Yonkers that hasneverseemedtomatter.Nickabstained from the vote.Vinni lobbied the council onhis behalf. Nay soon had anewjob,byavoteof4to2.

TrickorTreat

When Doreenlived in Schlobohm,Halloween was not aproblem. She simply ignoredit. The first year she movedin, she naively taped smilingpaperpumpkinsandgrinningcardboard witches to herdoor, but within days thedecorationsdisappeared.

She saw them later, stuckon someone else’s door,laughing at her. It was alasting lesson in why, whenfolks at Schlobohm decorateatall,theylimitthemselvestotheirwindows.Afterthat,shedidnothingforHalloween.Afew trick-or-treaters rang herbelleachyear,butshehadnocandy for them, and shepretendedshewasn’thome.

With her move across

town, Halloween became atangle of decisions. Whatwould she tell Jaron abouttrick-or-treating? If she tookhimdoor-to-door, should sheventure beyond the town-houses? If she did, howwould the neighbors react tothe arrival of her little blackboy?Ifshedidn’t,howwouldshe explain to him, andrationalizetoherself, thefearthatcausedhertoshutoutthe

borderingworld?Foratime,shelatchedon

totheideaofaparty—awayto give the childrensomething to do, so theymight not notice what elsethey were not doing. Ofcourse, she had thought aLabor Day barbecue wouldbeagoodidea,too,andwhenthat date rolled around shehad been the only person toshow up. (The meeting with

Peter Smith to discuss theCon Ed bills managed toevaporate, too.) But she hadagreed to be the president ofthe tenant association, andshe didn’t feel right simplylettingthisholidaygoby.

Lacking a better idea, shecalledMunicipalHousingandasked for help. The agency’sbudget, she learned, includeda certain amount of moneyfor holiday celebrations at

eachsite.ForHalloween, thesite at Trenchard Street andGaffney Place was allowedseventy-five dollars. Aspresident, the money wasDoreen’s to use, as long assheprovidedareceipt.

So the day beforeHalloween found Doreen attheSam’sClubwarehouseinElmsford, loadingacartwithindustrial-sized packages ofM&Ms, Bit o’ Honeys, and

Twizzlers. The total was$74.95, andDoreen carefullysavedthereceipt.“IthinkI’llkeep five cents and reallycause a little trouble,” shethought,foldingthepaperandslipping it into the pocket ofherjacket.

She and Jaron spent thenight of October 30 on theirlivingroomfloor,stuffingthegoodies into brown paperlunch bags. The last thing

they addedwere tiny cartonsofunidentifiable juice,whichDoreendismissedas “quarterwater,” that MunicipalHousing had supplied as abonus. The next morning,Doreen knocked on everydoorat thesiteandaskedforaheadcount. “Youhaveonechild, I give you two bags,”she said. “You have twochildren, I give you fourbags.” The result was a

reverse kind of trick-or-treating; instead of thechildren going to the candy,thecandycametothem.

While Doreen was goingdoor-to-door on Halloweenmorning, Mary was over atClark Street, visiting PamJohnson, the tenantwhowasscheduled to hold the nextmeeting. It had become

Mary’shabittostopbyafewdays before these meetings,by way of gentle reminder.When she arrived thisparticularmorning,shefoundPam standing on a chair inthe living room, tapingcardboard ghosts to theceiling. The couch wascovered with paper napkins,plates,andcups.

“For the meeting?” Maryasked, taken aback by the

displayofenthusiasm.“For the party,” Pam

mumbled, holding a roll ofscotchtapebetweenherteeth.

Climbing down, Pamexplainedthatthepartywasalast-minuteidea,areaction—the only one she could thinkof—to a “problem” heryounger daughter had hadearlier in the week. Four-year-old Anita Johnson was“minding her business” with

her own toys on her ownlawn,Pamsaid,whena“littlewhite girl” across the street,in one of the houses wherethe neighbors had taken tositting and staring, asked ifAnita would like to comeover.

Pam walked her daughtertothecurb,helpedheracrossthe sleepy one-way street,thenreturnedtoherstoopandwatched as the two girls

began to play. They seemedto be getting along just fine,Pamsaid,when,ashortwhilelater,Anitarantothecurbintearsandstartingshriekingtoher mother, demanding thatPamcomeandtakeherhome.

Pam never did get adetailed explanation of whathappened, but the fewsketchyfactsshemanaged topry from her daughter weremorethansheneededtohear.

“The little white girlstartedcallinghernames,andsaid she couldn’t play withher because she was blackand dirty,” Pam said. “Shewasn’t allowed to play withblackkids.Itoldherthatgirldoesn’t know what she’stalkingabout.”

Until that moment, PamhadbeenhappytobeatClarkStreet.Shehadmovedfromacrumblingapartmentnear the

SchoolStreet projects. It hadnoheatandhotwater, itcosther$700amonth,anditwascondemned twomonths aftershe moved out. There wasnothing of her oldneighborhood she wouldmiss,shethoughtthedaysheleft. But in the oldneighborhood, no one everrefused to play with herdaughter because she wasblack.

“Iwasgoingtohavethemgo trick-or-treating,” she toldMary, ripping open a plasticbag of black and orangeballoons.Anitawas going tobeaghostandhereight-year-old sister, Valentina, wasgoing to be a witch. Oneblack,onewhite.“ButIcan’tlet them go out there now,”shesaid.“Iwon’tletthemgoout there now,” she said. “Iwon’t let them be rejected

likethat.”In the days after her

daughter was verballyslapped, Pam organized aparty. One neighbor boughtthe skeletons that decoratedthewalls and ceilings, othersprovided the balloons, thecake, the paper plates, thecandy apples. MunicipalHousing supplied the moneyfor the hot dogs and thesodas.

“We invited everyonefrom the townhouses,” Pamsaid.“Ifeelbad.Iwouldhaveliked to invite some of thekids from across the street. Iprobably should. I know Ishould.Dountoothers.Turntheothercheek.Ican’t.”

FindingHome

On the dayafter Thanksgiving, Normawas sitting in her bedroom,holding a magnifying glassand cheerfully making herChristmas shopping lists.“Ma,”Tashainterruptedfromthe doorway, “I gotsomething to tell you. Willyougetmad?”

Norma looked up at theblurry, backlit outline of her

daughter.“Accordingtowhatitis,”sheanswered.

“Ma, how’d you like tohave another grandchild?”Tashafinallysaid.

“I got three,” Normaanswered. She really hadn’tfigured out where this wasleading.

“But howwould you liketohaveanotherone?”

“Another one?” And thenshe understood. “Tasha, you

ain’tpregnant?”“Yeah.”“Howfar?”“Fourmonths.”“Howcomeyoudidn’ttell

me?”“BecauseIdidn’tknow.”“You’re a liar,” Norma

said, but she said it gently,because she rememberedwritingtoherfatheraboutherown pregnancy, and shewasdetermined to stay calm.

“You’re a liar. You didknow.”

At nineteen, Tasha wasnot much older than Normahad been when she becamepregnant with Dwayne.UnlikeNorma,Tashahadnotyet finished high school, andwasstill in thetwelfthgrade.Norma had worried aboutTasha’s happiness since themoveacrosstown.Shewasatanin-betweenageatGaffney

—mucholder than theoldestof the children, a few yearsyounger than theyoungestofthe mothers—so she had ahard time finding friends.But, until this Novembermorning, Norma had notworriedaboutTasha’sfuture.Inspiteofallthetemptationsof Schlobohm, Bruce andDwayne had grown into themen Norma wanted them tobe, with college educations

and jobs that made theirmother proud. She had cometo assume that Tasha woulddothesame.

Still trying to remaincalm, Norma told Tasha tocallherbrotherDwayne,whohad done his best duringTasha’slifetofillthegapleftbyherfather.

“You need to tell him,”Norma said, handing herdaughter the phone. It was

advice she would regret.Dwayne immediately beganinsisting that Tasha have anabortion, and Norma all butgrabbed the phone awayagain.

“I don’t believe in noabortion. Never have,” sheyelled, so thatDwaynecouldeasily hear. “Tasha ain’tgonnahaveanabortioninmyhouse.”

By evening, her temper

had cooled enough that shetrustedherselftotalk,andshetriedtoreasonwithTasha.

“I’mgonnatellyoulikeitis,”shesaid.“Idon’tbelievein abortion, but I can’t tellyou what to do. You’realmost twenty years old. Ifyou have an abortion youhavetohaveitonyourown.Iwill not go with you. If youhave this baby, I can helpyou. I will not tell you to

have an abortion and thenlateryou throw it inmy facethat I made you have anabortion.Iwillnotmakeyouhave thisbabyand then laterhave you tell me, ‘Well, Ididn’twantthebaby.’”

Sometime after that,Norma’syoungerson,Bruce,called.

“Ma,” he said, “I knowsomebody that’s had anabortionandtheywanttotalk

toTasha.”Minutes later, the young

woman herself was on thephone and told Norma of aclinicinWhitePlains,ashortbus ride away, which shedescribed as clean and safe.She volunteered to go alongwith Tasha for a counselingsession. “They’ll show herpictures of what will happenandshecanmakeupherownmindanddecideifshewants

todoit.”Tasha said she wanted to

go,and thewomanmadeheran appointment, but it wassnowing heavily thatSaturday morning, a freakearly snow, and the womancould not come to get her.There was no talk of babiesor abortions all weekend.Tasha stayed in her roommostof the time, andNormadecidednottointrude.

On Monday morning,Tasha came to breakfast andtold her mother that shewanted to have the baby.Norma could not see theexpression on her daughter’sface, but her voice soundedveryyoungandscared.

“Sure,” Norma said. “I’lldoeverythingintheworldtohelpyou.”

Norma had sufferedmorningsickness throughout herpregnancy with Tasha, butTasha had not inherited thattendency from her mother,and she pounced happily onNorma’s suggestion that theygotoarestauranttocelebratetheunbornbaby.Itwouldnotbeacelebration in the truest,most joyful, sense of theword.Normaknewwhatwasin store for Tasha, and she

knew how hard it would be.But she also knew thatcursingyour“lot in life”hadnopoint.Whathappenedwaswhathappened,and thenyoumovedon.ShewantedTashato have what nineteen-year-oldNormahad not had.Anda celebratory dinner was aplacetostart.

Where they should go?Although it had been almostsix months since she moved

across town, Norma knewvery little about her newneighborhood.Shesaiditwasher eyesight that kept herhome, but she realized thatwasn’ttrue.Overonthewestside, she had maneuveredherself around the stores ofGettySquarewiththehelpofcomplete strangers, and shehadfoundherwaytoworkbysoundandtouch.Hereontheeast side, her surroundings

weresafer,and,thankstotheworker from the Guild, hersenseswerebettertrained,yetshe had never been to thesupermarket three blocksaway. Despite all the courtordersandall themillionsofdollars spent on thetownhouses, Norma’s realitycame down to this: she didnot feel at home on the eastside. A judge can mandatehousing remedies, but he

cannot mandate a sense ofbelonging or an essence ofneighborhood, and Normahadfoundneither.

When she asked Tashawhere they might celebrate,therefore, she expected herdaughtertochoosetheSizzlerat the shopping mall, one ofthe places they had gone inthe days before their move.Instead, Tasha suggested theClam House, a Yonkers

landmark a few blocks fromthetownhouses.Normaknewthe place, although she hadnever been inside. She couldhear the music and laughterwhen she took her dailywalks with her home healthaide. She loved music, andshelovedseafood.So,severaleveningslater,sheandTashawalkedtotheClamHouse.

As soon as they entered,Norma was certain she had

made a mistake. Therestaurant was smaller thanshehad imagined.The tableswere close together, and thefeelingwas intimate.Shefeltas if she were intruding,although she couldn’t sayexactly what she wasintruding on. It just didn’tfeellikethekindofplacethatshe wanted to be. When thehostessstartedtoleadNormaand Tasha to their table,

Normadidn’t follow,and thewomanaskedifanythingwaswrong. “I thinkwewon’t bestaying,” Norma said, andTashathoughtshewouldmeltfromembarrassment.

“You’rewelcometostay,”the hostess said, smilinguncertainly.

“No thank you,” Normasaid. Then, rememberingTasha, she reconsidered.“We’ll take it to go,” she

said.Norma ordered fish and

chips. Tasha ordered ahamburgerplate.Theywaitedwhile the hostess packed uptheir Styrofoam containers,and Norma could feel herdaughter’s quizzical stares.This was Tasha’s home,Norma realized. WhileNorma was feeling out ofplace and uncertain, Tashawas gleeful in these shops

andonthesestreets,adefiantself-confidence that said,“This is MY neighborhoodnow.” And Tasha’s unbornbaby,well, thatwouldbe thereal test. If things went asNorma hoped, that childwould never view the eastside as a minefield, likeNorma did, or as a candystore, like Tasha. He wouldnot be gleeful, or defiant, orgrateful to live here. He

wouldsimplylivehere.Tasha carried the warm

dinners home from theClamHouse, wondering, but neverasking, why her motherneeded to leave. Norma didnot try to explain. WhenTashahadsetthefoodoutonthe table, Norma raised herglass of water and made atoast. “My baby’s having ababy,” she said. “This is anicehouseforababy.”

MeetingthePoodleLady

Itwasnotquite8:00A.M., andAnita Johnsonwasstandingbythebiglivingroom window, as she didnearly every morning,waiting forhermother togetValentina ready for school.Anita feltmore thanready to

go to school herself, but shewas only four, and, hermother said, inanswer to thelittle girl’s regular pleas, shewouldhavetowaituntilnextyear.

Lucky Valentina, alreadyin second grade, went off tothe school bus eachmorningand into realms Anita couldonly imagine. All thosechildren to play with. ThewayAnitasawtheworld,the

moreplaymates,thebetter.“Anita loves everyone,”

Pam Johnson liked to say ofhersunny,outgoingdaughter,who had inherited hermother’s disposition.“EveryonelovesAnita.”

Sheusedtoplayeverydaywith her cousins and theothersthatherauntcaredfor,but thatwaswhen they livedin the apartment, before theymovedtothetownhouse,and

whenhermotherstillworked.From the townhouse, the tripback to her aunt’s apartmentwould mean two buses or afive-dollarcabrideeachway.PamtriedtofinddaycareforAnita on the new side oftown, but there was nothingshecouldaffordorthatwouldtake social service payments.So Pam quit her job andbegantospendherdayswithherdaughter.

ForAnita,itwasnice.Sheloved her mother. But shewas sure it was not asmuchfun as going to school andmeeting all those children.Therewereafewchildrenherage in the townhouses, butnot nearly enough. The onetimeshehadtriedtomeetoneof the white children acrossthe street, the little girl hadcalled her names and madeher cry. Her mother would

not let her cross the streetagain. Standing by thewindow in the morning,listening to Pam hurryValentina along, Anita couldseethatlittlegirl’shouse.Shewouldthink,inthepartofherhead she used for pretend,about crossing the street,knocking on the girl’s door,andsaying,“Hi,let’splay.”

On the mornings—likethis morning—when

Valentina was being extrapokey, Anita could also seethePoodleLady.Around thecorner, the ladywalked, thendown the block, pastAnita’shouse. Every morning shecame, and, whenever shecould, Anita would watchher. She had three dogs onleashes, twowhite and one asandy color that, to Anita,looked almost pink. Anitawas afraid of dogs, but that

wasmostly the kind of dogsfrombackwhere sheused tolive. She thought she wouldprobablylikethiskindofdog—all fluffy and bouncy. Shewondered if the lady wouldletherpetthem.

Anita knew her motherdidn’t like the Poodle Ladyvery much, but she was notsure why. Something aboutthedogsusingthetownhouselawn as a bathroom. On this

morning, as the woman andher trio of dogs came intoview, Anita decided to askher not to do that. Then sheandthePoodleLadycouldbefriends. She stepped awayfromthewindow,openedthefront door, and stepped intothe late autumn chill withouta jacket. She practicallyskippeddownthepath.

“Myname isAnita, can Ipetyourdog?”sheasked.

The woman nodded. “Pattheir backs. They like that,”shesaid.

Anitalookedup.“Whydoyoutalklikethat?”sheasked.

“I come from a countrycalledColombia,”thewomananswered, smiling. “It’s farawayfromhere.”

Anita bent down towardthe three dogs, reached outher hand, and patted theclosestone,hesitantly,behind

itshead,grinningherhappiestgrin. Then she pulled herhandbackquicklyandhelditbehind her back. The dogswere soft and silky, like shehad imagined theywouldbe.She wanted to reach downand touch them again, buttheyhadbeguntotugattheirleashes, and thePoodleLadyhad started to walk way. Asshewalked,shecalledouthergood-byestoAnita.

“Bye,” Anita said back,adding hopefully, “see youtomorrow.”

Christmas

Two daysbefore Christmas, just as itwas getting dark, Alma’s

niece, Rita, stopped atSchlobohm to visit her aunt.Ithadbeenmonths since shehadlastbeentotheprojectinwhich shehadgrownupandfrom which she had eagerlyfled. In the sixmonths sinceshe and her mother hadmoved to the town-houses,they had been back toSchlobohmnomorethantwoorthreetimes.

Vague feelings of guilt at

thatabsencebroughtherbacknow, a detour on her routehome from the school whereshe worked as a teacher’saide. Guilt mixed withholiday spirit. She had justcashedherpaycheck,and thethree hundred dollars in anenvelope in her purse madeher feel flush and generous.So did the shopping bag shecarried, filled with a half-dozen presents that she had,

tohersurprise,receivedfromsomeofherstudents.

Sheusedthebackdoortoher Aunt Alma’s building,because it was closest to theelevator, and she didn’t feellike carting the bulkyshoppingbagupthestairs.Asshe opened the heavy metaldoor, she heard footstepsbehindher,muffled,andthenlouder, the sound of severalpeople running. She turned

around and saw they wererunningtowardher.

“Four kids,” she wouldtell the police a short whilelater. “They were kids.Thirteen, fourteen, maybefifteenyearsold.”

She didn’t rememberhaving time toscreambeforethey grabbed her frombehind, hit her over the headwith something unseen butkeenly felt, and pushed her,

head first, into the concretewall. As suddenly as theyappeared, they were gone.Herpurseandherbagofgiftsweregone,too.

She would havenightmares for weeks afterthat.Thedetailsdiffered,but,inallof them,shewasbeingchased.Whenshewasawake,shewasconstantlyangry,notonly at the “kids,” but atherself. Thinking back, she

was almost, but notcompletely, certain that shehad seen them in GettySquare,thattheyhadwatchedher cash her check, and thatthey followed her home. Shehadletthemfollowherhome.Livinginthetownhouseshaddulled her instincts, thinnedher armor, led her to dothingssheshouldknownottodo. During her years atSchlobohm she had learned

how to walk like someonewho should not be messedwith, how to dress so shewould not be a target. Shehad hated having to learnthose rules, but she wasfurious now that she seemedto have forgotten them. Shewould never go back toSchlobohmbyherselfagain.

The police officers foundher purse, on the roof of heraunt’s building, but it was

empty. The bag of presentswas never found. For weeksshewonderedwhat had beeninside all those sweet littleboxes.Shehadn’tunwrappedthem. She had been waitingforChristmasEve.

The afternoon beforeChristmas, Pam Johnsonreturnedhomeafter spendingthe day at her mother’s

apartment, across town. She,Anita, and Valentina werestill taking their coats offwhen a neighbor, clearlyexcitedandachinglycurious,knockedonthedoor.

“A ladywashere lookingfor you and your girls,” theneighbor said. “That ladywithallthepoodles.”

Pam had often seen, buthad never met, the PoodleLady whom Anita was so

fond of. Anita talked of thewomanall thetimenow,andPam knew almost nothingabouther.Shedidnotknow,for instance, that the PoodleLady’s name was LillianCadavid, that shehadmovedfrom Colombia thirty-fouryearsearlier,andthatshehadraised three children, twodaughtersandason,inhalfofher two-family house aroundthecorner.Pamdidnotknow

that the poodles—namedMartini, Brandy, andAlexander—were not reallypoodles at all, but were allbichon frises, which costbetween $800 and $1,200 aspuppies,orthateachonewasa gift for a differentChristmas or birthday. Andshe certainly did not knowthat it was a source ofamusementtoLillianthatherbichons “are not too friendly

withblackdogs.”Withotherdogs, she would say, with ahalf-suppressed giggle, “veryfriendly. If it’s a little whitepoodle,theyplay.Butablackdog,no.”

Lillian did not knowPam’s name, either. Fond asshe was of Anita, she neverasked the little girl her lastname, although they met infront of Anita’s townhousenearly every day. Lillian

thought it best not to know.“So often the mother has adifferent last name than thechild. So confusing, orawkward,” she thought. Inanonymity there is distance,she believed. “I’m not goingtobeherfriend,”shethought.“Iwon’tinviteherinfortea.”

Lillian did not know thatPam was one of the tenantswhocomplainedtothepoliceabout the “poodles” during

the first summer in thetownhouses.AndPamdidnotknow that Lillian wasunrepentant when the officerapproached her in the streetthenightofthatmeeting.

“I pay taxes, I don’t seethat anybody owns thestreet,”shesaid.“ThepeopleinthesehousestheythinkI’mdoing this because they’relivingthere?Well,theydon’tknowthatthisismyroutine.I

don’t want anybody tointimidateme.ForafewdaysI thought, ‘Wherecan Iwalkmy dogs now, because thehousesarethere?’AndthenIsaid,‘No,I’mgonnakeepmyroute.’AndIdid.”

All Pam knew, all sheneeded to know, was thatLillianwaskindtoAnitaandValentina, and that she hadgot Anita past her fear ofdogs. She had got Pam past

another fear, too. Knowingthatonewhiteneighborcouldbe friendly somehow madethe other white neighborsseemlessthreatening.

All Lillian needed toknow was that Anita wasspecial.Thatseeingherstandonthecurb,waitingtopetthe“poodles,”made themorningdog walk fun. Lillian hadfeared the townhouses, evenprotested against them, but

Anitamadeherthinkthenewhousingmightnotbetoobad.

About an hour after theneighbor left word that the“Poodle Lady” had been tovisit, Lillian stopped byagain.Thistime,Pamandherdaughters were home, andLillian gave them the smallChristmas packages she hadbrought—bags filled withcandies and hair ribbons—which were received with

proper thank-yous. Everyone—Pam, Lillian, Anita, andValentina—stood in thedoorwaywhile thegiftsweregivenandreceived.

Pamdidnot inviteLillianin. Lillian did not expect herto.

Two days after Christmas,Virgilio,inararemomentoutofAlma’ssight,waswalking

to the store. He hadinstructions to pick up a fewgroceries for hismother, andheplannedadetourforasliceof pizza for himself. Hepractically bounced as hewalked, not only because hewas momentarily his ownman, but because of thevirginal white Nikes on hisfeet, two days old, first timeoutonthestreets.

A few weeks before

Christmas he had asked hismotherfornewsneakers,andinsteadofsayingno,hiswerefine, a little dirty and worn,maybe,butfine,shehadsaidokay,shewouldbuythemashis Christmas present. Hethanked her then, and againwhenhetooktheshoesoutoftheir box Christmas day, buthedidn’tthinksomethingyouneed should count as apresent. A present should be

somethingyouwant.As he walked up the hill

outofSchlobohm,thinkingofsneakers and pizza, henoticed somekids a few feetin front of him, older andunfamiliar. They werelooking at each other, thenlooking at him. His stepsslowedandlosttheirbounce.

“What size are yoursneakers?” one of the boysasked.

“Why do you want toknow?” Virgilio asked,meetingtheirgazeandtryingto act nonchalant and tough.HehadneverbeenjumpedinSchlobohm. He knew thatwasabouttochange.

“Let’s take the shoes,”another of the boys said.“Take the motherfuckin’shoes.”

“Tenandahalf,”Virgiliosaid,andhestartedtorun,the

sneakers thudding hardagainstthepavement.

The boys didn’t follow.His Nikes were probably thewrongsize.

“His feet are too big, hisfeet are too big,” Alma said,with laughter bordering onhysteria, when Virgilioarrived home, out of breathand without any groceries.“Theylefthimalonebecauseofhisbigfeet.”

Later,shescoldedhim.“Ifyou weren’t going anyplacespecial you shouldn’t havewornyournewsneakers,”shesaid. She needed to believethat the incident was causedby something he did,something she could forbidhimfromdoingagain.

“They’re just sneakers,”Virgilio said, not tooconvincingly, as he kickedthe shoes off into the corner

of his cramped, clutteredroom.

1993

TheMurder

The screamsbeganjustbefore8:30A.M.at28LamartineTerrace,on the

southwestsideofYonkers,ina neighborhood totteringbetween fairly safe andsomewhat frightening. “Helpme,he’skillingme.Helpme,I’m dying,” shrieked HelenSarno, a seventy-year-oldwoman who lived on theseventh floor. She had thickwhite hair and a proudbearing. Her neighbors, andshe knew many of them,calledher“MissHelen.”

“Help me, he’s killingme.”

The couple downstairswere only half awake whenthey heard her. They pulledontheirclothes,grabbedtheirbaby,andranuponeflighttofindthereasonforthecries.

“Helpme,I’mdying.”The man across the hall

fromMissHelenwasabouttowalk his dog when he heardher. He shooed the pet back

into his apartment, yelled tohis stepdaughter to call thepolice, and headed towardMissHelen’sdoor.

“Helpme,he’skillingme,helpme,I’mdying.”

Another neighbor on thehallway was shaving whenthe screams began, and heraced out wearing only hisundershorts, with the MagicShave lather still on his faceandabaseballbatinhishand.

Together they banged onthe locked door, and yelled,“Leaveheralone,”and“Openup.” In time, a male voicefrom inside said, “It’s okay.It’s her son,we’re having anargument.”

“Help me,” Miss Helenscreamed again. Those werethe last words from theapartment. Soon, the criesturned to moans. Minuteslater, even the moaning

stopped. The only sound theneighbors heard was thepounding of their own fistsagainstthedoor.

More time passed. Fiveminutes,maybeten,andthen,suddenly,thedoorburstopenand a man bolted into thehall. He was young andHispanic, about twenty yearsold,withaslightbuild,about5′4′ and120pounds.Hewaswearingajacket,greendenim

jeans, a red sweater, andTimberland boots, all ofwhich were covered withblood. There was a whitefuzzy winter hat pulled overhis head—an attempt atdisguise, perhaps? With aquick motion he yanked thedoor shut behind him, so itlocked,keepingtheneighborsfrom racing into theapartment.

He started to run around

the men in the hallway, butthere was not enough room,and his only option was tobarrel through them. Theytackled him, but he tried toescape, so they pounded himwith their fists and with thebaseball bat. He crawled afew inches, losing the hat inthe process, and they tackledhim again. Then he slitheredoutofhiscoatandoutoftheirgrasp, and ran down the

emergencystairwell.As he left through the

front door of the building, apolicecruiser,respondingtoaneighbor’scall,pulledupandthe officers saw an Hispanicman, in green jeans, a redsweater, Timberland boots,andnocoat,walkingontothesidewalk. It was too cold tobe without a coat on aJanuary morning, three daysinto the new year. A young

woman leaned out awindowon an upper floor, pointed tothatman,andyelled, “That’sthe guy, that is him. Stophim.”Themandashedaroundthe back of the building, andtheofficersfollowed.Hewascornered, and, after astruggle,hewashandcuffed.

“I was just trying to helpthe lady,”he said.“TheysayI tried to hurt her.” As theofficers placed him in the

cruiser, the woman at thewindowgavethemathumbs-upsign.

By this time, a thirdofficer had gone upstairs,learned what had happenedfrom theneighbors, and triedtoopenthelockedfrontdoor.Thenheclimbedontothefireescape of an adjacentapartment, inorder to try thekitchen window. That, too,was locked from the inside,

but he could see through thecurtains into thekitchen, andwhat he saw was a roomawash in blood. The floorwas all but covered by aspreading circle of deepburgundy, looking stickyandsickening.Inthecenterofthecirclewasanicepick.

The officer asked for ablanket, which he held overthe window with one handwhile he smashed the glass

pane inward with the other.Then he climbed onto thekitchen table and jumpeddownoverthepoolofblood,following two sets of bloodyfootprints through a smallentryway and into thebedroom.Itwastherethathesaw the elderly woman,HelenSarno, slumpedon thefloor, against the side of thebed. She was dressed in ablood-saturated housecoat.

Therewasapocketbookopenon her bed, containing acafeteria club card from St.Joseph’s Medical Center, abusschedule,aseniorcitizendiscount card, some grocerycoupons, and thirteen dollarsand sixteen cents. In herlifeless hand, she clutched asmall black change purse.Later,detectiveswouldfindasingle string of rosary beadsinside.

The officer went to thedoor, unlocked it, and let theparamedics in. There wasnothing theycoulddo.HelenSarno had died from one offive separate puncturewounds—to her face, herneck, her upper chest, herlower chest, and her back.The wound to her neckpenetratedherjugularandhertrachea. The wound to herback went through her lung

and into her heart. Thatwound was four and a halfinches deep,meaning the icepick had been plungedpractically to the hilt of theblade.

Detectives brought someoftheneighborsouttolookatthehandcuffedsuspect in thebackseat of the police car.One at a time, they staredthroughthewindowandsaid,“That’s him.” A short while

later, the prisoner wasbrought to the police station,where his bloody clothesweretakenawayasevidence,and he was given a prison-issue jumpsuit. The cuts onhis head and hands werephotographed,thenbandaged.His fingerprints were taken,andhewasquestioned.

When he was asked hisname, he answered, “JohnMateoSantos.”

When asked his address,hesaid,“115GaffneyPlace.”

TheheroicsofHelenSarno’sneighbors were reported inthe newspaper the next day,and John’s addresswas soonthetalkoftheeastside.JohnSantos. Now the abstractfears of the homeowners hada name. He stood for all themurderers and drug dealers

that were, quite certainly,being imported from acrosstown. That the slaying ofHelenSarnotookplaceonthewestside,nearthehigh-rises,noton theeast side,near thetownhouses,was nothing butastray,peskyfact,lostintheoutrage.

The anger was aimedeverywhere, at places thatmadesenseandonesthatdidnot. There were calls for a

death sentence against JohnSantos, even though, at thetime,NewYorkStatehadnodeath penalty. There werecalls for Peter Smith’sresignation. More than onepolitician suggested thatmonitors be assigned to eachof the sites, to keep tabs onwho came to visit, and howlong they stayed.Thereweredemands that the townhousesbe shut down and the entire

exercisebedeclaredafailure.MaryDormanfelt thefull

force of the outrage. Daysafter John’s arrest, therewasameetingoftheLincolnParkTaxpayers Association,Mary’s association, but shewas pointedly not invited.“MaryDorman lied to us,” aformerfriendofhersshouted.And, in fact, Mary had. Notknowingly, but significantly.Forsixmonths,shehadbeen

assuring her neighbors thatMunicipal Housing wasscrupulouslypolicingthenewsites, and that anyone whocaused trouble was swiftlyremoved.Municipal Housingleases, she had been tellingcritics, were only for thirtydays at a time, meaning thattroublemakerscouldbe takencare of quickly and easily.But the news stories aboutJohnSantosincludedthefact

that, to date, not a singlepersonhadbeentoldtoleavethetownhouses.

Billie Rowan, of course,felt theheat, too.Twoweeksafter John was arrested, shewasfacedwithevictionfromGaffney Place. Her future inthe townhouses wasthreatened not because ofwhat John had done—noteven thedenseregulationsoftheHousingDepartmenthold

one adult responsible for theactions of another—butbecause what he did broughtto light the fact that he livedthere in the first place. JohnwasnotonBillie’s lease,buthe told the arresting officersthat he lived in hertownhouse. If he did livethere, it was grounds for hereviction.

BillieRowanwasaccusedof doing what people

everywhereinpublichousingwere doing and what a highpercentage of her neighborsinthetownhousesweredoing—livingwiththemenintheirlives without benefit ofmarriage license or lease.Officially, there were threemen listed on three separateleasesatTrenchardStreetandGaffney Place, but,unofficiallyandunabashedly,there were men everywhere,

ateveryhour.Theykepttheirclothes in the undersizedtownhouse closets, slept inthe bedrooms, which couldbarely contain their doublebeds, ate their meals in thebeige-on-beige kitchens,received their phone calls onthe phones that were not intheir names, and, dependinghowcareful theywerebeing,often received their mail inthe communal turn-key

mailboxatthecurb,towhichtheywerenotentitledtohaveakey.

They were there becausethe women they were withdid not care about the rule.Just as Doreen James hadaskedhersister tostayin theearlymonths of the housing,and then never asked her toleave, her neighbors moreoften than not decided thatwho they shared their lives

with was their business, notthetenantsupervisor’s.ItwasanattitudethattroubledPeterSmith, not because hecouldn’t change it, butbecause he completelyunderstood it, making therules far more painful toenforce.

Housing regulationsrequire allpermanentmembersofahouseholdtobelisted on a lease, meaning

people who truly live thereand can be expected to livethere in the foreseeablefuture. But for too manywomen in the projects,permanence is a matter ofdefinition. Was John apermanent part of Billie’slife? Stopping in betweenstays in the penitentiary?Leaving for several nights ata time without telling herwherehewent?Sheknewshe

could wake up any morningto find him gone, and shewouldnotbetheonlywomansheknew tobe suddenlyandsporadically alone. Why tellMunicipal Housing thatsomething is permanent,when you aren’t at all sureyourself?

But rules are rules, anddespitePeterSmith’sfeelingsof empathy, his departmenthired an investigator to track

suspectedcheaters.Therewasno shortage of tips for theinvestigator to follow, sincepeople on the wait list forpublichousinginYonkers—alist that is fifteen hundrednames and five years long—often snitch on people whoare already occupants of thehousing. The completion ofthe townhouses had onlyincreasedthattendency.

Despite a healthy supply

of leads, however, theallegations were usuallyimpossible to prove. Thedepartment would call thealleged offender in for an“informal conference” on thecharges, and that offenderwould almost always comewith proof that her“paramour”—the termfavored by the department’slawyers—really, truly livedsomeplace else. Every year,

the housing authority wouldhold about 180 informalhearings on charges otherthan nonpayment of rent. Ofthose, only twelve to fifteenwouldeverbeevicted.

One of those, Smithsuspected, would be BillieRowan.Hehadnochoicebutto begin proceedings againsther. Too many people werewatching this case,demanding that an example

bemadeofsomeone.On January 15, Smith

signed a letter to BillieRowaninformingherthatshewas entitled to a hearing onthe charges before a councilof tenant representatives.Shestoodaccused, thelettersaid,ofviolating“ParagraphNo.6Clause B of the ResidentMonthly Lease Agreementwhich in part states thefollowing: The tenant agrees

nottoassignthislease,nortosublet or transfer possessionof the premises; nor to giveaccommodations to boardersorlodgerswithoutthewrittenconsent of the management.Upon information and beliefthatonJanuary3,1993,JohnM. Santos was arrested andcharged with 2nd degreemurder and gave his addressas 115 Gaffney Place. Mr.Santos is not listed on your

lease as a member of yourhousehold.”

Smith knew when hesignedtheletterthathewouldnot attend the hearing. Billiehad two young children, andhe expected that this casewould break his heart. Hewould leave this to theagency’slawyers.

DoreenRaisesHerVoice

“What’s thematter with MunicipalHousing?” Doreen Jamesasked in outrage as shestruggled to settle her wideself into Mary Dorman’scompact car. She didn’twaitfor an answer. “What’s the

citydoingthisfor?Punishingher for something that herguy did? She said he didn’tlive there.They should leaveheralone.She’safineperson,she has two kids. She didn’tcause the trouble. Why arethey wasting their timebotheringher?”

The meeting Mary andDoreen were driving towardwas not, officially, about thehousing. It was the first in a

series of by-invitation-onlymeetings that Mayor Zaleskiwas holding, one in eachquadrant of the city, to hearwhat neighborhood leadershad on their minds. A fewdays earlier, an assistant tothe mayor asked Mary tocontact the tenantrepresentative of thesoutheast town-house sites,andMary had called Doreenandofferedheraride.

“He’s an asshole in mybook for using her address,”Doreen was saying, abruptlyswitching the focus of heranger from the housingauthority to the allegedmurderer. “Our men knowbetter than that, than to risktheirwomenandfamilies.Somany people get busted, andtheyuse themen’s shelter asanaddress.”

Inotherwords, thewaya

maninthisworldprotectshislovedonesistodenytheyarehis.

“They make rules likewe’rechildren,”Doreensaid.“They say she broke a rule,’causeitsaysinthelease,noboarders, nothing like that.But I read the lease today.Theleasestates thatheatandhotwaterisincluded,and,forus, it isn’t. Why give me alease stating heat and hot

waterisincluded,andassoonasIfuckupsomethinginmylease, I’m out, but they canbreaktheirpart?”

The community room at theScottiCommunityCenterwasfilled with a dozen roundtables,withsixtoeightchairsateach.MaryandDoreensatat an empty one, near theback, and watched as the

room filled. Confrontingauthorityisharderinthefleshthan in the abstract, andDoreen was far quieter thanshehadbeeninthecar.Marydidalmostallthetalking.

“That’s themayor, at thattableupthere,andthepeoplesitting with him are hiscommissioners—police, fire,public works, things likethat,” she said, giving averbaltouroftheroom,notat

all surprised that sherecognized almost everyoneandwasnotspeakingtomanyof them. At Mary’s owntable, there was no one butMary,Doreen, and CarolynDunkley, the tenant fromClark Street who had beenbrave enough to hostMary’sfirstindoormeeting.“Justmeand these two very blackwomen,” she thought,growing increasingly self-

conscious at the glaringlyemptyseatsaroundthem.Shetalkedandpointedandrecitedlistsofnames,asifshecouldsomehow fill the chairs byfillingthesilence.

Finally,SisterMaryAlicefrom theSt. John theBaptistChurch walked over andjoined the small,uncomfortable group. Marygratefully jumped up,introduced the sister to

Carolyn and Doreen, thenheadedofftotherefreshmenttableat thebackof the roomto find a plate of cookies forher now respectably sizedgroup.

She had walked only afewfeet fromher tablewhenshemetTonyDiPopolo,thererepresenting the CrossCounty HomeownersAssociation.“PeterSmithhasto get that lady out of

Trenchard Street,” he said,without pausing for smalltalk. “We can’t have thatgoingon.”

“Wehavetowaitandfindout what happened,” Marysaid. “It’s not fair, Tony, tojust throwheroutbecauseofsomebadpublicity.Thepoorlady,she’sgottwokids.Youdon’tjustdothat.”

The meeting began fortyminutes late because therepresentativesoftheLincolnPark Taxpayers Association,thegroupthathadsorecentlyspurned Mary, were not yetthere. They still had notarrived by the time Zaleskifinally stood up at his tablenear the front, described thepurpose of the gathering as“finding ways to make thiscity even better,” and asked

eachofhiscommissioners todescribe who they were andwhat they did. When theywere through, the mayorstood up again and askedeveryone in the room tointroduce themselvesand saywhat organization they werefrom. Itwas likeCareerDayinYonkers.

Mary coached Doreen.“When it comes to you, justget up and say what your

name is and that you’re thetenant representative forTrenchard,” she whispered.And Doreen did get up, butintroducedherself,instead,asthe representative of theAndrew Smith Townhouses,which, Mary had forgotten,wasthesite’sformalname.

Then it was Mary’s turn.As she stood, she felt ashimmer of panic. Whoshouldshesayshewaswith?

Her official role with theHEREprogramhadendedsixmonthsearlier.Couldshestillsay she was a representativeof HERE? Her relationshipwith the Lincoln ParkTaxpayers Association wasstrained,atbest,butsincenoonefromthegroupwasthereto contradict her, should shesayshewaswiththem?

“I’m Mary Dorman,” shefound herself saying. “I’m

from Lincoln Park, but I’mnothere representingLincolnPark. I’m part of the HEREteam, the housing relocationteam, and I’m hererepresentingthetenantsinthelow-income housing on theeastside.”

The mayor next openedthe floor to a generaldiscussion of ideas andconcerns.Firsttherewasalotof talk about graffiti. Then

there was an even longerconversation about schoolcrossing guards. Zaleskipatiently explained thefunding and manpowershortages that kept the cityfrom solving both thoseproblems. As he wasspeaking,severalmembersofSave Yonkers walked in andtook seats near the door.Although the mayor did notpause, Mary thought he

lookedmomentarilyalarmed.Shewasalarmed,too.She

knew these people, andworried that they were thereto“bringuptheincidentwiththemurder.”

Shewasfeelingtoughandprotectiveontheheelsofherpublic declaration that shestoodwiththetenants.“Don’tyou cause trouble,” shethought, glaring at the groupfromSaveYonkers.“Because

I’ll get up and punch you ifyoudo.”

Themurderdidcomeup,butnot because of anyone fromSaveYonkers.

Tired of hearing aboutgraffiti and such, DoreenJames raised her hand,remained seated in her chair,and said what she had cometosay.Assoonasshestarted

speaking, the room becamesilent, and it stayed thatwayuntilshewasdone.

“Iwouldliketotalkaboutthe comments of the twogentlemen on the CityCouncil,” she said, referringto a report she had seen onthe news the night beforeabout the calls for action inresponsetothemurder.

“The tenants who live inthe new sites are very upset

about what they are saying.We do not like theircomments about screeningpeople,andcheckingonwhowe have as company andthings like that. How wouldthey like it if that type ofthing were said about them?I’msuretheywouldbeupset.The tenants are decentpeople, and the tenant whomay be evicted because ofthisis,too.Thatman,Santos,

didnotliveatGaffneyPlace,and it shouldn’t be assumedthat he did just because hesaidso.”

Mary listened, proud andrelieved. “She wasmagnificent” was how Marywould describe the speech toBuddy later. “Eloquent. AndherEnglishwasgreat.Idon’tthink shemade anymistakesasfaras thatgoes,andIwasgladbecauseIdidn’twanther

tomessupherEnglishatall,the way they can dosometimes.”

WhenDoreenhadfinishedspeaking, the policecommissioner stood up tosay,yes,Doreenwascorrect,the man in question had justbeen released from prison,and it was likely hewas notreally living anywhere. TheSecond Precinct officersspoke, too, and said there

were no unusual problems atanyofthesites.

Then Doreen raised herhandagain,andaskediftherewereregularpolicepatrolsatthenewhousingsites,andthecommissionersaid,yes, therewere patrols all the time.Why,hesaid,didshewanttoknow?

“Because I never see youunless there’s a problem,”Doreen answered. “No one

just comes around just tocheckhowwe’redoing.”

Speaking of graffiti, shesaid, as the commissionerlookeduncomfortable,didtheofficers know that “at thepark across from Trenchard,the kids hang out and dograffiti, and probably dodrugs, and it’s not the kidsfromthehousing,becauseourkids aren’t that old, it’s thekidsfromtheneighborhood”?

Thecommissionerandtheofficers consulted amongthemselves, then said, no,they had not known aboutthat, but “someone wouldlook into it.” Doreenshrugged, a gesture moreeloquent thanherspeech,herusual silent flip of theshoulders that said, “I’llbelieve it when you showme.”

The conversation moved

on to other people and othertopics, but Mary heard noneof it. She was too busywatching the buzz ofmovement around her table.First the chief officer fromthe Second Precinct came toDoreen, handed her his card,and said, “If you have aproblem, please call us.We’re really interested inwhatgoeson.Itdoesn’thaveto be trouble before you call

us.”Then a man Mary knew

from her protest days, andwhosnubbedher inpublic inthe months since she hadjoined the housing program,came over to talk toDoreen.He complimented her on herwords, and then suggestedshe take pictures of thegraffiti in her playground asevidence of the problem.Marywasdumb-struck.“This

was one of the bigots,” shesaid during her kitchenpostmortem with Buddy. “Ihave no idea how she wonhimover.”

Finally, Tony DiPopoloappeared at Doreen’s elbow.He was standing just two orthree feet fromMary, andhehad to realize that she couldhear every word. Withoutlooking at Mary, he, too,complimentedDoreen.“What

yousaidabout thatpoorladywas very good,” he said.“Well, ifhedidn’t live there,I hope they don’t throw herout.”

TheFearThatNeverGoesAway

The day afterthe mayor’s meeting,someone shattered Nick’sfourth-floor office windowfromtheoutside.

“Probably a prank,” theofficerstoldhim,andhetriedhardtobelievethem.

The next morning, thetelephone woke Nick andNay at 7:30. It was not theprivateline,buttheonelisted

in the telephone book andpaid for by the City ofYonkers,aperkgrantedtoallelectedofficialssotheymightseem more accessible. Fromtheir bed, the Wasicskoscouldhearthemuffledtapeofthe answering machine, andany thoughts of more sleepended as soon as the franticcallerlefthermessage.

Something about a deadcat—their cat?—and a car.

Theypulledon sweats, lacedup winter boots, added hats,gloves,andscarves,andwentoutside.

Their car was parked atthe bottom of their longdriveway, as it had been allwinter, a precaution againstpossible snowstorms. Theyhad to trudge nearly all theway to the sidewalk,therefore, before they sawwhatsomeoneclearlywanted

them to see: lying on thewindshield was an orangetabby, one of a group ofstrays Nick had adoptedduring this particularly coldwinter.

The cats never came intothe house, because the dogtortured them and theymadeNay sneeze. But every nightafterdinner,Nickbroughtoutapieceofaluminumfoilpiledwith leftovers and placed it

by the front door. He alsocovered the floor of theoutsideshedwithblankets,sotheanimalswouldhavesomeplace relatively warm tosleep.

Now one of those cats—the one who looked likeMorris in the Nine Livestelevision commercials—wasdead, staring at themblanklywith still opened eyes. Theydid not want to touch the

animal, but from where theystoodtheycouldseeawoundinitsthroatandanotherinitsleft leg—two round, bloodycircles.NeitherNicknorNayhadeverseenabulletwoundbefore. They had no doubtthat they were seeing twonow.

Lying next to the frozencreature was a well-usedleather glove—a work gloveofNick’s that he kept in the

garagenexttothehouse.Theglove scared themmore thanthegrislycat.Haditnotbeenthere, they could havedismissed the incident as anodd happening not directedspecifically at them. But theglove snatched away anysuchhope.Theglovemadeitclear that someone had beenup their hill, next to theirhouse. More important, itmade it clear that someone

wanted them toknowhehadbeenthere.

“Yougo in thehouse, I’lltake care of this,”Nick said,andNay practically ran backindoors.

The police came a fewminutes later. They tooksome pictures, asked somequestions,thencarriedoffthecat.

“They think it’s a prank,”Nick reported, after they had

left.“They took that glove

from our garage,” Nay said,frightened in spite of thewindow alarms and motiondetectors they had installedyears ago, during the firstroundofrenovations.“Iftheycan get into the garage, theycangetintothehouse.”

“They killed what theythought was my cat,” Nicksaid. “I’ve gotten bullets in

themail,but…”The sentence hung

unfinished in the air for awhile, because neither ofthemwantedtocompletethatthoughtoutloud.

Billie’sHearing

Billie Rowantook the number 20 bus upCentral Avenue on themorning of her evictionhearing. She had persuadedher mother to take care ofShanda for a few hours, buttwo childrenweremore thanthe woman was willing tohandle,soJohnnycamealongwithBillie.

He fell asleepon thebus,

anddidnotwakeupasBilliecarried him into the squat,mustardbrickheadquartersofMunicipal Housing. He sleptthrough the ride on theelevator, too, and the walkdown the shabby corridor tothe conference room, and hestayed asleep as she movedhim from one arm to theother,whilesheshruggedoutofherwintercoat.Shedidn’tdare try to remove his coat,

for fear that he would notsleep through that. So shetook her seat, settling herbundled,dreamingsononherlap.

Asthosewhowouldjudgeher arrived, they cooed theirconcerns for the little boy.“Why don’t you lay him onthe floor? Wouldn’t he bemore comfortable?” theyasked,butBilliesaidno.Shewanted to point out that this

samechildwastheonewhosehouse they were trying tosnatch away, but she sensedthat the less she said, thebetter.Duringthequestioningthat followed, she heldJohnny against her, a shieldwrapped in a parka andmittens.

The two of them wereseatedatoneendofthetable,near the door. “It’s like it’sdinnertime at Central

Avenue,” she thought, “andthey’reallheretoeatme.”Atthe head of this feast weretwo white men who lookedlikelawyers.Theyintroducedthemselves,butBilliesawnoreason to try to remembertheir names. Along the sidesofthetablewerefivewomen,most of whom looked likeher. Same skin color, aboutthe same age, probably allmothers, too. They were the

members of the TenantsCommittee, the ones whowoulddecideherfuture.

Billie was relieved thatshe already had someacquaintance with two ofthem. She fully expected shecouldtalkherwayoutofthismess, if she could just speakto people who wouldunderstand. Sadie YoungJefferson, who seemed to beacting like the boss of the

group, had been Billie’sactualbosswhensheworked,yearsago,asatraineeduringa county employmentprogram, answeringtelephones in a governmentoffice. Next to Sadie wasCaliope James, also amember of READY, andDoreen’s great-aunt. WhenJohn was first arrested,Doreen had toldBillie, “Callifyouneedanything.”Maybe

Doreencouldhelpafterall.The man who seemed to

be the head lawyer openedthe meeting by explainingthatBilliewasbeing“evictedfor violating Paragraph 1,Paragraph 6B, Paragraph 11,and Paragraph 21 of herlease.Theessenceis thatshehas living with her a personthat shedidnot report to hertenant supervisor and underfederal regulations that

shouldbereportedinordertodeterminetheaccuracyofherrent.”

Under the housingauthority’s rules governingeviction hearings, heexplained,Billiewastospeakfirst and “present herevidencetorefutethefindingoftheHousingAuthoritythatshe be evicted.” Then heaskedthatBilliebeswornin,like in the movies, and she

was told it was her turn tospeak.

“TheytoldmeIwouldbegetting evicted because JohnSantoswasresidingwithme,whichwasnottrue,”shesaid,holdingJohnnytightwithonehand, and taking a foldedsheet of paper from herpocket with the other. “Hewasreleasedandhisplaceofresidence was 132 BruceAvenue. I have a paper here

stating that. And I feel Ishouldn’tgetevictedbecausehewasnot residingwithme.With whatever proof youhave, he was not residingwithme.”

She handed the letter tothe lawyer, who unfolded it,readit,anddidnotlookveryimpressed. For the first timeBilliewonderedifsheshouldhavebroughtherownlawyeror,atleast,afriend.

“This only indicates thatas ofAugust 12 he indicatedto the State of New YorkExecutive DepartmentDivision of Parole in hisCertificate of Release toparole supervision that hewouldresidewithhismother,CarolinaSantos,at132BruceStreet,” the lawyer said. “Doyou intend to produceCarolina Santos as awitness?”

“Yes,”Billie said. “She’llmakeithere.”Shesaiditwithas much confidence as shecould fake, since shehadnoteven thought of askingCarolina to come. Then shepaused for a moment, anddecidedsheshouldlieaslittleas possible. “Maybe if I canget her to come in ormaybewrite a statement and get itnotarized or whatever andbring it in, then I would do

that,”shesaid.Sadiestartedtospeak.She

sounded warmer towardBilliethanthelawyer,butnotnearly as sympathetic asBillie had hoped. “Do youknow this gentleman, by theway?” Sadie asked. “Do youknow that man that they’retalking about in that letterthere?”

Itwas a tone that seemedtosay,Tellusyounevermet

theman,Billie, and thiswillall be over. But Billie knewshe could never get awaywiththat.

“Yes,”shesaid.“Howdoyouknowhim?”“He’smyboyfriend.He’s

the father of my twochildren.” This waspromising, Billie thought.Maybe if she could explainhowshewastryingtomakealifewithJohn,tryingtomake

them into a family, maybethat would seem moreimportant than the details ofthe lease. But another tenantinterrupted Sadie, andbrought the questioning backto the letter Billie hadintroduced as her only pieceofevidence.

“Just because it states onthat piece of paper that hesaid he was going to residetheredoesn’tmeananything,”

shesaid.“IcouldsayIliveinWashington,D.C.”

“Iunderstand,”Billiesaid.“But I’m here now becausehe said he accidentally putmy address and theywant toevictmeforthat.”

Caliope James asked, “Ifhe was living at 132 BruceAvenue, why would he giveyouaddress?”

“Probably under shock orwhatever,” Billie said. “I

spoke with him and he justanswered right away, hesaid.”

“Why,” the lawyer asked,“would he give that addresswhen he indicated in writingto the parole board he wasgoing to live at 132 BruceAve?”

“LikeIsaid,hewasbeingarrestedformurder.”

Sadie broke in, trying, itseemedtoBillie,toprovidea

wayout.“Hasheeverstayedon your premises?” sheasked.

Billie certainly couldn’ttellthemthetruth.

“Well, no. He came tovisitfrequently.Hewasthereconstantlybecauseofthekidsandbecauseofme.”

“But he never livedthere?”

“No, he never livedthere.”

Thelawyerlookedasifheknew better. “Did you tellanybodythatMr.Santoslivedwithyou?”heasked.

“No.”“Did you tell your

caseworker?”Billiethoughtoftheglass-

walled cubicle at the SocialServices office, of sittingthere with John and signingform after form, declaringhim an “essential person” in

herhousehold.Signatureaftersignature, hers and then his,sayingthattheylivetogether,and pool their moneytogether, and prepare mealstogether. She had gone withhimtomakethechangessoonafterherabortion.Itwasn’tababy,butshethoughtitmightprovethatshestilllovedhim.And the extra eighty-fourdollars a month his presencewouldbringwouldn’thurt. It

wouldpaythebills,andmakeJohnfeellikehewasthemanaroundthehouse.

Of course, she shouldhaverealizedthat thislawyerwouldfindoutaboutthat.

“Yes or no,” the lawyersaid, while she hesitated.“Did you tell yourcaseworker?”

“No.Ididnot.”“Did you tellMr. Santos’

paroleofficer?”

All those visits to thetownhouse to checkon John.Naturally he would knowaboutthat,too.

“No.”“You didn’t tell any of

these people that he livedwithyou?”

“No.”“Whenyouwent foryour

grant, didyou indicate to theDepartment of SocialServices thatMr.Santoswas

livingwithyou?”“Well,no.”“Are you, in fact,

receiving an additional grantbecause Mr. Santos isallegedlylivingwithyou?”

“WhenhewashomeIwasreceiving, yes, a grant forhim.”

“So you did report to theDepartment of SocialServices that he was livingwith you, did you not?

You’reunderoath.”“Yes,” Billie said, softly.

“Yes.”She tried to make the

argument that John wasn’treally living at 115 Gaffney,but that the money wascoming to her house insteadof his house, for personalreasons that she couldn’texplain.Whythen,thelawyerasked,wasthemonthlycheckmade out to Billie? Why

didn’tJohnreceiveaseparatecheck, instead of Billie’sreceivingherregularmonthlycheck, with an increase ofeighty-four dollars afterJohn’snamewasadded?

Shehadnoanswertothatbecause there was only onepossible answer, but shecould not say it. John’smoneywasapartofhergrantbecause John was a part ofher household. Instead, she

saidweakly,“IfIknewitwassomething under falsepretenses or whatever, Iwouldn’t have done it thatway.”

The lawyer would not letthat rest, either. “How longhave you been under agrant?”heasked.

“Maybe two or threeyears.”

“In that period of timeyou’ve visited the

Department of SocialServicesseveraltimestogiveinformation regarding howmuchyou’regoingtoreceiveintheformofagrant,right?”

“Yes.”“Andthey’veadvisedyou

astohowyou’reentitledtoagrant,didtheynot?”

“Yes.”“Did theynot tellyou the

onlywayyoucangetagrantisforthepeopleresidingwith

you?”“Well, not that I

remember.It’sbeenawhile.”“Areyoutryingtotellme

Icangetagrantforsomeonewho doesn’t live with me?Howcanyour grant goup ifyou’re just telling them that‘he doesn’t live with me’?You know better. You’vebeen on social services fortwo years. You know youcan’t get an increase in a

grantunlessyou tell them, ‘Ihave another child whoresideswithme’or‘Someoneelse has moved in with meandIneedadditionalmoneysto support them.’ You knowthat.”

Billiesaidnothing.Sadiespokenext,andany

trace of sympathy was gone.Her lookwas theonea sternteachergivesa troublemaker.READY’s latest project was

the formation of a screeningcommittee tomake sureonlythe most responsibleapplicants would be allowedthe privilege of living inpublic housing, and Sadie’stonemade it clear that Billiewas to be an example toothers.

“Letme say this to you,”she said. “These people thatyou see here are residents ofpublic housing. So we know

what we put on anapplication. It is not like wecomeoutoftheskyanddon’tknow Housing. We arefamiliar with Housing, theirrules and regulations.” Inother words: We know hewould not have been put onyour grant unless he livedwith you, and we know thatyouknow that that is againsttherules.

From there the

conversation became evermore hostile. Little JohnnyfelthotagainstBillie’schest.She couldn’t believe thesound of her pounding heartdidnotwakehim.

“Since, I take it, he isincarcerated,” Sadie asked,“has D.S.S. been in touchwith you and pulled thatmoney out of your grant, orareyoustillgettingit?”

“No,”Billieanswered,she

had not stopped the moneyyet.“I’vebeengoingthroughemotional changes. I haven’tevengottentothemyet.”

“In other words,” saidSadie, “you’re still receivingmoneyforhim?”

“Yes.”“Is that legal?” asked the

lawyer, clearly quiteinterested.

“No,”Sadiesaid.“No,” Billie agreed. “I

have to get in touch withthem.”

Sadie nodded curtly. “Ihavenomorequestions,”shesaid.

“Do you have any moreevidencetogive?”Billiewasasked, and she said she didnot.

The lawyer then called anumber of witnesses, all ofwhom worked for theHousingAuthority and all of

whom testified that the ruleswere explained to everytenant. Next, the lawyerbrought out the sheets fromthe Department of SocialServices, showing fourpeople listed as members ofBillie’s household: Billieherself, John Santos, ShandaSantos, and John BilllieSantos Jr. He brought inJohn’sparoleofficer,ThomasDowner,whodescribedhow,

at John’s first meeting, “heinformed me that he wasmovinginwithMs.Rowanat115Gaffney.”

“Were you satisfied thathe was living at 115Gaffney?” the lawyer asked,after the parole officerdescribed his visits to thetownhousetocheckonJohn.

“Completely,” the officersaid.

“DidyoutellMr.Downer

that he was living there andthat you agreed for him tolive there?” the lawyeraskedBillie.

“Yes,” Billie said, havinggiven up completely. “I toldhim that.Yes.The answer isyes.”

As each witness testified,someoneremindedBillie thatshecouldaskquestions, and,each time, she answered thatshe had no questions. When

allthewitnesseshadfinished,Sadie turned to her and said,with a mixture of curiosityand concern, “Ms. Rowan,becauseof the seriousnessofthis, and you have twochildren,anditisapossibilityyoumightbeevicted,didyouever consider bringingsomeone to represent you?I’m talking about LegalServicesorsomething?”

“Well, no,” Billie said,

certain now that that wouldhave been a good idea. “Ididn’t know of no one tocontact.”

The lawyer started togather his papers together. “Ihave no further evidence tointroduce,” he said, “and Ihave no further witnesses.Ms. Rowan is free to makewhatever statements shewantstothehearingpanel.”

Billie shrugged. “I have

nothingtosay.”Thelawyerdid.“Briefly,”

he said, addressing thecommittee, “I can state thatshe’s offered no concreteevidence to substantiate thefact that Mr. Santos waslivingwithhismotherandnotlivingwithher.Youhavetheuncontroverted evidence ofthese witnesses and thedocumentary evidence thatsubstantially proves that he

was,infact,livingwithher.I,therefore, would hope thispanel would move for hereviction.

“Okay,” the lawyer said.“That’s it. You have thirtydaystomakeyourdecision.”

OutintheStreet

One of themunicipal tasks that appearsto strain the abilities of theCity of Yonkers is plowingsnow. Despite the fact thatWestchester County usuallysees at least one majorsnowfall a year, the plowsandsaltspreadersofYonkersstill struggle with the task.Days after streets inneighboring villages have

been cleared down toblacktop,cars inYonkersarestill driving on gray-browncarpets,packedtoicebytimeandtraffic.

It’s not that the plowsdon’t come by. They justdon’t have much effect.Instead of clearing the snow,they seem to push it aroundor flatten it down, and thestreetsareoftenasslickwhenthey leave as when they

arrive. The inconvenienceandmess result in a blizzardofletterstothelocaleditorialpage, followed byexplanations from ParksDepartment officials (carsparked illegally on narrowside-streets are mentionedfrequently) and promisesfrom city leaders that thesituationwillbestudied.

Sowhenmorethanafootof snow fell on Yonkers in

March 1993, it was entirelypredictable that the roadthrough the center of theAndrew Smith townhouseswas not properly plowed.What was striking was howcompletelyitwasnotplowed.Two days after the storm,when the surrounding sidestreets had at least had asnowy path of sorts carveddown their centers, the driftswere still thigh-high on

Gaffney Place. The plowsziggedandzaggedthroughoutthe neighborhood, but neverturned into the townhouses.Those in charge of suchthingshadnotaddedthenewextension of the street to theplowingschedule.Itwasasifthe townhouses simplyweren’tthere.

BillieRowantrudgedthrough

thesnowtoreachhermailboxthat March morning. Shehadn’t bothered with a coat,and by the time she sloggedtothesidewalkandback,shewas shivering and the fewenvelopeswerewet.

The first one she openedwas her welfare check fromSocial Services, reduced to$479 a month now becausethe lawyer at MunicipalHousing had sent a letter

saying John was no longerentitledtohis$84allotment.

Next in the pile was along, handwritten letter fromJohn, addressed to BillieSantos.Liketheothershehadsentfromthecountyjailoverthe months, this letter wasupbeat. “He’s okay, becausehis fingerprints is not on theice pick” was how shedescribed them. “They stillwant to hold him, though,

beingthathewastherewhenithappened,soIdon’tknow,maybe he’ll be releasedsoon.”Shewasalmostcertainthat she believed him whenhe said he didn’t kill thewoman, but she was alsoangry with him. If she hadchosen to have a third baby,rather than an abortion, hewouldhavebeeninprisonforthebirthofthatchild,too.

Thelast letter inthestack

wasfromMunicipalHousing,and Billie thought aboutthrowing that one directlyinto the trash, pretending itnever existed. Instead, sherippeditopenattheside,thenwaded through two pages ofdense legalese, titled“Recommendations ofHearing Committee.” Theinformation she was lookingforwasinthelastparagraph:“After hearing all the

testimony and reviewing theexhibits introduced intoevidence, the ResidentHearing Committee…recommendedfortheevictionofBillieRowan,115GaffneyPlace.”Shewastoldtobeoutbytheendofthemonth.

She knew she could fightback if shewanted to.Publiclargesse in all forms comeswith an elaborate,cumbersomeappealsprocess,

and Billie knew the oddswere she would lose in theend—every one she knew ofseemed to—but the fightcould last a long time, andshewouldbeallowed tostayin the townhouseuntil itwasover.Shejustdidn’thavethestomach for that route. Johnwould be home soon, shefigured, and she wouldprobably forgive him. Herplan was not to fight, but to

flee. Away from Yonkers.MaybeSouthCarolina,whereshe had distant, rarely seenfamily.

Several days after thesnowstorm, Billie searchedthrough the classifieds for anew apartment, a temporarystoppingplaceon theway toher new life. She was not atallsurprisedtofindthattherewere very few places shecouldafford.Shewaspaying

—or,moreaccurately,SocialServiceswaspaying—$271amonth for her townhouse.John’s sister, Yolanda, hadagreedtosharethenewplacewithher, so theywouldneedsomething large enough forthetwowomenandtheirfourchildren. A two-bedroomwould do, if some of thechildren slept in the livingroom. They could affordabout $600 a month. In

Yonkers, which has thelowest average rents insouthern Westchester, theaverage rent for a two-bedroom at the time was$889, and even a one-bedroom, at an average rentof $682, was more than shecouldafford.

Mostoftheadsintherealestate listings hinted at aworld that had nothing to dowith Billie’s life. Duplexes

withgardens; six roomswitha balcony; two bedroomswith an on-site gym and apool. All for more than$1,200 a month. Those thatwere the right price—“1 BRapt, freshly painted$659/mo”; “1BR good area.Elev. $520 mo”—were toosmall. Those that were theright size—“Charming 4rooms (2 bedrms), eat-inkitchen, elevator building,

$750”—were too expensive.And some, even if she couldsomehowaffordthem,didnotwanther:“3rms.Niceaptinprivate house. Nr RR Sta.Working couple pref. Ref.req.”

A few ads, on the otherhand, were clearly seekingher business and that ofothers receiving DSS checksfrom the Department ofSocialServices:

“YONKERS, DSS OK,Studio, 1,2,3 & 4 BR apts,$500 & up. IMMEDIATE.Natuzzi.”

“YONKERS 1,2,3 & 4Bdrmapts,DSSOK,Gdarea.Lvmsg.”

“YONKERS1,2&3BR,A1 Condition, $500 & up.Immediate occup. RidgeviewRealty.”

Shecalledthelastofthesenumbers, the one that

sounded themost like a realad, and the only one thatlisted the number of anagency, rather thansomeone’slastnameorsomeanonymous instructions toleave a message. A brokernamed Elias Rabadyansweredhercallandtoldherhe specialized in apartmentson the southwest side oftown.Not that he lived there—he lived several miles

away,inthefarmoreaffluentvillage of Ardsley (averagetwo-bedroom rent: $1,083).But he represented severallandlords in southwestYonkers, on the “treestreets”—Elm, Maple,Chestnut, Poplar, Ash. Billieknew the area well. It waswherepeople liveduntil theywereluckyenoughtoqualifyfor a shabby, noisy,depressing apartment in

Schlobohm.As a rule, Mr. Rabady

sternly explained, RidgeviewRealtydidnot like renting tosingle-women-with-children-who-want-to-share, because“you have a fight, someonemovesout, and thenyoucallandsayyoucan’tpaytherentanymore.”Butthiswasarulethat was regularly broken,because single sharers withchildren were often the only

apartment seekers willing tolive on many of the treestreets.SoBillieandYolandawere shown a four-roomapartmentat63OakStreet,aseedy, redbrick walk-up thatevenMr.Rabadydescribedas“alittlecrummy.”

There was trash piled upout front, and a smell thatseemed equal parts cookinggrease and stagnation, evenon a frigid day. The

apartment, oneofnine in thebuilding, was dark andcramped, but reasonablyclean. There was norefrigerator, but the heatseemed to work and wasincluded in the rent, whichwas $650 a month. A one-month security deposit wasrequired,aswellasabroker’sfeeof15percentoftheyearlyrent,or$1,170.

Billie and Yolanda said

they would take it. Mr.Rabady filled out the ShelterVerification forms, sectionsA, B, and C, as required bySocial Services to approvepayment. He spelled Billie’sname wrong on theapplication—instead ofRowan,hewroteRowanne—and indicated that monthlychecksbesenttothelandlordataP.O.box,eventhoughhehad said the landlord andhis

family lived “right down theblockfromthisbuilding.”

Billie dragged herselfhome,defeated.Shesatinthekitchen, in thedark, forwhatseemed like an hour. Thechildrenhadnoteatendinner,butshedidn’thavetheenergytofixameal.Shedidn’tevenhave the energy to move.When she had lived inSchlobohm, she had alwaysguessed that there was a

betterlife.Nowsheknewthattherewas. It had been easierbefore, when she could onlyguess what she wasmissing.How could she bear to livewiththecertaintyofwhatshedidnothave?

The next morning, at themailbox, Billie crossed pathswithDoreenJames.

“You’regoingbackward,”Doreen lectured when Billietold her about the apartment.

“Youcan’tletthempushyoubackward.Yourmanscrewedyou. It happens.Don’t screwyourself double by notfightingback.”

BilliedidnotmovetoOakStreet. She simply stayedwhere she was, past theMarch31deadline,inspiteofthe notice that arrived in hermailbox to inform her thatMunicipalHousinghadaskedthe city court of Yonkers to

enforce her eviction.A courthearing, the letter said, wasscheduled for May 1. Twodays before that hearing, onApril 29, Billie calledWestchester/Putnam LegalServices, whose number shehad got from Doreen James.In surprisingly little time,papers were filed on herbehalf challenging the citycourt’s jurisdiction over thecase, and her future was put

on indefinite hold while theSupreme Court ofWestchester Countyconsideredthatchallenge.

She never contacted Mr.Rabady to sayshewouldnotbemovingtoOakStreet.Shesimply did not send him hermoney, and he soon figuredout that she and Yolandawouldnotbecoming.Ashortwhile later, he threw her fileout.

APetition

NormaO’Nealhad never met Billie Rowanbefore the afternoon thatBillie arrived at Norma’sdoor,carryingapetitionandapen. Norma had certainlyheardofBilliea lot in recentweeks, however, ever sinceher boyfriend’s arrest hadmadeher the talkofGaffney

Place.“I know about your

troubles,” Norma said afterBillie hesitantly introducedherself. Norma has alwayshad a soft spot for peoplewith troubles, and she askedBillieto“comeoninsideandsitdown.”

Seatedonthecouch,Billieexplained to Norma that herLegal Services lawyerthought a petition signed by

the neighbors, saying thatthey wanted her to stay,might help her case. Billiehad written out the messageherself,atthetopofthepage,in round, artistic letters.Because Norma could notread the words, Billie readthemtoher:

“We the undersigned,” itsaid, “see’s Billie Rowan asposing no threat to ourcommunity. She is a very

loving and kind neighbor &shouldremainatenantoftheAndrew Smith Townhouses.Shehashadnocomplaints&shows compassion towardsother.We think she deservesanother shot for her and herchildren’s sake for they tomay suffer for anothers manmisfortune.”

As she read, Normarocked the basket of hermonth-old grandson,

Shaquille, born to Tasha inMayafteradifficultlaborandan emergency cesareansection.Hewasafussybaby,andsometimeshecried frommidnight to dawn. Normawalked the floor with himthosenights,gratefultobeingdoing so on Gaffney Placeinstead of back inSchlobohm. It felt so muchmore hopeful to have a babyhere,whereitdidnotfeellike

tempting fate to plan for thefuture.

“If they make you leave,that’s not fair to yourchildren,” Norma told Billie.She reached over to take thepetition, and Billie placed itinherhands.“It’snotfairforchildren to be paying forsomething that older folksdid.

“You can’t say, becausehe left your house and did

this someplace else that it’syour fault,” she continued.“That’s just like, say, Tasha,if she goes across town andkills somebody, you gonnathrow me out of my housebecauseofher?”

“He didn’t livewithme,”Billiesaid.Theliecamemoreeasily now. “He was aroundall the time because of thechildren and everything, buthe lived at hismother’s. His

addresswashismother’s.”“And maybe he sleeps

overonceinawhile,”Normasaid, with a friendly,conspiratorial wink. “Is thatanyone’snevermind?”

She took the pen thatBillie offered. In shaky,oversized handwriting, shesignedhername.

NickRunsOneLastTime

Nickbeganthesummer as he had begun somany other summers—deciding whether he wantedto run in the next election,and, if so, what office hewantedtorunfor.Acitywideredistricting planwas to take

effect during the election of1993, and the way the lineshad been redrawn, Nick’shouse was in a heavilyHispanic district. A localactivist named FernandoFuentes hadmade it clear hewould run for that seat, andNick was not eager tochallengehim.

Theonlyotheroptions,ashe saw them, were to moveacrosstownortorunforcity

judge.Thefirstwasoutofthequestion. He had alreadypoured toomuchmoney intohis house. The second wasappealing, but when heapproached the executivecommittee of theDemocraticparty and told them of hisplans, the response wasfrosty. The committee,comprised almost completelyof people loyal to TerryZaleski,saidtheyweresorry,

buttherewasalreadyastrongDemocrat running for thatposition. Given Nick’scombative relationship withZaleski, the mayor’s refusalof support only made Nickmoredetermined.

Hoping to make an endrun around the mayor, Nickapproached Vinni Restianofor help. He asked her to“carry his petitions,” acommon practice in local

elections, in which thesupporters of one candidategather signatures for theircandidateaswellasasecondcandidate. In effect, he wasasking for her endorsement,her partnership, and he wasstunned when he did not getit.Not knowing of his plans,shehadalreadypromisedhersupport to another candidatefor city judge and sheintendedtokeepherword.

What happened nextwouldbethesubjectofmuchdebateafter theelection.ThewayNickdescribedit,hewasapproached by JimSurdoval,on behalf of Terry Zaleski,witha suggestion.Therewasan office perfect for Nick’sexperience and talents, Nickwould remember being toldby Surdoval—City Councilpresident. If he challengedVinni Restiano for that

position, the mayor wouldsupporthim.

Surdoval, in turn, wouldremember that thesuggestionofsuchascenario“definitelycame from Nick,” but that“we embraced it quickly.”Zaleski’s office had pollingdata that showed Nick wasmuch better known thanRestiano,andwouldprobablywinaprimary.Inthegeneralelection, however, Nick was

much weaker. A primarybetween Restiano andWasicsko could well benefitZaleski, by eliminating bothhostile council members atthesametime,Surdovalsaid.

Thefactthatthepartyhadalready given its support toRestiano did not seem tobothereitherJimSurdovalorTerry Zaleski. That supporthad been given earlier in theyear, before the budget

process had gotten underway,andbeforeRestianohadvotedtooverridethemayor’svetoofthebudget,somethingZaleskirefusedtoforgive.

ThefactthatRestianowasafriend,andthatNayworkedcloselywithheratCityHall,didbotherNick,buthedidn’tfeel he had a choice. Heneeded to run for office in1993, and this seemed to bethe only office available. He

felt he had to hold his noseand do it. The councilpresident’s salary of $46,507was twice what he earnedright now. Zaleski’s offer ofassistance was a calculatedone, he knew, but he hadturnedlowexpectationstohisadvantage before, and helikedtheideaofshockingtheZaleski campwith a victory.Inthemeantime,hewouldtrynot to dwell on the image of

hispetitionsbeingcarriedbyZaleski’ssupporters.

Hetookthedeal.Telling Nay turned uglier

than he had expected. Shewas kneeling on the groundoutside the house when hecamehome,pullingweeds inthescruffysquareofdirt thatshestubbornlyinsistedwouldonedaybeagarden.

“I’m going to primaryVinni,”hesaid.

She jumped to her feet.“Stay the hell away fromme,” she said, pitching herspade and her gloves to theground, then running towardthe house. “I don’t think Iknowyouanymore.”

When she reached thedoorway, she turned andglared. “You know what?”she shouted. “I’m going toworkforVinni.Whatthehellareyoudoingthisfor?”

Nick could not rally thestrength to tell Restianohimself. He knew the newswould reach her, and hewasnotsurprisedwhenthephonerang several hours later. Shewas calling fromher car andNickcouldn’t tell if theyhadabadconnectionorifshehadbeencrying.

“So, you made yourdecision,” she said. “What acoward.Youcouldn’tpickup

the phone and tell meyourself?Afterallweweretoeachother, the friendshipwehad.”

Nick noticed that shespoke of their friendship inthepasttense.

“Don’t think this is goingto be easy,” she warned. “Iknow you’ve gotta do whatyou’ve gotta do. But I’mgonna do what I’m gonnado.”

Nick did not make hisplans public for severalweeks, and when he did, hedid not hold a formal newsconference.Heannouncedhiscandidacy by calling thenewspaperandsaying“Iplantorunforcouncilpresident.”

In the interview thatfollowed that announcement,he sounded lukewarm abouthis own candidacy. He wasrunning, he said, because he

was“disillusionedabouthowthisnewformofgovernmentis working.” Restiano, hesaid, had made “what Iconsider to be some badjudgments,” and Yonkersgovernment is “at astandstill.” He concluded bysaying that “one of theimprovements that could bemade”would be to have “anexperienced person in thecouncil president’s office,

who would be able to workwith all the parties and usesome leadership to make thegovernment work in spite ofpersonalities.”

Hehopeditsoundedmorerousingthanitfelt.

AlmaSearchesforHome,PamFindsIt

Alma Feblesfollowed the news aboutBillie Rowan closely,watching Yonkers Cablenightly for updates, listeningtogossiponthebusorat themarket, then trying to placewhat she learned on thematrixofwhatwasgoodandbad for her own life. In thedays after John Santos wasarrested,whenpoliticiansand

homeowners were screamingwitharagethathadnotbeenseen inYonkers since1988,Alma was distraught. Sheknew 58 more townhouseswere scheduled to be built—eventually.Butthefuroroverthemurder,shefeared,mightmeanthat“eventually”wouldnevercome.

She lost her appetiteworrying about thetownhouses. She tossed for

hoursatbedtime,thenawokewith a start in the middle ofthe night and could not getback to sleep. She criedwhenever she thought thechildren weren’t listening.Shepacedandfrettedandallbutfellapart.

Over time, her anguishdeepened. If Billie Rowanwas found guilty byMunicipalHousing, thenewsreportssaid,shewouldbethe

first east side tenant to beforced to leave. One vacatedapartment in one year, and ittook a murder to bring thatoneabout.Sotherewouldbeno new townhouses, shewascertain, and there would beno vacancies in the existingtownhouses.Shehadnowayout.

Tentatively, fearfully, shebegan to search for anapartment outside the

projects. Unlike Billie, wholooked at places she couldafford and was unsettled bywhat her money could buy,Alma lookedatplaceswhereshe would actually want tolive—three-bedroomapartments in safeneighborhoods—and waschastenedbywhattheycost.

A friend atwork told herabout an apartment for rentacross the street from

Fitzgerald & Fitzgerald. Ithad two bedrooms, but theywere very big, so she andLeyda could share. Thebuilding was clean and safe,with an intercom system andnew carpeting in the lobby.Fordays,Almastoodoutsideher office and stared at thatbuilding, imagining what itwould be like to take a keyfromherpocket andopen itslock,torideinitselevator,to

invitepeopleoverforparties,tocallithome.Onemorning,with a burst of resolve, shedialed the number given toherbythefriend,andlearnedthattherentwas$825.

With a recent raise,Almaearned $360 a week atFitzgerald & Fitzgerald, or$18,720 a year, plus someSocial Security payments forthe children.Herswas a realjob, like the ones that

politicians are alwayssuggesting welfare mothersget,andshewasnolongeronthepublicdole.Her rentwas30 percent of her grossincome, or $532 a month.After deductions for healthinsuranceandtaxes,however,she took home $256 aweek,or $1,109 a month, meaningherrentwasnearlyhalfofherdisposable income. She hadno savings, because the

philosophy behind a slidingrent scale—charge as muchas the tenant can pay—doesnotallowforsavings.Soshecertainly was not able tospend$300extradollarseachmonthforanewapartment.

Briefly, she thought ofrenting one of these palacesanyway,becauseherchildrenwere asking her almostnightlywhentheyweregoingtomove.Frankie,barredfrom

theSchlobohmplaygroundbyAlma’s rules, was becomingincreasinglypale,pudgy, andwithdrawn. But at least hestill listened when she toldhimtostayinside.Virgilio,afreshman in high school, hadbegun to come home longafter school ended, sayingonly that he had been outwith “friends.” Alma hadnever met any of his“friends.” He would not

invite them over, because hewouldnottellthemwherehelived.Shecouldfindasecondjob, she thought, or beg thechildren’s fathers for somehelp.Maybethatwouldallowhertolivewhereshethoughtsheshould live,at least forawhile. She knew that thingswould probably comecrashing down around hereventually, and she wouldlikely end up back in public

housing, but she would havehad a shot, somewhat like aprisoner who knows he willbe caught, but attempts toescape nonetheless, for thebriefpleasureoffreedom.

Alma eventually gave upon that plan, however, notbecause of the money, butbecause of the rules. If shemovedoutofSchlobohm,shewould lose her place on thewaiting list for the

townhouses. She had beenentered in the lottery as apublic-housing tenant, and ifshe was no longer receivingpublic-housingassistance,shelearned, she would lose anychance, however slim, ofmoving to the one place sheboth wanted to live in andcouldafford.

When school ended, shesent Frankie and Virgilio toSanto Domingo for most of

the summer, where each onestayed with his own father,each of whom paid for oneticket. She worriedconstantly, particularly aboutFrankie, but she didn’t seethatshehadanychoicebuttolethimgo.

In early August, feelingbaked by the concrete andbrick of Schlobohm, shespent $300 she did not haveto fly herself and Leyda to

Florida, thecheapestsummerdestination she could find.They stayed with friends—Alma slept on the couch andLeydaonthefloor—andtheyswam in the ocean, but thechange of scene did not liftthe depression that hadenveloped her since JohnSantos was arrested. Whenher sons arrived back home,they were tanned and rested.Frankie had lost a lot of

weight and lookedmore likea lean teen and less like achubbyboy.Hehadspentallhis days outside, he said,ridingbikes,playingball,and“doingstuffkidsdo.”

It was during the brutal heatwaves of summer that PamJohnsonlovedhertownhousethe most. The thermometerwouldswear itwasashoton

thewestsideasitwashereontheeastside,butitfeltworldscooler. The differencecertainly had nothing to dowithairconditioning,becausethat was as unaffordable aluxury to her here as it hadbeen on the other side oftown. Each townhouse wasbuilt with pre-cut aluminumsleeveswhereairconditionersmightbeplaced,butonlyoneor two of those slots were

actually used in all thetownhouses of Clark Street.In the homes that faced thetownhouses, the houses thathad been here first, beigemetal casings jutted out ofcountlesswindowsandwalls,humming the heat away. So,when the weather was hot,the people on Pam’s side ofthestreetwentoutsidetocooloff, while the people on theother side of the street went

inside.One August day, when it

was 100 degrees beforelunch, Pam dragged herdaughters’ plastic pool ontothe front lawn and filled itwithwater.Shedidn’tputthepool in the backyard, whereshe knew it probablybelonged, because theengineers who built thetownhouses had not thoughtthat drainswere necessary in

every backyard, and anafternoonofwaterplay therewould leave the grass soflooded it would take weeksto dry. But the front yardsloped down, toward thedrains in the street, and therewereamplespigotsout front,soout frontwaswhereAnitaandValentinaplayed.

AsalwayshappenedwhenPam filled the pool, childrenmaterialized from the other

townhouses, wearing bathingsuits if theyhad them, shortsif they did not. And, as alsoalways happened when Pamfilled the pool, the neighborsacross the street peered fromtheir windows, andsometimes from their frontstoops, not saying anything,juststaring.

There was still hostilityfrom those neighbors. TheManintheBrownHouse,for

instance,who often yelled atthe children, “Go home, gohome, I don’t want you onthis side of the street.” Butthere were also signs—perhaps itwas theweather—ofapossiblethaw.Therewasthe Poodle Lady, who hadfollowed her Christmaspresents with Easter baskets,and then started to bringtreats for no reason—headbands, coloring books,

hair barrettes.And therewastheManwith theRottweiler,who had stopped letting hisdog stand and growl behindthe Plexiglas storm door,where it had petrified thechildren. One day, Pampassed him while he waswalking the dog, and henodded hello.More recently,whenafewchildrenfromthetownhouses were playing aradio while standing on a

corner, leading someanonymous homeowner tocall the police, theManwiththe Rottweiler came out totelltheofficersthatthemusicwasn’treallytooloud.

Watching the townhousechildren play, Pam saw purehappiness. She wonderedwhattheneighborsacrossthestreetsawwhentheywatchedthe same scene. Shesuspectedtheythoughtitwas

too noisy, or too public, ortoo something, and she halfexpected the Man in theBrownHousetostepoutandtellherso.Thesplashinghadbeen under way for about ahalf hour, when Valentinawent running into the house,then came racing back, herarms filled with plasticbuckets.She andAnita filledthem from the spigot andhurled arcs of water at their

friends. Soon everyone wasarmed with buckets, andcups, and hastily emptiedtrash cans, and everyone,children and adults, wassoakedandgleeful.

The water fight went onfor nearly an hour. Pampaused for a moment duringthat time and happened toglance across the street. Theneighbors were out on theirsidewalksand stoops,dozens

ofthem,standingandstaring,despite the pounding heat.But the looks on their faceswerenotwhatPamexpected.They were smiling. Theywere even laughing. Theylookedasiftheywishedtheycouldjointheruckus.

“This is myneighborhood,” Pam foundherself thinking. “This iswhere I live.” Then shedousedAnitawithabucketof

water.

ADeathandaDecision

Doreen Jameswasworried about her sister.Barbara was clearly sick,althoughshewouldnotadmit

that toDoreen.Shestayed inbed late, went back to bedearly, ate little, talked less,and winced with pain evenwhenshewassittingstill.

As summer ended,Barbarabeganhavingviolentseizures, sometimes oneeveryday.In themiddleofaconversation, shewould startshivering, then shaking, thenhereyeswould rollbackandshe would look, Doreen

thought, as if she was in anevil trance. Minutes later,when she was consciousagain, Doreen would try topersuade her to go to thehospital, but she alwaysrefused.

One afternoon, Barbaracame along to keep Doreencompany at a routinecheckup. Doctors’ officesalways made her anxious; itwas in such an office, after

all,thatshelearnedherfiancéhad died. This time, thesistersweresittingtogetherina waiting room, whenBarbara’s seizure began.Doreen ran for a nurse, andBarbara was admitted to thehospital for several days, butwas discharged without asoliddiagnosis.WhenDoreenasked her sister what thedoctorsfound,Barbarawouldnotsay.

In early September,Doreen invited the wholefamily over for a barbecue,but Barbara never left herroom. She had terrible painsin her leg, and she felt tooweak to walk. This time sheagreed to go to the hospital,where Doreen learned thatBarbara’sbloodpressurewasdangerously low and, moreimportant, the circulation inherlegwasnearlycompletely

blocked. The leg wouldrequiresurgery.

Doreen stayed withBarbaraatthehospitalfortherest of the day, and did notleave until close to eleventhatnight,whenthenursesallbutorderedhertogo.

“I’ll see you later,”Barbara said, as Doreenturned and waved good-byeatthedoor.

The operation was

scheduled for early the nextmorning, and Doreen couldnotbe there.Hermotherhadpromised to callwhen itwasover, to tell her that Barbarawas safelyback inher room.At lunchtime, there was aknock on Doreen’s frontdoor,andwhensheopeneditshe found her motherstanding on the threshold,frail and confused. “I havesomething to tell you,” she

said.“Shedidn’tmakeit.Shedied during the surgery. Shewas too weak.” BarbaraJames was thirty-four yearsold.

WhenDoreencamehomefrom the funeral she found anotice from Con Ed in hermailbox, warning that herpower would be cut offbecauseherbillwaspastdue.

Furious, shecrumpled theletterintoaballandhurledit

across the room. Then shesank to the floor and cried,tears of grief and frustration,tearsforhersisterbutalsoforsomanyotherthings—thingsshe did not understand she’dlostuntilthismoment.

“I don’twant to live hereanymore,” she said aloud.“Thisisn’thome.”

Overthenextfewdaystheraw emotion ebbed, but therealization remained.Shedid

not want to be here. Doreenhad left Schlobohm notbecause she was tired offightingtomakethingsbetterthere, but because she wastired of fighting alone. Shemoved to the townhouseshoping things might bedifferent, that her neighborswould stick together andsolve all the problems thathad followed them from theothersideoftown.

Contentment is relative toexpectation, and Doreen’sexpectationswere thehighestat Gaffney Place. NormaO’Neal came looking forsomeplace a little better thanthe place she had left. Shefounditand,despiteitsflaws,she was content. PamJohnson wanted someplacesafe,whereherchildrencouldhave waterfights and othertypesoffun.Shewascontent,

too. Doreen wanted muchmore—solidarity,afeelingofcommunity, a chance to putall Sadie Jefferson’s lessonsintopractice,asensethatshewasmakingadifference.

“I thought that peoplecould stick together here,”she said, bywayof apology,to Sadie. “But people don’tstick together. They’re doingthesamethingtheydidontheothersideoftown.Theirown

thing.”Shedidn’tunderstandhow

others could isolatethemselvessoeasily.Shehadtried to be an island, justDoreen and Jaron, when shefirstmovedtoGaffneyPlace.Despite her best efforts, shewas soon holding meetingsandwritingletters,fightingashard as she knew how.Sometimes the fightingworked, and Peter Smith

okayed small improvementslikethenewscreendoorsthathad arrived during thesummer. But most of thetime, nothing changed, andtheConEdbillwasmockingevidence of that. During herlast months, Barbara hadgently scolded Doreen,saying she was looking forsomething that didn’t exist.Most white people ignoretheirneighbors,too,shesaid.

MaybeBarbarawas right.Doreen alone could nottransform this collection oftownhouses into aneighborhood. This wasn’thome, and she would stoptrying to make it home. Butshe would not stop lookingforsomeplacethatwas.

Several days later, whenenough time had passed thatshe was certain she was notacting on impulse, Doreen

calledMunicipalHousing.Asshe dialed, she felt the calmthat only a firmdecision canbring. Valerie Carroll, thetenant supervisor, came onthe line.“Iwant tomoveoutofhere,”Doreensaid.

Valeriewassurprised.Shehadneverprocessedarequestto leave the east side, shesaid. Hundreds of peoplewerewaiting for a chance tomovein.

“You don’t understand,”Doreen said, “I’mnot askingtoleavetheeastside.”

Valeriewasconfused.“I want Dunbar Houses,”

Doreen said, of the smallenclave in Runyon Heights,where Sheila lived, whereSadie lived, where Jaronwould see black faces thatlived in houses, not housing.Maybe there she would feellikeshebelonged.

“There’sa long list aheadofyou,”Valeriesaid.

Doreen said she waswillingtowait.

Nickvs.Vinni

Once Nicklaunched his campaign

against Vinni Restiano,council meetings becameordeals for him. Theyreminded him of the worstdaysof thehousing standoff,except now there was coldsilence in place of heatedshouting. Then, as now, hewas isolated andonhisown.This was still Restiano’scouncil, and his last-minutedecision to try tochange thatdid not sitwellwithmost of

the people who worked forher or with her. Rather thanface the chill in the backoffices during breaks incouncil meetings, he wouldstandoutinthehallalone.

Mary Dorman found himthere one evening near theendoftheprimarycampaign.He was leaning against awall, hands in his pockets,staring at the worn tiles onthefloor.

“How do you stand it,”Maryasked,“whennobody’stalkingtoyou?

“Idon’tmind,I’musedtoit,” he said, and actuallysounded as if he meant it.“But,” he said, “I feel sorryfor my wife, because theseareherfriends.”

It had become an uglycampaign. The two formerfriends had nearly identicalvoting records, and that,

coupled with Restiano’sfeelings of betrayal, left thecandidates nothing to attackbut each other. Restianoaccused Nick of nepotism—puttingNayinaCityCounciljob—even though Restianoherself had lobbied thecouncil tomake that happen.Nick accused Restiano ofbeing more of a RepublicanthanaDemocrat,eventhoughhehadhelpedhercraftmany

of her political positions.When Vinni received thesupport of nearly all theunions in Yonkers, Nickchargedthatshewasapuppetof special interests, despitethe fact that he had receivedthe same endorsements fromthe same groups in hispreviouscampaigns.

Restiano did not miss achance to remind Nick thatshehadtheofficialsupportof

the party, while he was apawninTerryZaleski’slatestchess game. “I’m thecandidate of the party byacclamation,” she toldaudiences. “My opponent isthe mayor’s candidate bydesperation.”

In their few jointappearances,sheseemedhurtand he seemed defensive.During a televised debate aweek before the vote, she

spoke bitterly of the new,nakedly political Nick,someone she did notrecognize and did not like.“You only think of the nextelection,” she said. “It’s timeto start thinking of the nextgeneration.Getover it,Nick.Thepeopleareontoyou.”

Nay was caught in thecrossfire. Each day a fewmore pieces of her job weretaken from her and given to

others in the office. First shewas asked to stop preparingthe councilminutes, then thecouncilagenda.Thenshewastold there was no reason forher to come to councilmeetings. Next she was“discouraged” from workingovertime.Meetingswereheldthat shewas not told of, andmemos that should haveroutinelycomeoverherdeskno longer bore her name. If

she was five minutes latefrom lunch, someone wassuretonotice.Eventually,theonlyjobleftherwashandingout forms tocouplesneedingamarriagelicense.

After spending each daylaunching other people’smarriages, she would comehomeandwidenthecracksinherown.

“I’m sick and tired ofbeing a part of this whole

ugly disgusting mess,” shewould vent at Nick. “I paidfor your politics when theyfired me from the ParkingAuthority. Now I get to payagain? Maybe I’m beingselfish, or a baby, but I amnotthepolitician,youare.”

“It sucks,” shewouldyellat him, “this great thing youdid, deciding to run againstVinni Restiano. I have towork with these people.

They’re gonnamakeme paybigtime.Andifyouloseandshewins, that’s it forme,formy job, for everything. Didyouthinkaboutthat?”

Naydidnotgotoworkontheday of the primary. The cityclerk’s office is responsiblefor administering elections,anditwouldnot lookright ifthe wife of one of the

candidates seemed to be inchargeofthevote.

Vinni Restiano calledearly on primary daymorning, after the polls hadopened. Nick was in theshower, but he was not theWasicsko Vinni was lookingfor.

“Your husband screwedmeover,” she hissed atNay.“Ifhecandoittome,hecando it to you. What exactly

does he care about anymore,anyway?”

Restiano hung up. WhenNickwalked in he found hiswife clutching the receiver,looking stricken. Sherepeatedtheconversation.

“What do you careabout?”sheaskedhim.

Hedidn’thaveananswer.Afterthepollshadclosed,

Nick and Nay went to waitfor the returns at Mannion’s

restaurant,apoliticalhangoutwherethewallsarelinedwithglad-handing photos. It wassupposed to be a victoryparty, but it quickly becameclear there was very little tocelebrate. Three of the fourcandidates backed by TerryZaleski lost their races,including Nick, who trailedRestianoby363votesoutofatotalof7,836.

Hewonallthedistrictson

thewestside.Shewonallthedistrictsontheeastside.

The only race won by aparty designeewas inNick’sold district, where FernandoFuentes squeezed to victorywith a twenty-two-vote lead,553to531.

Hank Spallone, who wastryingtoreturntothecouncil,won his Republicannomination fairly easily, 647to589.“Ithinkitwasme,my

personality and what I standfor,”Spallonesaid,analyzinghiswin.“Thepeoplewantmeback because I always didwhatItoldthemI’ddo.”

At ten o’clock, Nickconceded the race. From thepay phone at Mannion’s hecalled Restiano’s home,where she was awaiting thereturnswithsupporters,sinceshe had not been invited tojoin her own party’s party.

She was polite, but icy, andNick left the restaurantimmediately after the call.Neither Nick nor Nay saidoneword as theydrovebackhome.

MothersandChildren

Billie didn’tthink she was throwingShanda into the crib withunusual force. But the littlegirlhitthemattresswithsucha jolt that the supportinghooks ripped from the frameand themattress collapsed tothedustywoodenfloor.Billiesank to the floor, too,shrieking hysterically. Herswere shrill, piercing shrieks

that sent Shanda cowering tothe corner and broughtJohnny running from theother room. He stood in thedoorway staring at hiswailing mother and cringingsister, until Billie ordered:“Just get away from me.Leave Mommy alone.” Shewas afraid of what she wasangryenoughtodo.

Shanda’s whining hadtriggered the moment. She

had spent most of the daywhining—a high-pitched,repetitivetone,likeakeeningbird—and no amount ofhollering, punishing, orspanking hadmade her stop.Billiewas trying to exile thechild to the crib when itcollapsed. As the pieces ofmanmade wood clatteredaround her, something elsecollapsed as well—Billie’scarefully constructed fiction

thatallwasokay.Shewasnotokay. She was fuming,frightened, and falling apart.Her hair was coming out inclumps. Her blood pressurewas higher than its usualworrisomelevels,andshehadstopped taking her medicinebecausethesideeffectsmadehermiserable.

Untilthedayshesmashedthe crib, Billie had beenproud of the fact that, in all

the months since John wasarrested,shehadnevercried;proud that she had acceptedeach successive piece ofhumiliatingnewswithadeepbreath and a cigarette.“Crying is awaste,” she toldhermother,who,itseemedtoBillie,would urge her to crywhenevertheyweretogether.“Crying don’t fix things, itjustmakesthemwet.”

Instead, she had found—

or thought she’d found—ways of dealing with John’sabsence. When the childrenaskedfortheirfather,shedidnot tell them where he was,answeringShanda’s demandsfor “myDaddy”with silenceor aquick changeof subject.When pushed, she told themthat the “Bad Boys” hadtaken their father away, aconcept they knew from atelevision show they often

watched in the lateafternoons. She would ratherthey believed that John hadbeen snatched into the TVscreen than try to explainwhatprisonwas.

Once, and only once,Johnnyangrilychallengedherexplanation,withinformationBillie assumed he got fromthe other children on thestreet.

“He’s locked up,” he

taunted,eyesnarrowing.“No,” Billie said, “he’s

not locked up, theBadBoysgot him.” Johnny lookedconfused, but dropped thesubject.

Johnny, who had alwaysliked pretend gunplay,immersed himself inimaginary violence, runningaroundthehouseyelling,“I’llkill you. I’ll shoot you.”Billie thought she had to do

something, but she wasn’tsurewhat it should be. First,she took Johnny’s toy gunfrom him, but he fashionedreplacements from hissandwich, or his finger, orwhateverelsewasinhishandatthemoment.SoBilliewentto the toy store and found abattery-operated learningcenter,wherechildrenpickedan answer, then pressed abutton,andwererewardedby

bells and beeps. Therecommendedageontheboxwas “6 to 10 years.” Shandawas two. Johnny was three.Billieboughtthetoyanyway,spending more money thanshehadplanned in thebeliefthat something expensivewouldbestteachherchildren.

When she opened themachine,sherealizedthatthecards required reading, andsince neither Johnny nor

Shandacouldread,shehadtosit with them while theyplayed. They were excitedabout it the first day, butBillie put the machine awayafter fifteenminutes,becauseAllMyChildrenwasabouttobegin. Shortly after that,Billie’s mother boughtJohnny a toy car, which helikedasmuchasthelearningcenter,andBilliewaspleasedto have him play away from

her.Billie knew she was not

the kind of mother shewanted to be. “Patience,patience. Patience andpatience” was how shedescribed what she did nothave. “And understandingwhatachilddon’tknow,andwhat theydoknow.And justpatience.”

Shealsoknewshedidnothave the life she wanted, a

life where her man wasaroundmore thanonceeveryfewyears.Shecouldn’t thinkof any real person whoactually had a life like that,but she believed in itnonetheless.

Now, however, with herdaughter’s crib in a heap infront of her, Billie saw thatshe wasn’t handling the gapbetweenwhatshewantedandwhat she had. In the months

since John’s arrest, severalpeople, all trying to behelpful, had suggested thatherproblemsweremorethanshe could solve on her own.“I don’t need no therapist,”she said, not defiantly, butsadly. “This is something Iwill have to solve myself.They could tell me, ‘Youneedtocalmdown,’buttheydon’t live here. They don’tsee what I go through, they

don’tactuallyfeelwhatIfeelinside.Nobodycanhelpme.”

For nearly an hour, Normahad held her tongue whilefive-month-old Shaq fussed,cried, and refused all ofTasha’s best efforts to coaxhim to sleep. Then, over thesound of Shaq’s screaming,she heard Tasha screamingback,andNormastoodatthe

bottom of the stairs andorderedTashatocomedown.

“Give me the baby,”Normasaid.

“No,” answered Tasha,with a rasp in her throat, ahint that shehadbeencryingherself.

“Give me the baby,”Normasaid,andTashadidasshewastold.

Norma took Shaq, whowasstillfussing,intoherown

bedroom, and placed him inthe center of her bed. Thenshe had a talk with him.“What’s wrong with you?”she demanded. “Grandmadon’t take that.Who do youthink you is?” She said thewords over and over, a gruffyet kindly lullaby, andeventually the baby fellasleep.

He slept in Norma’s bedall night, and the next

morning Norma used muchthe same tone on themotherthatshehadusedontheson.

“Tasha,” she said. “I’myour mother. I’m here foryou.I’mherewithyou.Somegirlsdonothaveamother,ordo not have nobody to care.That’swhy you find a lot ofyoung girls killing theiryoungbabies.Theycan’ttakeit. That’s why I’m here foryou. Anytime Shaq gets too

much for you, you give himto me. When I had you all,when I had Dwayne andBruce,Ididn’thaveamother.She was dead. I had nobodyto helpme. But you gotme.Anytime it gets too hard foryou,bringhiminmyroom.”

OnthelastdayofSeptember,Alma saw a photo in thepaper, showing a townhouse

shell being lifted onto itsfoundation by a crane.Fourteen new units of court-ordered public housing wereunderconstructionatMidlandand Teresa avenues, theaccompanying article said;they had all beenprefabricated inPennsylvaniaandwerenowbeingboltedtosteel beams that had beencemented into the ground inYonkers.

Almacrossedherfingers.On the first day of

October,Almasawanarticlein thepaperaboutashootingin a lobby at Schlobohm. Asixteen-year-oldboyhadbeenshotinthefootat4:45intheafternoon by another boywhom he knew from theproject’s basketball courts.There appeared to be nomotive, the article said. Theshooter simply pulled out a

revolver, inserted one bullet,spun the chamber, and shotintothevictim’srightfoot.

Alma opened her hallcloset, nowoverflowingwithkitchen appliances shemightneveruse,andmourned.

If she could do it overagain,shethought,shewouldnot have children. Childrenonly brought heartache, shehad learned, and constantreminders of the life she

couldnotgivethem.Ifitwasonly her, by herself, shewould have enough to livesafelyand simply.Whyhavethem, she asked, only toapologize silently to themeach day for everything theyaremissing?

AHero

Nay was notfired the morning after theprimary, a fact that providedthe Wasicskos a littlefinancial relief, but no peaceof mind. The last time Nayhad been fired, it had madeheadlines, and the couplerespected Vinni’s politicalsavvy enough to assume thatshe was waiting until herreelection was final before

carrying through on herthreat. It would not help herto have that sort of publicityat this time. And there wasprobably some bonussatisfaction inwatchingNickandNaysweat.

The kitchen renovationwaswellunderway,andnowthe conversations onWasicsko Lane were notabout how to decorate it, buthow to pay for it. On the

nightswhentheymanagedtofall asleep, they would findthemselves awake again at4:00 A.M., worrying aloud inthedark.

“Whatarewegoingtodowhenyougetfired?”

“Whatcanwedo?”“We’ll lose the house.

Howarewegoing topayforthis?”

“Maybe we can ask myparents to help us out again

untilwegetjobs.”“I’ve made a mess of

everything,haven’tI?”Nick had started his job

search cautious yetoptimistic, as befits apolitician. He believed hewouldgeta job.Agood job.He had talent, he remindedhimself. He was nationallyknown. Promises had beenmade.Hehadconnections.

What he wanted was

simple—to stay in theYonkers area in a positionwith visibility and prestige.Hismotiveswerealsosimple—he hoped, eventually, torun for mayor again, ormaybeforcityjudge,withtheSenate or the governor’smansionstillbeckoninginthedistance. And his plan, atfirst, seemed simple, too.HecontactedTerryZaleski,whodirectedhimtoJimSurdoval.

Heknewthatpoliticswasabout never lookingdesperate, so he approachedJim with studiednonchalance.

“Well, I guess if I’dworked harder I could havewonthisthing,”hesaid.Thenhe added: “So, what’s nextforme.”

“TherearenopositionsintheZaleskiadministrationforyou at this time,” Surdoval

said.Nick tried tomaintainhis

team player poker face.“Make me commissioner ofwhatever,”hesaid,hopinghesounded relaxed and incontrol. To himself hethought: Invent something. Ihave a home. I have amortgage.Ihavebillstopay.

“It would look like apayoff for running againstVinni,” Surdoval said. “It

wouldn’t look good.” Hepaused, and softened. “I’llworkonsomething,”hesaid,before showing Nick thedoor.

Nickofferedhishand,andas they shook he said, “Ifthere’s anything I can do tohelp with anything, just letme know. If youwantme topick up someone’s campaignfliersfromtheprinter…”

He stopped midsentence.

How had he gotten here, aformermayoroffering to runerrands?

Anger often fuels action,and Nick, furious mostlybecause he had thought hewas so savvy when he wasbeing so naive, came homeand scrawled his résumé inlonghand for Nay to typelater. He had been a finalistfor the Profile in CourageAward, he wrote of himself,

in the third person, “for hiscourageous stand againstangry crowds and votersopposed to court ordereddesegregation,” and he “waselectedtheyoungestmayorofanymajorUScityinanupsetelection over a six termRepublican.”

Then he wrote letters toaccompany the résumé.Theywereproud, confident letters,because he still remembered

what it was like to feel thatway.

“DearMr.Secretary,”hewrote to Henry Cisneros,President Clinton’s secretaryof housing and urbandevelopment,

I applaud yourefforts in Vidor,Texas. It isgratifying to seethe Federal

governmentshoulderingsome of theburden offairness that isall too oftenpoliticallydifficult forelectedofficials.I was the

Mayor ofYonkers in 1988and 1989 when

Federal DistrictJudge LeonardB.Sandorderedconstruction of200 units ofpublic housinginpredominantlywhite eastYonkers. Withinternationalattentionfocused on the

lengths theYonkers CityCouncil waswilling to go topander to theirpoliticalbases,Iattheageof28,led the effort toobey the Courtmandates andmaintain orderin Yonkers. Thevoters showed

theirdisapproval in1989bydenyingmy re-electionbid.However, the

NewYorkTimesand the DailyNews editoriallysupported meandmyposition.SenatorMoynihan

nominatedmein1991 for theJohn F.Kennedy Profilein CourageAward. I wasnamed one ofthe threefinalists thatyear.Encouraged

by this support,I successfully

ran for CityCouncilfrommywest sidedistrict. Inarrowly lost abid for the CityCouncilPresidency lastweek, winningthewestsidebutlosing the east.In spite of mysuccessful

efforts, alongwith HUD, toimplementmuchof the courtorderedconstruction,east sideresidents areresentful. Myelectiveprospects arenot good due tomy principled

stands onhousing, but mycommitment topublic service isundeterred.I am

enclosing myresume with thehope thata roleformemayexistatHUDthatwillunder yourstewardship

reinforce themessage thatqualitydesegregatedhousing is anationalpriority. As anattorney with anationalreputation forpoliticalcourage and acommitment to

fair housing, Ibelieve I cancontribute toyour mission.Thankyou.

It was signed, Nicholas C.Wasicsko,Esq.

Thoughthespecificsweredifferent, he wrote much thesamemessage inhis letter toJudgeSand,whowaslookingtoappointafederalmasterto

oversee the final stageof thehousingplan.

“Myrecordofsupportforthemorecontroversialpublichousing portion of yourorder, I believe, contributedto the successfulimplementation of thatphase,”hislettersaid,inpart.

My steadfastcourage in thefaceofvehement

oppositionearned nationalrecognition aswell as therespect ofYonkersresidents mostin need of fairhousing. Ifought hard toinsure that thepublic housingbuiltpursuantto

the court orderwould beaccepted by thehostcommunities bybeing lowdensity,scattered site,andattractiveinappearance.While theseefforts weresuccessful, my

high profileposition costmere-election.At the end of

this year, I willbe leavingpublic office. Iamlookingforaposition thatwillallowme tocontinue inpublicservicetofurtherthegoals

I have spent myentireprofessionalcareer fightingfor, equalopportunity andfairness, inhousing,andthelaw. I believethat I could usemy uniqueassets to insurethe success of

this consentdecree.Affordable

housing, albeitcourt ordered,should notengender theblind resistanceit has inYonkers. Thegoal is toprovide housingopportunitiesfor

members of theplaintiff classand others inneedinYonkers.I believe I amuniquelyqualified tosuccessfullycontinue theCourt’swork.

Then, he added: “Irespectfully request that this

letter be kept confidential ifyou decide furtherexploration of this matter isnot appropriate. Thank you.NicholasC.Wasicsko,Esq.”

These letters and otherswere sent on September 20,1993, less than a week afterNicklosttheprimary.Bythesecond week in October,when he had received noresponse from anyone, hewent back to Jim Surdoval,

whohad,aspromised, “donesomething,”thoughhardlyallthat Nick had hoped. Themayor had passed Nick’snametoAssemblymanOliverKoppell, who was thenominee to be New York’sattorney general,recommendingNickforajobas an assistant attorneygeneral. He had alsorecommended him to anumber of New York City

lawfirms.Rather than being

heartened by the help, Nickwasfrightenedanddepressed.He did not want a job as alawyer.Hehadneveractuallypracticed law and he waspetrified that he would fail.Thedepthofthatfearbecameclear when his uncle,probably as a favor to anephew in need of money,asked Nick to draft his will,

and the project came toconsume Nick. He spent anentireSaturday in theBarnes& Noble bookstore, flippingthrough trade paperbacks onhow to write a will, and heleftwithonehundreddollars’worth of books. “I don’tremember anything aboutthis,”hesaidwhenNayaskedwhy he was turning a smallproject into a life crisis. “Iwanttodoitright.”

Each day, the righteous,motivating anger he had feltturned more fully into self-pitying, paralyzing fear. Hestill attendedpolitical events,buthestayedonthesidelines,askingacquaintances“Whyisitthatpeoplewhodotherightthingseemtogetsquashed?”and “Do you think mypoliticalcareerisover?”

He sent out more jobletters, but where his earlier

ones had been self-assuredandeloquent(ifabitstarchedand earnest), these clankedwith a false bravado. He didnotevenbother toproofread.“I am writing with interestabout the position of lawyerlobbyist,” said his three-paragraphnote to thegeneralcounsel of a companywhosead he found in the classifiedsection of the New YorkTimes.

As a formerMayorwithhighrecognitionamong stateofficials, Ibelieve I can beastrongassettoyourorganization. Iknow thechairmen ofSenate MentalHygieneandthe

AssemblyHealthCommittees.Many stateofficialsarealsoacquaintances.Although my

backgrounddoesnotincludeexperience inthe health carearea, I amastuteandafastlearner;Ihadto

be to be electedMayorat28!I am

available for aninterview atyourconvenience.Thankyou.

Heneverreceivedananswer.

ATragedy

On themorning of Friday, October29, 1993, Nick tried to getNay to take the day off. Helay in bed at eight andwatched her as she dressedfor work: blue skirt, whiteblouse, blue-and-whiteblazer.

“Make it a three-day

weekend,”hesaid.“Goforawalkandlookattheleaves.”

“The leaves are all dead,andIdon’thaveanyvacationdays left,” she answered.“Vinni wants me out. Let’snotgiveherammunition.”

So Nick got out of bed,dressed quickly—greenDockers pants, whitesneakers, and the greensweater Nay had given him,to cheer him up, the week

before—andhedroveNay towork at City Hall. Theytalkedof the thingshusbandsand wives talk about whenthey catch a few minutestogether during a hectic day.The kitchen cabinets hadarrived, and were lying, intheir cartons, all over thekitchen floor. They had toshop for a refrigerator onFriday night. They had tomeetthetilemanatthehouse

on Saturday morning. Itlooked as if Vinni Restianowouldeasilywinreelection.

On the way home, Nickpicked up the New YorkTimes and the HeraldStatesman, and read thesecond one first, scanning itfranticallyforanynewsoftheinvestigation intoembezzlement at the city’sIndustrial DevelopmentAgency. As mayor, he had

chairedtheagency,and,morerecently, he had been amember of its board,appointedbyTerryZaleskiin1992, before theirrelationship went sour. Theinvestigation had alreadyuncovered the apparentembezzlementofhundredsofthousands of dollars overseveralyears,andalow-levelemployee at the agency hadadmitted to taking some of

that. Now the mayor’sinvestigators were looking atthe expense accounts ofothers at the agency. Nickknew he had not doneanything wrong while amemberoftheIDAboardandthat hewas not among thosebeingaccusedofwrongdoing.But lately he had beenoverwhelmedbyafearthatinthe uncontrollable arena ofpolitics, innocence is no

defense.Onemorning, a few days

earlier,hehadreadanarticleabout the investigation—onethatmadenomentionatallofhis name—and calledNay atwork, so agitated he couldbarely speak. “They’remaking allegations andthey’re ruining people’slives,” he said, blaring intothephone.“Thisisnotfunny.I hope when it’s their turn,

let’sseehowfunnytheythinkitis.”

Nick’sragemadenosenseto Nay, and his raw fearalarmed her. “Nick, stopscreaming, what’s the matterwith you? I know it’supsetting, but you have tocalmdown.”

Thatnight, he toldherhewas being followed, but hedid not say by whom. Hespent hours at the library,

searching throughmicrofilmsof past newspaper stories,constructing a chronology hecouldusetomakehiscase.Inthe space on his timeline forAugust, when news of thealleged embezzlement hadbegun to make headlines, hewrote “Post mortem revealsscandal.” In the space forNovember, all he wrote was“?”

On the morning of the

October 29, however, therewas no news of theinvestigation, and he spent afew hours making telephonecalls, including one to hissecretary, during which heasked her to reserve sometickets for him—two for aHuman Rights dinner thatsame night and two for theDemocratic City CommitteeAnnualDinner to be held onHalloween. Shortly before

11:00A.M.,hechangedoutofhis Dockers and into a suitand tie, to do hiscouncilman’s duty at aceremony to open a newcounty welfare office. Hestood near the back of theroom with a former aide,KathySpring,andtheytalkedabout the IDA. “We all gettainted by it one way oranother,” he told her.Duringtheceremony,MayorZaleski

called Nick’s name from thepodium and introduced himto the audience. Nick wavedtothecrowdandsmiled.

The ceremony lasted nomore than half an hour, andNickreturnedhome,changedback into his morecomfortable clothes, andworked in the kitchen for awhile with Michael,unpacking the cabinets andtalking about the IDA. He

toldMichaelthathewassurehe was being followed.Michael was concerned, notabout the investigation, butabout Nick. Why was thisman,who had endured deaththreats for supporting thehousing order, losing hiscomposureoversomethingsotrivial?

At one o’clock, Nickdrove toCityHall topickupNay for lunch. During their

hour at the BroadwayDiner,he complained that he wastired of being followed, and,because he was certain atracking transmitter had beenplacedunderbothhiscars,heplanned to switch vehicleswithMichael. Shortly beforetwo,hedroppedNaybackatCityHall.

Early that afternoon,Michael walked into theliving room to ask for help

lifting some cabinets. Therehesawhisbrother,holdingagun and looking terrified.Nick raced out the door,sayingonlythathehadtorunan “errand.” He would nottell Michael where he wasgoing.

Minutes later, Nay pagedNickonhisbeeper.Hecalledherbackand toldherhewasat a payphone a block awayfrom the house. He said he

was going directly home tohelp Michael. Forty-fiveminutes later, he drove up tothehouse, left the car enginerunning, ran up the stairs,then down them again. Hetook the cash out of hiswallet, but left the walletbehind. He took the keys tohis Chevy Geo and his FordTaurusoffthekeychain,andleftthekeychainbehind,too.

Allafternoon,Naytriedto

page him, because she wasfrightened at his stories oftransmitters and tails.Unsurewhether she should beworried about his safety orhis sanity, she dialed hisbeeper at least ten times,periodically pressing thenumbers “9-1-1,” their codeforanemergency.Hedidnotanswer. At 4:30, when herworkwas done, she stood inher customary spot at the

front door to City Hall andwaited for Nick to pick herup. Half an hour later, whenhe had not arrived, shewalkedtotheendoftheCityHall driveway, and a halfhour after that, when he stillwasn’t there, she called hersister’s husband and askedhimtodriveherhome.

While Nay was waitingforNick, hewas sitting on ahillattheOaklandCemetery,

about two blocks from hishouse and a mile from CityHall. Hewas leaning againsta tree and looking out overthecemetery,wherehisfatherand grandfather were buried.Beyondtheirgraveshecouldsee the Palisades rising upfrom the Hudson, the twinspires of St. Casimir’sChurch, the gables of CityHall.

Itwas closing time at the

cemetery, and the caretaker,Teodor Feciaszko, walkedover and asked him to leave.Nick said he would, andstartedwalkingdownthehill,toward his redGeo,with thelicense plate that readWASICSKO. But when thecaretaker came by again, afew minutes later, Nick wasbackbythetree,staringdownon Yonkers. The caretakeropted to leave and give the

former mayor, whom herecognized from television, alittle more time. He waiteduntil 5:15 to approach Nickagain, and, as before, Nickstood up immediately andwalkedtowardhiscar.

At 5:20, Feciaszko madeone last trip up the hill,where,hewouldlatertelloneof the dozens of policeofficers who soon swarmedthescene,“Isawhewaslying

overhere.Isawtheguninhishand,andtheblood.”

Nick Wasicsko had shothimself once through theheadwiththe.38revolverhealmost always carried. Naycould not believe he did notleaveheranote,butnonewaseverfound.

Within hours, the stream ofpraisebegan.

SaidMayor Zaleski: “It’san extraordinary tragedy.AllofthepeopleofYonkerssendtheir heartfelt love andsympathy to the family. It’sjusta tragedy.Alossbeyondwords.”

Vinni Restiano: “I feellike I’ve been in a car crashand the other driver died.Even though we’ve beenpolitical adversaries in thislast primary, Nick Wasicsko

wasafriend,andI’mshockedandhurt for his family.Nickwas a real intelligentindividual and he had a lifeahead of him. Hemust havereallybeenhurting inside forhim to have done this tohimself. There was nobodysmarter.”

Hank Spallone: “Terrible.Tragedy. A real tragedy.Wewereonoppositesidesof thepolitical spectrum, but we

were always very friendly.I’mjustshocked.Suchafineman is gone. The result ofsomebody trying to do thevery, very best he knewhow.”

NicholasLongo:“Hetookthe tough timeswith a lot ofcharacter and a lot ofstrength.Hestoodtall.Ihavetowonderwhat’shappenedinfive years. The fellow whowithstood what was taking

place in 1988 was not thefellow who walked into theOaklandCemeterytonight.”

NicholasWasicsko had beenbaptized in St. Casimir’sChurch. He and Nay weremarried there, too, beneaththe kaleidoscope of stainedglass. And, on a gray andfrigid election day morning,St. Casimir’s was where he

wasmourned.Itwasthefirstelection day in almost adecadewhenhisnamedidnotappearontheYonkersballot.

More than a thousandpeople packed the church,filling the polished oak pewsand spilling out into theentryway, where they stood,coats still on, tears flowingfreely, through the hourlongfarewell mass. Nearly everycandidate for every local

officewaspresent,andallthetraditional last-minutecampaign events werecanceled. Henry Spallone,whodefeatedNickformayorin 1989, was there, as wasAngelo Martinelli, whomNickdefeated in1987.VinniRestiano cried. NicholasLongo cried. Neil DeLucacried.

From her pew in themiddle of the crowd, Mary

Dorman was astonished toseeOscarNewmanslipintoanearby row, then bow hisheadinwhat lookedliketruesadness. He sat there, byhimself,fortheentireservice,nevermaking his way to thefront, where the dignitarieswere clustered, and notsaying anything to anyone.“He’s here because hewantsto be here,” Mary said,impressed by a man she

thought could not impressher, “not because he wantspeopletoseehimhere.”

Nay sat in the front pew,stunned,numb,andinahazeof grief. From the time thepolice commissioner anddeputy chief of police hadarrivedatherdoor and takenher to the cemetery, whereshe and Anne were horrifiedtofindthemselvesidentifyingNick’s body, she had coped

by refusing to think. It tookallherenergymerelytowalkand talk. She was sooverwhelmed,sodrainedandleaden, there were momentsshe felt, for fleeting andfrightening seconds, that shemight die, too, if she didn’tremind herself to breathe.Thinking was more than shecouldhandle.Shedidn’tdareto think, she barelyfunctioned.

Naystayedwrappedinherprotective fog through thecalls from the reporters, thequestions from the policeofficers, the decisions andminutiae that come withdeath. Nick’s wake was ablur. After a candidate forjudge approached her thereand offered his condolences,she thanked him and wishedhim well on election day.“GoodluckonTuesday,”she

said, standing in front of herhusband’s gleaming casket,and Michael overheard andwashorrified. “Whatareyoudoing?” he asked. And sheanswered, honestly, “I don’tknow.”

Mayor Zaleski also cameto the wake. First Nick’smother, and then Nick’sbrother, refused to shake themayor’s hand. But Naywalked up and thanked him

for coming. “Stop being apolitician,”Michaelsaid.ButNay did not know how. “Iguess I’m losing my mind,”shesaid.“Nickhatedhim,buthe is here, and he is themayor.…”

Now, at the funeral, shewasstillwillingherselfnottothink. It worked for most ofthe morning—she did notdissolve in tears, or scream,or faint. But then, near the

end of the service, TheReverend John Duffell tookthepulpittobeginhiseulogy,andtheweightofthemomentallbutcrushedher.

ItwasFatherDuffellwhohadfoundNayherfirstjobatCity Hall, and who insistedon driving her to theinterview so she would notturnandrun.Duringherearlyyears with Nick, they wouldrun into Duffell at events

aroundthecity,andhewouldwarnNicktotakecareofher,because “she’s my favoritegirl.” From this same pulpit,Duffell had married them.And at this latest centralmoment in her life, he stoodinfrontofheragain,andsaidthe things that she wouldhave been thinking had shenot been so afraid to allowherselftothink.

Nick was “a man full of

promise, a man full ofsuffering,” Duffell said, andhis death “makes us realizewhat’s important: not thepolitics, but the humanbeings. If only all the thingsthat were said about himthese past few days couldhave been again and againand again and again said tohim.”

But he did not stop withsoothing generalities. He

went on and assigned blame.He spoke of the“McCarthyism of Yonkers,”and described the city as aplace filled with politics,hate, rumor, investigation,and fear. The kind of placewhere a man who had donethe right thing, as Nick haddonewith thehousing, couldbe destroyed because hewasright.Andwhere amanwhohad done nothing wrong, as

NickhaddonewiththeIDA,could take no solace from,and find no safety in, hisinnocence.

“Why did he do what hedid? We’ll never know,”Duffell said. “But perhaps,someofthefearanddarknessthat seems to beovershadowingthecityhadapart to play, wherereputations are destroyed onthe front page of the local

newspaper, by investigations,perhaps valid investigations,revealed prematurely beforetheir completion, beforechargesarefiled.”

Naystoppedfeelingnumband began to feel angry. ShewasangryatYonkers,andatthemourningpoliticianswhosurrounded her. As shefollowed her husband’scasket out the front door ofSt. Casimir’s, she was angry

at herself, for being one ofthose politicians, playing bytherulesthatNickhadtaughther, wishing all these peoplewell in their elections,thanking them for droppingby.

As the four-block-longfuneral procession snaked itsway past City Hall, she wasalso angry at the screamingcrowds who hounded herhusbandin1988.Somanyof

those people were watchingnow, she knew, as themotorcade passed by. Peoplewhohadquietedtheirvoices,butwhohadnevershed theirhate, and who made it clearwith their votes that theycould not forgive him. Theywould never let him be CityCouncil president, and theycertainlywouldnotlethimbemayor again, or senator, orgovernor,or judge,oranyof

the other things that hadseemed so possible when hewas the country’s youngestmayor.

Then, as Nick Wasicskowas buried on the same hillwhere he had died, she wasangrymostly at her husband,forcaringthathewouldneverbe any of those things. Forleaving her to rebuild herdreamsfromscratch,becausehe could not bear to pick up

the fractured pieces of hisown.

Epilogue,1998

A decade haspassed since the summer ofcontempt in Yonkers. It hasbeen six years since the firsttenants moved into thetownhouses, and five yearssince Nicholas Wasicsko’sdeath.Thatistimeenoughto

tackle the question: Did itwork?Theanswerisasithasbeen since the beginning—itdepends upon how onedefinessuccess.Mymeasure,then and now, is double-layered: Did it transform thelives of the tenants withoutchipping at the dreams ofthosewhocamebefore?

For Alma Febles, the

townhouses have beeneverything that she hadhoped, a gift made all themorepreciousbecauseittooksolong.Morethantwoyearsafter the lottery, Alma wasstillwaiting.Eventhesecondwave of construction wouldnot help her, she feared,because her lottery numberwas so high. I put her intouch with Mary Dorman,whotookheronasapersonal

cause.Thereweremanymoretwo-bedroom townhousesthan there were three-bedroom ones, Mary said,and she suggested that AlmawritetoPeterSmith,offeringto accept one of the smallerunits.

On October 28, 1994,Almaandherchildrenmovedinto their new home. Theythrew a party. Knowing thatthefamilyhadallthekitchen

implements they couldpossibly need, myhousewarming gift was asnow shovel, tied with a bigred bow. The right to shovelherownwalk,Almahadtoldme, had become one of herdefinitionsofhome.

Sheispastfortynow,andshe still does not have herelusive, solitary bedroom.She says she doesn’t mind.Virgilio has already left the

townhouse; he joined theMarines. In another blink ofthe eye, Leyda will be gone,too;sheplanstogotocollegeand become a fashiondesigner. Alma knows hernewhomewillbelonelywithbothofthemaway.

The townhouses havebeen Norma O’Neal’ssalvation, too.Herhealthhasdeteriorated steadily in theyears since shemoved to the

eastside—she’shadastroke,lost part of one foot todiabetes, and now requiresdialysis twice a week.Whenshesufferedherstroke,itwasa neighbor from thetownhouses who answeredTasha’s frantic call in themiddle of the night and keptNorma breathing. A homehealth aide now comes—ontime, every morning—andhelps with the otherwise

unmanageable tasks of herday. “If Iwere still living inSchlobohm,” she says,laughing with the relief ofbeing alive, “I would bedead.”

It took far longer for thetownhouses to bringcontentment to DoreenJames. Although her nameremainsonthewaitinglistforDunbar, she is now lessdetermined to make that

move.IntheyearssinceJoe’sdeath she has lurched fromone escape route to the next—toSchlobohm, to crack, toher parents, to thetownhouses.IntheyearsafterBarbara’s death, she came torecognizethepattern.

She is still involved withREADY, and proud of thechangesthegrouphashelpedbring to the west side (theyare not active in the

townhouses). On READY’swatch,morethan$30millionin federal, state, and cityfunds have been spentimproving security in thehigh-rise complexes. Andafter years of lobbying,Sadie’s plan to allow currenttenants to thoroughly screenprospective tenants isofficiallyineffect.

But even as she is seeingthe clout of grass-roots

activism, Doreen is easing itout of her life. “Sadie saysyoucan’tsolveotherpeople’sproblems until you fix yourown,” she says. Part of hernew lifeplan includes a full-time job at a chain hardwarestore on the east side, andnightschool,whereshehopesto take the courses that willallowher to become a socialworkerinSchlobohm.

And Billie Rowan? She

sees the townhouses as acruel municipal tease, atrinket given to her briefly,then roughly snatched away.The five-week-long trial ofJohnMateoSantoswasfront-pagenewsinYonkers.Hedidnot testify, buthisLegalAidlawyer argued that he hadstruckupaconversationwithHelen Sarno at a local deli,and that she had invited himto her home for a cup of

coffee. At first he declined,andtheyeachwenttheirownway. Then John changed hismind and returned to theelderly woman’s apartment,onlytofindhercoveredwithbloodandneardeath.Perhapshe himself became bloodytrying to lift her from thefloor,thelawyersaid.

Billie believed him. Thejury did not. They believedtheprosecution,whocharged

that “this guy, John Santos,stabbedHelenSarnotodeathusing an ice pick, and whenher neighbors responded toherscreamsforhelp,hetriedto talkhiswayout of it, andwhen that didn’t work, hetriedtofighthiswayoutofit,andwhenthatdidn’twork,hetriedtorunaway.”

They found him guilty.Judge John R. LaCava gavehim the maximum sentence

oftwenty-fiveyearstolifeforwhat he described as a“cowardly, senseless, andinexcusablemurder.”

It would be several yearsmore before another courtdecidedBillie’sownfate.Shebelieves that MunicipalHousing would not haveworked thishard to evict herfrom an apartment inSchlobohm but for thespotlight on the townhouses.

They had to “make anexampleofme,” she says. Intime,Billielostthelastofherappeals, and was evicted inOctober 1995, nearly threeyears after the murder.Shortly before she moved,shetoldme,“Ihopemykidsremember this place, so theycan find a way back here.”ShefledYonkers,andleftnoforwarding address.Wherever she is, I wish her

well.

Despite fears that the ills ofthe west side would travelwith the tenants, life is stillrelativelypeacefulontheeastside. There have been someproblems that have broughtthe police to the townhouses—complaints of loud music,domestic squabbles, fightsamong the children. In April

1995 the boyfriend of aTrenchard resident set hertownhouse ablaze whilepolice officers waiteddownstairs to arrest him onanothercharge.

But in general, the policesay,theyarenotcalledtothenewhousingsitesmoreoftenthan they are called to anyother cluster of homes. SaidRobertK.Olsen,whowastheYonkers police chief during

the years after thetownhouses first opened:“The doomsday scenarionevermaterialized.”

In short, the townhousesdo what Oscar Newman hadhoped they would do—theyblend into the neighborhood.Their construction is notperfect. The doorbells stilldon’t work, the windowframes are warping, and thescreens are peeling out of

nearly all the screen doors—doors thatDoreenworked sohardtoget.Theupkeepofthesites could be better, too.Without access to lawnmowers, most of the tenantshave all but given up onmaintaining their yards, andthe insufficient closets insidehave led many families tostore things outdoors. As aresult, some yards areunkemptandshabbylooking,

butnomoresothantheyardsofsomeoftheprivatehousesnearby.

Those grips aside,however, Newman’s generalphilosophy seems to beworking.Thetenantsthinkoftheirhomesastheirown,andcare for themaswellas theycan. Lately there is talk ofhowtheymighteventuallybeable to buy the units. EvenPeter Smith, who found

Newman to be difficult andself-aggrandizing at times,gives him credit. In asummary report to Newman,Smith wrote: “For me, thebest test of the DefensibleSpacetheorywasnotthewaythe residents took over theirown grounds and then begantodefendtheentireproject.Ikindofexpectedthat.Butitisthe way they take care oftheir garbage cans next to

their front walks. I, frankly,did not think that wouldwork. Making garbagedisposal an individual thing,and making it clear to thewholeworldthatiftherewasamess on their front yard, itwas the tenant’s own doing,thatbroughtsomethingoutofthe tenants that showed thewhole world how badly theyhadbeenprejudged.”

So, the lives of the tenantshave changed for the better,andtheworstfearsoftheeastside homeowners have notcometopass.Isthatsuccess?Isitenough?

NormaO’Nealwillgrabasandwich at the corner dinereveryonceinawhile,butshestillwillnoteatatmostoftheother restaurants in herneighborhood. Doreen Jameswill not fill her prescriptions

on the east side becausepharmacists there do notknow the ins and outs ofMedicaid.Instead,shetravelsacrosstowntoapharmacyonthewestside.PamJohnson’spediatrician has two offices,one west, one east. But onlythe office on the west sideaccepts Medicaid, so whenherchildrenaresickshetakesthem back to the oldneighborhood.

Inshort,thetenantsinthetownhouses live in a bubblewithinabubble.Theyarestillvisitors in their newneighborhoods,andtheyhavealmostnointeractionwiththewhite homeowners whoseworld they were sent east tochange.Was thiswhat JudgeSand envisioned when hewrote his 657-page opinion?Was it worth ten years and$260 million so that two

hundredfamiliescouldliveinnicer homes and be ignoredbytheirneighbors?

I askedSand a version ofthis question when Iinterviewed him for thisbook, and it was the onlymoment, during hours ofconversation, that made histonegosharp.Thenumberoftownhouses—two hundred ina city of nearly 200,000people—was chosen by the

NAACP and the JusticeDepartment, he said. Heacceptedtheirnumber,buthedid not choose it, and hewould not comment onwhether it was sufficient toremedy the perceivedwrong.Whathedidsaywas that thepoint of all this was neverintegration. It wasdesegregation, and thedifferences are not merelysemantic. Yonkers is,

technically, desegregated. Agroupofpeople,acategoryifyou will, is now allowed inwhere before it wasdeliberately kept out. ButYonkers is not integrated.Black and white are notwoven into the same fabric,the same community. Timemight accomplish that. Ajudgecannot.

Thereisstillangerontheeastside. A walk through theneighborhood, a knock onrandom doors, finds that theanger is quieter than before,butithasnotgoneaway.

“So far it’s not so bad,”says one homeowner,washing down his drivewaywith a hose. He lives twodoors down from thetownhouses.“Butthey’restillon their best behavior. I feel

like we were screwed over.We were screwed over. I’mjust too tired to fight aboutit.”

A block away, anotherneighbor points to the FORSALE BY OWNER sign on herfront lawn. It has been therefor several months and sheexpects it will be there forseveralmonthsmore.

“I’m not selling to getawayfromthem,”shesaysof

the townhouses. “But it’sbecause of them that I can’tsell.Would you buy a housearoundhere?”

It is, in fact, still difficultto sell a home in Yonkers—anywhere in Yonkers. But isthat only because of thehousing?Isitthepresenceofthetownhousesalonethathaslowered property values?Some, like Nicholas Longo,Peter Chema, and Hank

Spallone, believeunequivocally that it is.Othersargue,andIagree,thattherealblamelieselsewhere.Yes,Yonkershasablackeye.But who threw the punch?Themostlastingbruiseswerenot inflicted by thetownhouses. They werecausedbythefightitself.

“All that publicity leftpeoplewithabadtaste,”saysNeilDeLuca,whohasfinally

left government for theprivate sector. “Even peoplewho don’t remember thedetails have this gut feelingthis is someplace they don’twanttobe.”

Says John Spencer, thecurrent mayor: “The damagethat was done, the people ofYonkers did it tothemselves.”

John Spencer became mayorbecauseofabacklashagainstTerry Zaleski. After Nickdied, Zaleski’s “politics ofinvestigation” came into newfocus in Yonkers. Nay andMichael told Nick’s storypassionately and publicly,emphasizinghis fears thathewas the subjectofan inquirybytheZaleskiadministration.Jim Surdoval vehemently(and, to my mind,

convicingly)deniedthatNickhad been part of the IDAinvestigation, but the meresuggestion that the formermayor might have beendriven to suicide by politicalshenanigans was enough tocause talk around town. Itwas one of a number ofreasons that Zaleski lost his1996reelectionbid.

Spencer is a former bankvice-president who had

served two terms on thecouncil and who had beenRepublican majority leaderwhen Nick was Democraticminority leader.Despite theirdifferent political affiliations,thetwomenhadbeenfriends,anditwasJohnSpencerwhohad secured Nay her job asdeputycityclerk.

Spencer, by generalagreement, is an outstandingmayor, and his greatest

accomplishmentisthathehascoaxed, rallied, and draggedYonkerstowardmaturity.Itistime, he has said, to stopblaming Judge Sand for allthat went wrong in the city,and to make things go rightfrom now on. Betting all hispoliticalcapitalthathiswasacity transformed, JohnSpencermadesurethatoneofhisfirstactsasmayorwastorequestaone-on-onemeeting

withthejudge.“Your Honor, it’s a new

day,” he remembers saying.“It’s gotta be a new day.We’ve been through toomuch.Ijustgotelectedover-whelmingly in Yonkers on avowofleadership,toleadthiscity. Leadership is gettingpeopletoworktogether.

“Philosophically,”hesaid,“I do not believe ingovernmentway,wayup top

shoving anything down thethroat of the people. Itdoesn’twork.”

Answered Sand: “I shareyour philosophy, but howwouldyoudothis?”

Spencerarguedthatitwasill advised to insist that thecitybuild thesecondstageofSand’s plan, the eighthundred additional units ofaffordable housing. The newconstruction approach, he

said,wouldentailyetanothersearchforsites,whichwouldstir up old feelings again.Why not use existing,unoccupied co-ops, condos,and homes? he asked. Andwhy not allow the city tochoose the units, with aminimal amount ofinterventionfromthecourt?

It was not the first timethe idea had been suggested,but it was the first time the

judgehadbeenthisimpressedwiththemessenger.

“Keep an eye on thisguy,” he toldme a few daysafter the meeting. “This issomeoneIcanworkwith.”

The resulting plan,finalizedin1998,requiresthestate to designate a total of740 units of affordablehousing. Some of the unitswill already exist, some willbe built from scratch, as

decidedbythecity.TheStateofNewYorkwillpayhalfofthe $32 million cost of theplan,perJudgeSand’sorders.InFebruaryof1998,afterhisconversation with JohnSpencer, Sand ruled that thestate’s Urban DevelopmentCorporation was partlyresponsibleforthesegregatedhousing pattern in the firstplace.

At the hearing to finalize

the plan, Sand was bothreflective and optimistic.“There have been manyoccasions since the outset ofthislitigationin1980,whenIsat on this benchexperiencing frustration, anda failure to appreciate why,whenthepartieshadthesameobjectives, itwas so difficultto reach a consensus,” hesaid.

“I am very pleased,” he

continued. “The goal ofincreasing housingopportunities inYonkerswillbe materially implemented.Therewill,atlonglast,beanend to this phase of theongoingsaga.”

JudgeSandisnottheonlyoneimpressedbythechangesin Yonkers. In the spring of1998, the EmergencyFinancial Control Boardvotedunanimouslytodisband

itself, giving Yonkers fullcontrolofitsownfinancesforthe first time in twenty-threeyears. Said Spencer,immediately after the vote:“This is the best governmentmeetingI’veeverattended.”

Newsofthisprogressbothheartens and saddens Nay.From where she sits, JohnSpencer, her ally and friend,is succeeding where herhusband could not. Nay is

still the deputy city clerk ofYonkers. On the wall of herCityHallofficeshehashungaframednewspaperfromthesummer of contempt and aposter Nick gave her called“Love’sFirstKiss.”Sincehissuicide she has mended heremotional fences with VinniRestiano, and each womandescribes theotherasaclosefriend.Ascholarshipfundhasbeen established in Nick’s

memory, and a west sidepark has been named afterhim.

Unable to sell theunfinished house on the hill,Nayabandonedittothebank.She now lives in a three-bedroom co-op in northwestYonkers. She took theWASICSKOLANEsignwithherwhenshemoved,butshelefta pile of posters that said“Nick Wasicsko for City

Council President” to rot inher damp garage. I salvagedone, and it hangs on myofficewall,nearmywindow,a reminder that heroes arerarelyperfect.

The Department of HousingandUrbanDevelopment seesthetownhousesofYonkersasa success and a blueprint forthe future. Sprinkling low-

income families throughoutmiddle-class neighborhoodsis now department policy.Across the United States, inNewark, in Cincinnati, inBoston, Chicago, andHouston, boxy brick towers,once filled with hundreds ofpublic-housingunitseach,arebeing declared failures anddynamited down to dust.There will be no moremonolithic housing projects,

not because a judge hasordered it, but because suchprojects do not work. Fromnow on there will be onlytownhouses, like the onesbuilt after all those years ofprotestinYonkers.

“The lesson of Yonkers,”says Oscar Newman, whoretired to create giant totem-pole-likesculpturesinupstateNew York, “is that it iscoming soon to a town near

you.”To that end, the agency

demolished 30,000 high-riseunits across the country in1996, and a total of 100,000willbetorndownbytheyear2000. HUD has a budget of$46 billion over that sameperiod of time to producescattered-site housing in thecommunities that surroundedthosehigh-rises.

The private sector is

embracingthisapproach,too.Over the past four years,groups like Habitat forHumanity International, theEnterprise Foundation, andthe National NeighborworksNetwork have spent $8.9billionbuilding136,300unitsin 1,940 communities, manyof them middle class. InMarch of 1997 theyannounced a campaign tospend $13 billion to build

193,800 units in 2,400communitiesnationwide.

Each of thesecommunities would do wellto learn the lessons ofYonkers,tohearthisstoryofanexperiment thatultimatelyworked, but which nearlydestroyed a city along theway.Itisastoryoftwoviewsof the world, of the mostlogical and intellectual ofjudges, and the most

emotional and self-protectiveoftowns.Ofamanwhohadaweekend house on thirty-three acres, and a city thatlookednorthwith envyat itsleafier, wealthier neighbors.Of amanwho struggled andreached the top,andbelievedthat others should be helpedtodothesame.Andofpeoplewhosestrugglesdidnotbringthemasmuch,andwhowerefighting to keep out others

whohadevenless.Yonkers is what happens

when these views collide.When a judge tells aneighborhood to re-createitself from scratch.When hesparks a metaphoricalexplosion, then orders thosewho live in the rubble torebuild. Yonkers is whathappens to thepeopleof thatneighborhood, both thosewho were there before and

thosewho,withalleyesuponthem,arechosentomovein.

Some of the lessons ofYonkers are practical:demand townhouses insteadofhigh-rises;spendresourceson architects, not lawyers;accept the inevitable andmove on. But other lessonsare less tangible, and moredifficult to master. TosucceedwhereYonkersfailedmeans accepting that no

neighborhood stays the sameforever and that protectingour children might be betterdone by letting strangers inthanbykeepingthemout.

Yonkers is what willhappen—is happening—everywhere, the result not ofa court case, but of ademolition ball. In time, thetownhouses will find theirway into nearly everycommunity and every

neighborhood.Insomeplacesit will happen quietly, inothers the shouting will bedeafening.Buteverywhere,itwillhappen.Andonebyoneeach of those neighborhoodswilllearnwhatthatmeansforanationwhosepeoplepreachdiversity, but who are mostcomfortablewhensurroundedbyotherslikethemselves.

Has Yonkers itself learnedtheselessons?Somemomentsmake me think so. Shortlyafter John Spencer’s electionthenewmayorpaidavisittoTony DiPopolo, who washousebound with ailmentsthat would soon kill him.DiPopolo was so weak hecould not speak above awhisper, and Spencer satclose so thatDiPopolomighttalkdirectly into themayor’s

ear. “Those people,”DiPopolo said, of the tenantsin the townhouses, “they’renice. They aren’t hurtingnobody.”

But other moments bringdoubt.

Mary Dorman is now amember of the city’s CivilServicecommission,withhername painted in gold on thedoor of her office at CityHall.Onemorning,whileout

in her front yard, she wasstopped by the driver of apassing carwhowas lookingto buy a house in Mary’sneighborhood. Were thereany in the area? Mary didknow of one house, anattractiveColonialwithabigyardand,fromthelooksofit,three or four bedrooms. Shetold thewoman those things,then surprised herself byadding that the home was

“across the street from thepublic housing.”Sheknew itshouldn’tmatter.Butshealsoknewthatitdoes.

Alma Febles knows it,too. Shortly after she movedinto her hard-won home, sheworriedaloudatarumorthatmoreof the samewere to bebuilt—on her new street.“Theyshouldbuildmore,butI hope not right near here,”she said, with no hint of

irony. “This is such a quiet,prettyblock.”

Epilogue,2015

When HBOcalled, I wasn’t payingattention.

Some might call that ahumble brag, or say I wasjaded, but I prefer “armoredagainsttherealityofconstantdisappointment.”You see, in

myyearswritingfortheNewYork Times, I had beencontacted by Hollywoodbefore.

There was, for instance,the time pre–email and cellphoneswhenaTimessecurityguardcalledmeathomeearlyon a Sunday because thepresident of an indie filmcompanywas standing in thelobby, insisting on speakingto me. He’d read my cover

storyonsomethingorotherinthe New York TimesMagazine that morning andsimply had to buy the filmrights. Was I free forbreakfastthefollowingday?

Plansmade,Iwasawokenbeforedawnthenextmorningby his secretary, saying(other) urgent business hadcalled him back to L.A. andhe would contact me shortlybecause my article was the

most important thing everpublished and absolutely hadtobeamovie.

I am still waiting to hearfromhim.

And then there was myfirst book, First, Do NoHarm, which was about thethree years I spent observingthe workings of a medicalethicscommitteeatahospitalin Houston. This time theprojectgotasfarasanoption

agreement with a respectedproducer, who hired amoderately big-dealscreenwriter, who took mybook—whichwas filledwithdying children, grievingparents, conflicted doctors—andturneditintoascriptthatopenedwith a nakedwomanrunning through a Texasgarden in the rain. (Thatwould be the chair of mymedical ethics committee,

who I assure you stayedcompletely clothed in everysceneofmybook.…)

You’llbesurprisedtohearthat project got no furtherthanthefirstdraft.

I understood that not onebit of this was personal. Icover tough subjects; I’mdrawntostorieswithnocleanendings, no clear good guysand bad guys, no absolutetruths.Inotherwords,notthe

kinds of things thatHollywoodlikes.Theinterestwas nice—sometimes a littlelucrative, often a good storyto tell friends at dinner—butnever anything I tookseriously. Once in a while Iwould find myself flippingthrough TV channelsmarveling that they werefilled with anything at all,because from where I satabsolutely nothing ever got

made.Sowhenmybook-to-film

agent, Sylvie Rabineau,calledme late in 2001 aboutsome interest in Show Me aHero, Imean itwhen I say Iwasn’t paying muchattention.Thebookhadbeenout for three years by then.Likesomuchelse Iwrote, itwas complex, untidy, andmore than a little depressing.So Sylvie talked, and I half-

listened.“Gailsomeone,”shesaid. “HBO somethingsomething.Wants to buy theprojectforDavidsomeone.

“Wantme to talk to themfurther?”sheasked.

IthinkIrememberfeelinga little bad that Sylvie waswasting her time on yetanotherprojectthatwouldgonowhere. I also rememberwondering how book-to-filmagents made a living, since

nothingevergotmade.“Whynot?”Isaid.Overthenextfewmonths

Sylvie called periodically,chatting about David, andGail, andHBO. I knewwhatHBOwas,ofcourse—thoughback then it was not yet thepowerhouse of originalcontent it would become—but we were well past thepoint where I could admit Ihadnoideawhomshemeant

byGailandDavid.Thenonespring day she announcedthere was an offer, one shethought I should probablyaccept, and soon after that acontract, one she thought Ishouldprobablysign.

Then… someone elsecalled.

“Hi,Lisa,”hesaidwhenIanswered thephone. “This isDavidSimon.”

I reacted with complete

nonchalance.“DAVID SIMON!!!!!

THEDAVIDSIMON????”Iscreamed into the phone.“DavidSimonwhowroteTheCorner????? David Simonfrom Homicide??? THATDavidSimon????”

“Lisa,” he said, lessfrightened than Iwould havebeenbytheblatheringontheotherendof theline.“Didn’tyouragenttalktoyou?”

“Yes,” I said. “But Iwasn’tlistening.”

Back in 2002, DavidSimonwas theauthorof twobooks that he’d brought toTV, remaking himself fromwriter to producer. He wasevery journalist’s hero,having navigated his wayacross the divide, tellingmessy, complicated, realstoriesonflat,simplescreens.And Gail Mutrux was a

producer—ofRainMan,QuizShow, Donnie Brasco, and,most important to this tale,Homicide:Life on theStreet,which was David’s firstseries.ItwasGailwho’dreadShow Me a Hero, I wouldlater learn, then passed italong to David. Togetherthey’d proposed it as a six-partminiseriesforHBO.

Ibeganpayinga lotmoreattention.

During the summer of2002 David would come toYonkers,aswouldhiswritingpartner Bill Zorzi, who hadleft his editing job at theBaltimoreSuntoworkonthisproject full-time. Togetherand separately, with me andon their own, they made therounds of Yonkers, seeinghow lives had, and had not,changed.

We visited with Mary

Dorman in her cherished“brick house on St. John’sAvenue.”Shehadspentthreeyearson theYonkersHumanRights Commission by then(appointed by MayorSpallone in 1990) and fourmore on the Yonkers CivilService Commission(appointedbyMayorSpencerin 1995).When she left thatpositiontotakeajobworkingasanassistantinthearchives

oftheYonkersSeminary,shewasgivenakeytothecity.

We went to City Hall tosee Nay Wasicsko, who’dgottenhergraduatedegree ineducation and post-graduatedegree in human resourcesmanagement and moved upfrom the City Clerk’s officeto become director ofProfessional DevelopmentandEducationfortheCityofYonkers, where she would

stay for the next fourteenyears. Yonkers beingYonkers, someone wouldperiodically play politics andtry—unsuccessfully—to pushheroutofherjob.

WemetHankSpalloneathis favorite table at theRaceway Diner, where hewas more than happy to tellus stories from the housingfight, making it clear howhe’d relished those days. “It

wasthebesttimeofmylife,”he would say. “It was anunbelievable time, thatfucking time.” Soonafterward, he would retire toFlorida.

And we visited AlmaFebles and her children intheir hard-won townhouse,where they were stillsearching for their happyending. In the originalepilogue of the book I had

beenoptimisticthatthemovewould change their lives, buttalkingtoDavid,Bill,andmeeight years later, Almadescribed the townhouses as“my nightmare.” Back atSchlobohm, she said, thethreatshadbeenclearandshecould bar the doors againstthem, not letting the kidsleavehomeexceptforschool.In the “good” part of town,however,Frankiewas free to

roamashedemandedandgotinwithacrowdof“whiterichboys who gave the Spanishboy themoney and sent himtobuythedrugs,”Almasaid.He was arrested for the firsttime when he was fourteenandcausedsuchchaos in thefamily in the followingyearsthat “Virgilio deserted us,”Leyda said, to join theMarines. That left Leyda tolive at home while she went

to college so that hermotherdidn’thavetohandleFrankieallalone.

We couldn’t meet withNorma O’Neal. She hadmoveddowntoRichmondbythen,withdaughterTashaandgrandson Shaq, to followDwayneandhisfamily.SoonshewasjoinedtherebyIsaiahSpruill, the “nice man” shehad met at Guild for theBlind.NormaandIsaiahwere

married in the early summerof 1998, and he died fourweeks after the wedding.(When she called to tell methe news she said those hadbeen the best weeks of herlife.) Then, on New Year’sEve,Dwayne died of a heartattack while making adelivery for his milkcompany. He was thirty-six.His wife, Libby, would soonbediagnosedwithALS,“Lou

Gehrig’s disease,” and Billwould develop a friendshipwith her long-distance,communicating through aninterpreter and a speciallyequippedcomputer.

OverthenexttwelveyearsI wrote books, magazinepieces, columns, and blogposts of my own whilewatchingDavidandBillcraftthe screenplay version ofthesepeopleandtheirstories.

Their writing went slowlybecauseoneortwothingsgotin the way. David’s nextseries, a small masterpiececalled The Wire, whichpremieredsoonafterourfirstphonecallin2002andranforfiveseasons.GenerationKill,whichDavidfilmedinAfricaduring six months in 2007.Treme, an ode to NewOrleans after Katrina, whichran on HBO from 2010 to

2013.Ikeptmydadjob,readabout most of thesedevelopments from GooglealertsandfromthedispatchesI would receive from Davidand Bill every year or so: Aquestion here. A “we’re stillworkingonit”there.

Oscar Newman died in2004, at age sixty-eight, in ahospice outside of Albany,NewYork.Hespenthisfinalyears living in the Catskills,

where he built toweringsculptures in the style ofNorthwest Native Americantribes.NormaO’Nealdiedofcomplications from diabetesin 2007, about a week aftershe turned sixty-six. LibbydiedofcomplicationsofALSin 2013; shewas fifty.HankSpallonediedinretirementin2009.Mary Dorman died onNewYear’sDayof2011.Shewas seventy-eight. On her

funeral home’s memorialpage her daughter, Maureen,wrote: “She was passionateabout civil rights in the city,initially protesting court-mandated housing, thenworking to facilitate itssuccess by assisting newtenants in the community.Mary was known to be anadvocate for others in needthroughout her life, and willbe much missed by family,

friends, and many others inhercommunity.”

Includingme.

Elsewhere,liveswenton.Nay got married in 2005

to Andrew McLaughlin, aYonkers police officerassigned to the area aroundCity Hall. Theymet becausehe used to come in and usethe water cooler near her

officewhileonpatrol.“Itrulybelieve thatNicksenthim tome,” she says. “I know itsoundsnutty,butI justknowhe did.” They would havetwochildrenandmoveoutofYonkers, though only onetowntothenorth.ShewouldneverleaveCityHall,though.Nowacomputerprogrammeranalyst in the IT department,Nay Wasicsko-McLaughlinhas, over time, become the

institutional memory of thebuilding—the only employeewho has been therecontinuously since thetumultuoussummerof1988.

In 2007, Federal courtcase 80 CIV 6761, US v.Yonkerswasofficiallysettled,twenty-seven years after itwas first filed, as the last ofthe six hundred units ofaffordable housing, somenew, some retrofitted to

existing buildings, werecompleted.JudgeSandwasasenior judge by then, whichfor some means a reducedcaseloadandsemi-retirement,but his docket remained full,oftenwithhigh-profile cases.Eightyearsintoseniorstatus,for instance, he accepted thetrial of the four accusedterrorists who wereeventually convicted ofbombing the U.S. embassies

in Kenya and Tanzania (atonepointduringthattrialoneof the defendants jumpedover a railing, reached thebench, and lunged at thejudge). And fourteen yearsafterotherjudgesmighthaveretired, he oversaw the lasthearing in the Yonkers case,as he had the first, withMichael Sussman stillrepresenting theNAACPandMayor PhilipAmicone, John

Spencer’s successor, signingoffforthecity.Eventually,ashe reached his late eighties,he did slow down, and in2014 he received theAssociation Medal from theBaroftheCityofNewYork,ararehonorthat’sbeengivenonly twenty-three times insixty years. At the medalpresentation ceremony hewould be described as “anenduring symbol of physical

andintellectualcourage.”Meanwhile, one of the

first residents of one of thefinal rounds of Sand’s court-orderedaffordableapartmentswas…AlmaFebles.By thenshe had left her job at theYonkers law firm and wasworking as a case managerfor the Department of SocialServices, helping residentsnavigatethesystemsheknewall toowell.Virgilio had left

the Marines and joined theYonkers police force, andwas living on his own.Frankie was in and out ofprison and no longer anofficial part of Alma’shousehold. Leyda was agraduate of the FashionInstitute of Technology andwas working as a mediabuyerinManhattan.TogetherLeydaandAlmaqualifiedforthe subsidized rent of $2,000

a month for a two-bedroom,two-bath“affordable”unitonYonkers Avenue. Large,sunny, and equally far fromthetowersofSchlobohmandthe townhouses of Helena, itwas the firsthomeAlmahadloved since she’d arrived inthe US at the age of fifteen.And she finally had her ownbedroom.

In July 2009, DoreenJames “friended” me on

Facebook.InSeptember2010David won a MacArthurFellowship “genius grant.”That same week he was thespeaker at a fund-raiser forNay’s brother-in-law, RoyMcLaughlin, a Yonkerspolicesergeantwhohadbeendiagnosed with brain cancer.In the summerof2013HBOannounced the last season ofTreme,whichmeant,Ihoped,that David would need

somethingnewtodo.Almost all of these

moments brought briefexchanges with David andBill, and in most of themDavid would declare, as hehad from the start, thatShowMe a Hero, the miniseries,would eventually air. Notbecausepublichousingpolicywas a natural subject fortelevision—hewasquiteclearitwasnot,which,Ithink,was

part of the reason he took iton—but because I’d beensmartenoughtowriteabookwithout a lot of expensivebattle scenes or historicalcostumes. (Of course, witheach year that passed, 1988became more of a periodpiece.)WheneverhesaidthisI considered his predictioncarefully and decided it hadtobewrongbecause,afterall,nothing ever actually gets

made. Still, it was nice totuck the project, and thepossibility, into the backpocketofmylife.

Then, in the spring of2014, I started getting quietword that HBO had givenShow Me a Hero the greenlight.AhintfromSylviethatthings were “looking good.”AnemailfromDavid,subjectline “Congrats,” with a one-line message to “keep this

under your hat” untileverything was official. So Ikept very quiet, partlybecause I’d promised, butmostly because of the jinxfactor.And therewasalwaysthe possibility that when Isaw the final script it wouldopen with naked women inrainy gardens arguing aboutwhere to locate newtownhouses.

Over the next month or

twomostofmyupdatescameindirectly and electronically.A Broadway actress whosework I knew and admiredsent me a note on Facebooksaying she was reading forthe part of Doreen in twodays and was having a heckof a time finding a copy ofthe book, since it wasessentially out of print.Would I mind jumping on acall to describe the character

to hermore fully? I jumped.She didn’t get the role. (Itwould go to the amazingIlfaneshHadera.)

Next, an instant message,alsoonFacebook,fromJennyMurphy, who was MaryDorman’sniece.“AreyoutheLisa Belkin author of ShowMe a Hero?” she asked.Mary’s husband, Buddy, hadrecently passed away, and,she wrote, “I have been

helping my cousin clean herhouse and it promptedme torevisit your book. I cannotputitdown.”

Irememberedthewarningnot to blab, but I really didwant to let Mary’s familyknow the news. “I amrereadingmyownbookrightnow,” I answered carefully,“because HBO is probablygoing to make it into aminiseries and I figured I

should remember what itsaid.” Since that was asentencethatcouldhavebeentrue anytime in the past tenyears,Ifigureditdidn’treallycountasspillingthebeans.

“HBOisdefinitelymakingaminiseries,”shewrotebackseconds later. “The locationmanager just came to thehousewhenIwashelpingmycousin and said they wouldstart filming in the fall.They

mayusethehouse.”ApparentlyIwastheonly

oneintownwithahattokeepnewsunder.

AnotheremailfromDavidbrought word that PaulHaggis (Crash! MillionDollar Baby!) was directingand Oscar Isaac (LlewynDavis!Drive! Just signed tostar inStarWars!)would bestarringasNick.Afewweeksafterthat,whileIwasgetting

myhaircutandcheckingmyphone, there was a messagefrom Bill saying, “It’sofficial,” with links to theannouncement stories on thewebsites for Deadline andVariety. Over the next fewweeks my Show Me a HeroGoogle alerts brought newsof more inspired casting.Catherine Keener as MaryDorman, Winona Ryder asVinni Restiano, Jim Belushi

as Angelo Martinelli, JonBernthal as MichaelSussman, Bob Balaban asJudgeSand,AlfredMolinaasHankSpallone, PeterRiegertas Oscar Newman, LaTanyaRichardson as NormaO’Neal.

Bynow Iwaspaying fullattentiontoeveryword.

On October 1, 2014,twelve and a half years aftermy first phone call with

David, filming began on theHBO miniseries Show Me aHeroattheactualSchlobohmhousingproject inYonkers. Iwasoutoftownthatfirstdaybut appeared on Day 2, andthenIshoweduponceaweekor so during the seventy-three-dayshoot.

Atsomepointduringmostof my visits someone on thecrewwouldaskme,“Areyouboredyet?”Iknowwhatthey

meant—there is tedium andrepetition in filming a scene,as actors recite the samewords again and again whilethe cameras come at themfrom different angles. Buthow could I ever be bored?With every take, I saw past,present, and future. I knewhow many hours/months ofresearchwentintohowmanyparagraphs/pagesofmybook,and from that I saw how

David, Bill, and Paultransformed those months,and thosepages, intoaquickvisualbrush-strokeofcameraorscript.Iwatchedtheactorsin front of me, and like anapparition,Ialsowatchedthereal person who’d lived theactual moment. Then Iprojected forward to the daywhen their stories,which I’dbeentrustedwithsolongago,would be seen by a wider

world. That, after all, hadalways been the entire point—the telling of these storiestoanyonewhomightwanttolisten.

Definitelynotboring.And what was my role

duringallofthis?TechnicallymytitlewasConsultant,butItook tosaying,“Myjob is tostand in the corner andvibrate quietly withhappiness.” “Quietly” does

notcomenaturallytome,andI suspect that a few of theproducerswouldbesurprisedto hear that what they sawduring the five months offilming was my very besteffort to stay out of the wayand keep my opinions tomyself.ButtrulyItried.Andbasically itwas easy. I knowthat some writers havenightmare tales of watchingtheirbookmorphintoanother

medium(itwasJohnleCarréwhosaid,“Havingyourbookturned into a movie is likeseeing your oxen turned intobouillon cubes”), and thisexperience could have beenvery different if there hadbeennakedwomenandrainygardensintheshootingscript.ButtheHBOgodsblessedmewith a team that felt itsmission was to makecompellingdramaoutoffact.

The result was a shootinfused with a feeling ofrespect for the past, and aconstant awareness that thesewere not just stories, butlives.

I had barely been on setforfiveminutesthatfirstday,for instance, when David’sassistantaskedme,“Didtheylight the tower of City Halldifferent colors at night in1988?Because if they didn’t

we have to ask them to turnthe lights off.” (It had beenlit, but not in colors. Weconfirmed that with archivalphotos,notmymemory.…)

The graffiti on the wallsduring theSchlobohmsceneshadbeenpaintedby an artistwhosePhDwasinthegraffitistyles of the 1980s. (Andmore than a few currentresidentswereunhappywhenthe scribbles and gang signs

appeared, because by 2014the walls were graffiti-free.The set dressers removedevery mark when shootingended.)

During the scenes in theCity Council chambers (allfilmedintheactualchambersintherealYonkersCityHall)Paul Haggis would ask me:“Sincethismeetingwasearlyon, would the crowd bestanding and shoutingyet, or

were they still beingrelativelypolite?”

During a scene in whichNick downs Maalox for hisgrowingulcer,artdepartmentresearchers determined thatthe label of that medicationhad looked different back in1993 and re-created theoriginal. (There was justwater in thebottle thatOscarchugged in take after take.Realism doesn’t mean

making your leading manlegitimatelysick.…)

The purse that CatherineKeener carried, and theVirgin Mary medal aroundher neck, were replicas ofones that belonged to MaryDorman, lent to costumedesigner Abigail Murray byMary’s daughter, MaureenDorman-Lutz. (“Actors takethings home and lose them,”Abigail explained, so “it is

very dangerous to have themuse the ‘real’ things.” Hencetheduplicates.)

The tie clip and lapel pinthat Oscar wore in nearlyevery scene were replicas ofones that Nick wore almosteveryday,onesthatNaytookfrom his jewelry box andgavetoOscarwhentheyfirstmet, the summer beforefilming began. The goldMovado watch was also a

replica of Nick’s, as was hisgreen sweater in his finalscene.

CarlaQuevedo,whoplaysthe twenty-something Nay,wore Nay’s matchingMovado,aswellasacopyofher City Council pin, and are-creation of her weddingdress. (Nay drove her boxedand preserved gown over sothat the costume departmentcould take photos.) Carla

wore the same scent, Angelby Thierry Mugler forWomen, that Nay favoredduring the late eighties andearlynineties.WinonaRyderwore a copy of VinniRestiano’scouncilpin.AlfredMolinaheldatoothpickinhisscenes as Hank Spallone, anevocation of the ones hewaved at David and Bill attheRacewayDiner.

Not every scene was

filmed where it happened(another diner, for instance,stands in for the RacewaywhenSpallonelecturesaNewYork Times reporter), butmost of the important oneswere. The actual streets ofSchlobohm, butwith bags oftrash brought in by setdressers to augment theplayground built by the crewin place of one that was nolonger there.MaryDorman’s

real house, with the samekitchentablesheandIhadsatat for so many hours, thesame cookie jar shaped likeanold-timeytelephoneinthecorner, the same Mr. Coffeepot near the same stove.Theofficial ornate chambers ofYonkersCityHall,whereoneday the room became so hotand the roar of the hundredsofextrasbecamesoloudthatOscar, the actor, was all but

transported into the world ofNick, the mayor, where hesimplycouldnothearhimselfspeakhislines.LaterIwouldlearn that many of thosescreaming extras werelongtime local residents whohad been at the originalmeetings shouting much thesamewords.

Thatfact—thattherewererealpeoplesteppingoutfromthepasttoinformthepresent

—is, I think,what ultimatelygives the miniseries itspresence and power. It wasalsowhatmadeitajoyandaprivilegetowatchasawriter.Evenmorethanthelocations,andthetieclips,andtheera-appropriategraffiti,itwasthepresence of those who livedthe story, and the respectgiven to them by those whowere filming, that elevatedeveryframeofthisshoot.

Many of the actors toldme they did not aim for animitation of the person theyplayed, but rather anevocation—what Oscar calls“playingapersonwholived”rather than “playing a realperson.”

“First there is thisperson’s life,” he said,explaining his process to meafter filmingwrapped. “Thenyoucameandwrotethebook

andyou tried to be objectivebecause you’re a journalist,but it’s still filtered throughyour experience.ThenDavidwrites a script, and the storyis filtered through him, andthen Paul gets it as thedirector and that’s anotherlayer.And then I come to it.So we’re all basicallymeditating on this guy’s lifeand trying to feel what thatlifewas,whathefelt,whathe

thought.Bythetimeitgetstome it’s its own thing. Thatgivesmethefreedomtoplaythecharacter.”

Since the best evocationsaregroundedinandenhancedby truth, those actors whocould do so spent time withtheir“personswholived.”

“Asanactor,it’sveryrareto play a real person, not tomention someone you canactually meet and talk to,”

JimmyBracchitta,who playsNick Longo, told me. “It’slikewinning the lottery.”Heandhiscounterpartgotalongso well that they eventuallyarranged a dinner thatincludedtherealNeilDeLucaand Saverio Guerra, whoplaysNeilDeLuca.Everyonebrought theirwivesandatealotofItalianfood.

There were also regularvisits from the “real” people

totheset.JohnSpencer,nowworking as a consultant forthe Yonkers VA, stopped inbriefly to give Bill theinfantryman’sbadgethathe’dwornwhileinofficesothatitcould be worn by the actorwho would play him. PeterSmith, now retired from thehousingauthorityandrunningthe philanthropy founded byice-cream moguls ThomasandAgnesCarvel,camewith

his wife and gave a fewpointers to actor TerryKinney on how to spin thelottery drum. MaureenDorman-Lutz stoodsurrounded by monitors inwhat had been her parents’spare bedroom and watchedCatherine bring Mary backhome.At one pointMaureenhad to step outside becausethe sight of Catherine-as-Marydrinking teaonMary’s

couchwasoverwhelming.Jim Surdoval was there.

Charlie Cola’s daughter. EdTagliaferi and Bill Dentzer,reporters for the YonkersHerald Statesman in 1988,who had written so much oftherawmaterialforthisbookand, transitively, thisminiseries.

Michael Sussman, stillrepresenting plaintiffs in biascases, brought his wife and

five of his seven children towatch the scene where heplays a competitive game offoosballwithPaulPickelleonthe last night of the housingfight. In reality, themenhadplayed basketball back inAugustof1988,buttherewasafootofsnowonthegroundthedaywefilmed,inJanuaryof 2015, hence the foosball.(Fun fact: the hands you seein close-up in that scene are

David Simon’s, since heturned out to be the bestplayer in the room.) True tocharacter,JonBernthaltalkedsuch smack with Sussman,whomhewasportraying,thattheymighthavegoneone-on-oneonthebasketballhoopinthe yard but for the weather(and, probably, therestrictions of HBO’sinsurance).

Alma,Leyda,andVirgilio

were there for the filming ofthelotteryscene,returningtothe same School Street gymwhere we’d all been twenty-three years earlier. Virgilio,still aYonkers cop, eyed thecostumed versions along thewallnexttohim.Leyda,nowmarried with a young son,still worked in marketing inManhattan.AlmastillworkedinYonkerssocialservicesbutlived in yet another

apartment. After Leydamarried and moved out oftheir two-bedroom, Almatookasmallerapartmentwithno public subsidywhatsoever,inaprivatehomeabout a block from her oldtownhouse.

Come lunchtime thefamily shared a table withthose who played them—Ilfanesh and the child actorsCamilla Harden and David

Iacono(whoaretheagesthatLeyda and Virgilio werewhenweallfirstmet).Therewere lotsofphotos andevenmorehugs.

Doreen James came laterthat same afternoon, andNataliePaul racedbackfromthe hair and makeup trailerwhen she heard the womanwhose life she’d been re-creating was actually in thehouse. They embraced for a

very long time. “The titlesays ‘Show Me a Hero,’”Natalie told Doreen. “Tomeyou are the hero of thisstory.”

Itwas a thrill to catch upwith Doreen, to hear abouther work for a nonprofit forwomeninYonkers,aboutherson, now twenty-seven andworking in retail, about herplans togoback to school tostudy for a career in social

services“assoonasIcanpayforitwithoutastudentloan.”She had reread the book inanticipationoftheminiseries,she toldme, and reliving thejourneythatgotheroffdrugsand out of the projects waspart of her motivation forwaiting to complete hereducation.

The “real” person towhom these set visits meantthe most, and for whom the

watching was the hardest,was Nay Wasicsko. Duringthe summer of preproductionshe was generous with hertime and her possessions,meeting often with theproducers, the costumerdesigners, and with OscarIsaac, who would play herhusband. But back then hestill looked like Oscar,without the mustache andwardrobethatwouldturnhim

intoNick.Her first encounter with

him in character cameaccidentally. She left CityHallonelunchtimetopickupa sandwich and noticed thestreetswerefilledwithallthestuff—trucks,lights,cameras,peopledressedlikethe1980s—that comes with a TVshoot. Standing at the delicounter, she happened to runintoNinaNoble,anexecutive

producer,whogaveherahugand brought her over to thesidewalk where Oscar, incostume, was handing outcampaign fliers. “Hi, I’mNickWasicsko,”hesaid,andsheburstintotears.

After that she visitedoften. She became closefriends with Carla Quevedo,who captured the steel andinnocence of Nay’s youngerself. Nay’s relationship with

Oscarwasmorecomplicated.“Sometimes seeing him

waseerie,”shesays.“It tookitstoll.”

“Sometimes she wouldlook at me a little bit like aghost,”hesays.

During the scene at CityHall when he could not hearhimself over the extras, hefoundhimself turning toNayforhelp.“WhatwouldyoudoforNick,howwouldyouhelp

him here?” she remembershim asking. She answeredthat she would probably rubNick’s shoulders and givehim a pep talk, somethinglike “You are on the rightsidehere,youcandothis,gogetmadback.”

“Hewasangry?”“Yeah,hegotmad.”So he went back out and

clobbered the scene. “Shereminded me how angry the

guy was,” Oscar says. “Ifound that anger, and let itaffectme,anditworked.”

IfthequestionIwasaskedmost often was “Are youbored?”andtheoneposedtothe “real” people most oftenwas “Isn’t this surreal?,” thewords Nay heard with eachvisitwere“Areyouokay?”

She always answered thatshewas, and after her initialstreet-corner crying jag she

workedhardtokeephertearstoherself.Onlywhenfilminghadendeddidsheadmithowtough it had been. “I had totellmydaughterthatI’dbeenmarried toNick,” she saidofher eight-year-old. “I hadn’tplanned to do that thisyoung.”

“We went to his gravetogether,” she told me. Theyhadbeentherebefore,butthelittle girl had always thought

this man was her mother’sfriend.“Shelookedatmeandsaid, ‘Now I think Iunderstand.’”

When I called Nay whilewritingthisepilogueshesaidshe had decided to stoptalking about the past for awhile because that felt toomuch like still living in it.ShedidaskthatImentiontheNicholas C. WasicskoScholarshipFundhere,which

I gladly do. You can donateonline.

There are others inYonkers who would like tostoptalkingaboutthispartoftheir history, too. While thefilming was a time ofnostalgiaforsome,itbroughtdeep discomfort for others,who believed that this wasnot a story that needed to beretold.

“Whatwewentthroughis

long past,” Peter Smith toldGannett reporter Jorge Fitz-Gibbon, who covered thecrisis of 1988 and also themaking of the TV versionnearly thirty years later.“Yonkersdeservesbetterthantohaveitsreputationknockedagainandagain.”

John Spencer wasn’t infavor, either. “Those wereembarrassing times,” he toldme. “I love my city. We’ve

overcome a lot. Why shouldwe regurgitate that negativeshit?”

But the current mayor,Mike Spano, chose towelcome the production totown, believing it wouldhighlight how the people ofYonkers had grown andmatured.“Weareabettercitytoday,” he said. “There’s thepast, and there’s thepostscript. We can’t rewrite

the past, but we’re going toembrace the postscript. Wenowcelebrateourdiversity.”

Itwas lostonnoone thatall this pro and con, thislooking ahead and lookingback, played out against thebackdrop of a nation stillstruggling with all thequestions raised years ago inYonkers. Questions of race,and community. Of whetheryou have to turn around and

face past wrongs before youcan move forward andovercomethem.

While we were filming,thecityofFerguson,Missouri—where a mostly AfricanAmerican population wasgoverned by a mostly whitecity council—was explodingin protest. And as I writethese words, it’s DavidSimon’s beloved Baltimorethat’sburning.

Which makes the lessonsof Yonkers not just history,but prologue, not a discretechapter but a part of acontinuum, with lessons thatresonatethroughthedecades.As Jim Surdoval was quotedas saying in the local paperwhen filming first began,“Obviously the underlyingissue was race, and we seethat playing out today inMissouri. It’s a discussion

that thecountrystillneeds tohave, and hopefully thisminiseries will furtherprovokethatconversation.”

Thistimeweshouldallbepayingattention.

Acknowledgments

This book isthe result of more than sixyears I spent in theneighborhoods, libraries, andarchives of Yonkers. It is awork of nonfiction, andeverything, to thebest ofmyknowledge, is true. The

historical events are takenfrom newspaper accounts,videotapes, hearingtranscripts, and thedescriptions of participantsand eyewitnesses. Morerecent events andconversations I eitherobserved firsthand or wastoldofindetailsoonafter.Toensure that my wordsmatched their memories, Iasked nearly all the main

players toreadthepagesthattold their stories before thebookwenttoprint.

Everyone in this book isreal.Therearenocomposites.Nearly every name is real,too, with two exceptions:DoreenJamesandherfamily;Billie Rowan and hers. Inboth cases the names werechanged to protect thechildren. This book is abouttherighttoafreshstartanda

new beginning. Jaron,Johnny,andShandaneednotlearn of any of their parents’past secrets and mistakesfromme.

Insayingthankyou,Iwillstart where I owe the mostgratitude—to the people inthis book. They invited meinto their lives, gave mehours of their valuable time,shared their thoughts andmemories—including ones

they are not proud of andwould have preferred toforget.

I am also indebted to thefellow journalists who wrotehistory’s first draft. Havingread practically every wordthey have written on thissubject, I can say that thereporters at the HeraldStatesman, particularly DaveSheingold, Ed Tagliaferri,BillDentzer,LaurelBabcock,

and columnist Maury Allen,are as thorough and sharp asthey come. Thanks, too, tomy colleagues who coveredthe contempt crisis for theNew York Times, includingJames Feron, Lisa Foderaro,Alan Finder, Sara Rimer,James Barron, Wayne King,and Robert D. McFadden.I’mgladyouweretherefirst,soIcouldcomealonglater.

A untold number of

books, toomany to list in aninformal thank-you, wereeducationalandinspiring,thefirst among these beingCommon Ground, by J.AnthonyLukas,theworkthatbeganitall.Itsatonmydesk,much thumbedandworn, forsix years. I find myselfmissingamanIneverhadthegoodfortunetomeet.

Also indispensable werethe following: The Promised

Land, by Nicholas Lemann;ThereAreNoChildrenHere,byAlexKotlowitz;Race, byStudsTerkel;TheDeath andLife of Great AmericanCities, by Jane Jacobs; TwoNations, by Andrew Hacker,and a number of books byOscar Newman, includingDefensibleSpace.

Countless people at thefollowing offices spent hoursexplainingthefinepointsand

finding me documents: theDepartment of Housing andUrban Development, theYonkersOffice ofMunicipalHousing, Yonkers HousingCourt, the WestchesterCounty Court, MayorSpencer’s office, JudgeSand’s office, JudgeLaCava’soffice.At thesametime, Jeffrey Toobin and JanHoffman guided me throughtheforeignlandoflaw.

Several people read themany versions of themanuscript—Todd Kessler,Sharon Hall, Mini Swartz,Chuck Lesnick, and EstherFein.Theywerekindenoughnot to be too kind, and thebook is better because ofthem.

My otherworld is that ofthe New York TimesMagazine,whereIhavehadafront-rowseattothetalentsof

Doreen Weisenhaus,Katherine Bouton, AdamMoss, Jack Rosenthal, GerryMarzorati,KathyRyan,SarahHarbutt, and Linda Magyar.A few floors below, thegenerosity and smarts of JoeLelyveld, Soma Golden,DeanBaquet, andBillKellerhave often made me wonderwhyIeverleft.

Gloria Glickman,everyone at Good Yarns in

Hastings, Jeff Porter over atMailBoxesEtc.,thelibrariansattheGrintonI.WillLibraryin Yonkers and the ArdsleyLibrary—they were allresponsible for the generalmaintenance of the book.Debbie Cronin and NoreenMulholland—they tookcharge of the details of mydaily life so that I couldmanage to write a book. Aland Cathy Cattabiani, Bob

and Amy Sommer, WendyHandler,DoreenWeisenhaus,Esther Fein, Sam Verhovek,Mimi Swartz, Todd Kessler,Debra Karl, Barbara Laing,Susan Chira, Lisa Wolfe—theywere responsible for thegeneralmaintenanceofme,ahuge job, particularly onthosedayswhenI’mcertainIdon’t know how to write. Abelated thank-you to DianeAsadorian—because I

promised.Andthentherewerethose

who somehow managed totakecareofmeandthebook.JimSilberman,whoseinsightand sharp intelligence keptmeoncourseduring the firstfive years of this marathon.SarahBurnes,whose energy,friendship, and gift with aneditingpencilgotmethroughthe final sprint. MikeMattil,who is part copyeditor, part

fact checker, and part poet,andwhosmoothedthewordsashesmoothedtheway.AndKathy Robbins and herdynamic, dedicated crew,whowere there to cheer andtoadviceateverypointalongtheway.

Anysix-yearprojecttakesa toll on those around you,andIherebysendanapology,athank-you,andalotofloveto Mike and Janet Belkin,

Noemi andAllenGelb,Garyand Masha Belkin, KiraBelkinandSaulFishman,andDana andAlanSafran, all ofwhombecameaccustomed tomy disappearing acts duringfamilyvisitsandvacations.

Most of all, I owe morethanIcansaytothreepeopleto whom this book isdedicated. My husband,Bruce, and my sons, Evanand Alex, are the reason for

everything. They are myheroes.Theyaremyhome.

AbouttheAuthor

LisaBelkin is the seniornational correspondent forYahoo News, coveringAmericansocialissues.

ShejoinedYahooin2014,

after nearly two years as thesenior correspondent at theHuffington Post, where shereported and opined aboutlife, work, and family. PriortojoiningHuffPost,shespentnearlythirtyyearsattheNewYork Times, where she wasvariously a nationalcorrespondent (based inHouston), amedical reporter,a contributing writer for theNew York Times Magazine

(where her editors describedher beat as “the socialconscienceofourtimes,”andwhere she coined the phrase“the Opt-Out revolution”),and the creator of the Life’sWork column and theMotherlode blog (reviewersofwhichcalledher“thenextgeneration’s AnnaQuindlen”).

Belkin is the author ofthree books—Life’s Work:

Confessions of anUnbalanced Mom; First, DoNo Harm; and Show Me aHero (now an HBOminiseries)—andtheeditoroftwoanthologies.Shewasalsothe host of Life’s Work withLisaBelkinonXMRadio,aswell as a regular contributorto public radio’s TheTakeaway and NBC’s Todayshow. She is a graduate ofPrinceton University and has

returned there as a visitingprofessor in the HumanitiesCouncil, teaching narrativenonfictionasaninstrumentofsocialchange.

ALSOBYLISABELKIN

Life’sWork

First,DoNoHarm

PraiseforLisaBelkin’sShow Me a

Hero

“Belkin makes clear howcomplicated a task it is toserve all members of acommunity equally, aquestion thatwill likely onlybecomemore pressing as the

racial population of theUnited States becomes morebalanced, and the once-popular method of isolatingand concentrating publichousing is increasinglyviewed as a failure.… ShowMeaHero isapainstakinglyresearched chronicle.…Belkin’s subjects are well-developed characters, andthere is an edgy honesty intheir disclosures of flaws,

addictions, and once-heldprejudices.”

—LiseFunderburg,PhiladelphiaInquirer

“Belkin is a masterfulstoryteller.… She displaysthat rare combination ofempathy,compassion,andthecritical eye of a seasonedjournalist. Show Me a Heroangers and inspires, andstands as a searing reminder

that race—and yes, heroes—stillverymuchmatter.”

—AlexKotlowitz,authorofThereAreNoChildrenHere

“Belkin’s skill in the art ofquick-paced suspense makesforengrossingreading.”

—PatriciaJ.Williams,SeattlePost-Intelligencer

“Thisisthebookofareporterrather than that of a partisanorofonewhohasreallybeenpersuaded by either side.Belkin knows there is nosimpleanswer.”

—NathanGlazer,NewYorkTimesBookReview

“Aninfectiouspage-turner.…Lisa Belkin has written awrenching social tragedy.…Her real terrain is human

nature, which she navigateswith both compassion andunflinchinghonesty.”

—SamuelJ.Freedman,authorofTheInheritance

“Belkin’s gritty book is avivid slice of urban politics,racial tension, and thedifficulties inherent inrealizing the Americandream.… Belkin follows thehousing battle through the

eyes of its participants:fearfulwhite residents of theeast side; black publichousing tenants anxious toescapethemiseryofthewest-sideprojects.”

—PublishersWeekly

“Riveting… deeplyilluminating.… A cautionarytale that illustrates theurgency of rethinking ourpublichousingpolicy.…Like

a journalist covering a warzone, Belkin vividly followsthe battle as Yonkersresidents split angrily on thisemotionalissue.”

—KirkusReviews

“Belkin’s strength lies in herinclination to search foreachcharacter’s humanity, herunderstanding of how thecomplexities of family andcommunity politics offer few

simple choices and evenfewerclearjudgments.”

—JamesGrossman,Newsday

“Show Me a Hero bringsempathy and intelligence tobearasBelkindramatizesthepowerful effect on individuallives.”

—Elle

“Belkin spent six yearsresearching Yonkers’ era ofcontempt.Shedeftlycapturesthe political aspects of theconflict,butshealsowritesatlength about the individuallives affected by it.… Therichest profiles in the bookare those of the low-incomeYonkers citizens, thestruggling, hardworkingsingle mothers and disabledgrandmothers who yearn to

liveinaneighborhoodwherethey don’t have to fear fortheir lives.… Show Me aHero is a tragic story, tingedwith hope, about how raceandclassarestillthedefiningfactors of community in thiscountry.”

—GilJoseDuran,SanJoseMercuryNews

Thankyouforbuyingthisebook,

publishedbyHachetteDigital.

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CONTENTS

CoverTitlePageWelcomeDedication

EpigraphForewordPreface

Prologue,1992

PartOne TheExplosion

1988198919901991

PartTwo TheRebuilding

19921993

Epilogue,1998

Epilogue,2015

Acknowledgments

AbouttheAuthorAlsobyLisaBelkinPraiseforLisaBelkin’sShowMeaHeroNewslettersCopyright

Copyright

Copyright©1999byLisaBelkinForewordcopyright©2015byDavidSimonEpilogue,2015copyright©2015byLisaBelkinCoverart©2015byHomeBoxOffice,Inc.Allrightsreserved.

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