First came the presentation by David Sugarman, then the floor would be open for questions. The open mic session was arranged to solicit comments about the proposal. Those wishing to make a statement had to sign up in advance, first come, first serve. Each person would be given three minutes to state an opinion, voice their concerns, or express support.
Sugarman hadn’t clicked through the first two slides of his presentation before the room erupted. The crowd didn’t understand that SA LLC, previously Sugarman Associates, was a subcontractor to CSIA, an outsourced contractor to DHS. Yet both firms had offices at the same address as DHS headquarters in Washington.
“So, let me get this straight,” an audience member yelled, “my tax dollars go to the Treasury, they send money to DHS, DHS pays CSIA, CSIA pays you, and you pay Development Econometrics LLC to do a study? That’s one expensive bowl of alphabet soup!”
Sugarman answered that each private sector company was more efficient because it was focused only on what it did best. “Outsourcing reduces bureaucracy,” he said.
Sugarman ran through the boilerplate. “Facilities like this one, benchmarked to others on square footage, location, compliance with federal construction standards, special equipment and design extrapolated from other prisons and detention facilities, typically create up to 2,400 construction jobs, and hundreds of jobs for other professionals—architects, engineers, and project managers. He showed photographs of similar places he called “comps”.
“DHS always gives preference to firms and workers in the community,” he stressed. “At full capacity in five years, DHS expects to employ 150 people here permanently. Prisons,” he said, then caught himself, “detention centers are very labor intensive. This facility would do more than its share in putting people back to work. Janitorial services, guards, even prison psychiatrists will be needed.”
“Who needs shrinks? We know they’re crazy!” someone yelled out.
He finally pulled up the slide he liked to call the money shot. “Each dollar spent by DHS results in a 3.5 times pass through to the community for each dollar spent, which means that workers would be spending their wages and salaries on lodging, food, entertainment, convenience stores, gasoline, car repair, and like businesses. Plus, the facility is expected to increase the Saluki tax base by at least ten percent.”
“Mr. Sugarman,” John said, raising a hand as if he were a school boy. “So, I know this is all theoretical based on modeling you guys do, pretty standard stuff,” he said, “but does anyone go back into the community years later and validate whether you were right or not? I mean, you’re making broad assumptions. I’ve heard that return multiplier more times than I can count. I’ve used it myself with clients. But, is there any basis in reality?”
“I don’t think anyone would dispute that communities with federal facilities like this one have prospered.”
“That’s not my point. Why does this number never change?”
“It’s a tried and tested multiplier, a standard in the field of community economic development.”
“Fine, but pi is a number you can prove with geometry. It’s been validated since the ancient Greeks. How is this mythical 3.5 multiplier validated?”
“Well, you might look to Marion to the south as an example. The Federal prison there—”
“Yes,” Vernada interrupted, “but the prison isn’t in Marion proper. It’s located on its own campus south of town. This facility will be inside the town’s borders. And it will be hemmed in by the highway to the north, to the east by the park, to the west by the Interstate, and to the south.” John hesitated in saying ‘his land’ and instead added, “and to the south by land under private ownership.”
Blake Andrews interjected. “John, make your point.”
“What you have presented is fine and good, Mr. Sugarman, but could you show us some stats on prison breaks, and the chance for Al Qaeda attacks from sleeper cells? I’m the first to attest that economic development is good, but our citizens are nervous about the unintended consequences of this facility being located here.”
Sugarman looked out into the audience at John, clearly annoyed. John glared back. He didn’t give a damn whether Sugarman thought he was being uncooperative or not. He’d had enough of the guy the day they toured his land.
“I’m here to address the economic development aspects, Mr. Veranda. We could only speculate at the remote possibility of attacks—”
John crossed his arms around his considerable chest, leaned back in his chair, inhaling noisily.
“But, if I may go off script for a moment, Mr. Veranda. The probability of a breakout from a maximum security facility has been calculated to be 0.01%, based on a full complement of inmates.”
“And where does that number come from?” John asked.
“It’s an average taken across all federal prisons nationwide.”
“And what about detention centers holding foreign nationals captured in the War on Terror? What are your stats for facilities like that?” Veranda huffed.
Sugarman leveled a long stare at John. “There are no stats like that. This facility will be one of a kind, as you are well aware.”
John said nothing.
“There’s a term I’d like to leave you with,” Sugarman concluded. “‘Opportunity Cost’. This is the cost incurred by not doing something. You can spend your day in front of the television. If you were out earning a buck instead, the amount you could have earned is called your opportunity cost for sitting on your duff. The question I pose is, what is your next best option for economic growth? What do you propose to do with that land instead? What is your next best alternative for making sure Saluki remains a vibrant community?”
In that moment, as in so many similar moments, John thought about all the injustices inflicted at Guantanamo, the human residue of the War on Terror. He’d devoured the articles and legal briefs. He’d read as much as he could about what Guantanamo meant—to the prisoners and for America. And it was all about to be transferred here, to his hometown. The stain. The national disgrace. The global embarrassment, transforming his hospital, his land, his legacy. For what? Yes, it would save the town from economic ruin. But the next generation of Verandas, along with generations thereafter would stare out at a security fortress, not a park with ball fields, or woods serving as a playground of the imagination for young boys and girls.
Sugarman shut down his laptop and took a seat next to Blake to listen to the community rant either for or against the project. He glanced once or twice at John, but John refused to make eye contact.
Blake opened the comment portion of the meeting with a few words on procedure.
Veranda added, “A famous governor once said, ‘Never give a long speech under a hot tent!’”
Blake frowned. “So, please, keep your remarks brief and to the point. Each person at the microphone is allotted three minutes. We will be strict about the time. If we cut you off, it’s not because we’re being rude to you, but courteous to the other people in line.”
John’s perpetual, impish grin seemed fainter than ever. Holly wondered if he was drunk.
The hearing elicited the longest list for public comment anyone on the council could remember. It was the largest single development ever contemplated for Saluki, next to Veranda’s medical center. Employment opportunities would draw from a far wider radius than Saluki. And, the prison was only part of the complex. DHS was also considering locating a district office, consolidating many dispersed local operations. Also planned were training facilities for prison guards, construction jobs, and expansion of lodging and eateries to accommodate folks visiting inmates, legal teams, and representatives from the countries these inmates originated. The council members had even speculated about legal services firms, language translation services, and new shuttle services from the airports in the region.
At one point, John spoke up and asked if he thought he ought to start taking bids for Middle Eastern food carts lining the roadways to the new faci
lity. “I can see the menu now, a falafel sandwich with lentils and yogurt dressing, the improvised explosive device.”
“Council meetings are not the appropriate place for your crass toilet humor,” Heather said with a glare.
“The Al Qaeda platter, the Abu Graib special . . .”
Holly wanted to add, “Maybe I can sell baklava to all the carts, a one-woman dessert delicacy dynasty.” But she didn’t. Besides, the joke would be lost on this crowd. So far no one but John knew she had any connection to the Middle East. And he’d probably blurt out something ridiculous about her serving customers in an I Dream of Jeannie outfit.
Newspaper articles opined about whether the incarcerated would get better health care than Saluki citizens, or even the veterans returning from the wars and being treated at the VA Hospital.
The first person at the mic compared Saluki’s situation to what had happened in Marion, where a maximum-security detention facility had been operating for decades. “They’ve added a minor league baseball team and stadium, new golf courses, and the population has growed, all the while, we been declinin’.”
“I’d like to remind everyone,” Sugarman said, “that, in cases like this, the Department of Homeland Security will conduct a more granular economic development study at their expense before breaking ground.”
“You mean at our expense,” someone yelled from the audience.
“The DHS has historically— “
“That’s what we figured! You’re just gonna tell us what you want us to hear!” someone else shouted from the audience.
The audience’s temperature was getting higher by the moment.
“To hell with the feds. We need our own study. What do the feds know about Saluki? They just suck up our tax dollars.”
As the comments wore on, Holly saw two themes emerge. How much money will we all make, and what is the risk from Islamic terrorists?
“Are we to become a hotbed of Islamo-fascism?” a young mother carrying her baby and dragging an older kid behind her commented into the microphone. Audience murmuring ratcheted up. “I read articles implying we’re fools to think we’ve got those sleeper cells under control.” She continued. “Remember when the Ayatollas held Americans hostage in Iran? We tried to rescue them. Don’t you think Al Qaeda will try to rescue theirs?”
A man waved a large report when his turn came at the mike. “Anyone else here been keeping up with these studies on the domestic terrorist threat?” He said it like he knew the answer. “You want to borrow this report? I printed a copy out at my own expense. It’s an eye-opener.”
Blake reminded the audience the facility would be built to house foreign prisoners of the War on Terror, and had nothing to do with domestic terrorism.
This incited more audience disruptions.
“Yeah, well, each of them detainees got family, don’t they? Those families will visit, like down in Marion. Maybe they’ll be hanging out at that Islamic information center we got now. Everybody seen that? That’s how this terrorism stuff gets started.”
“Those families will be spending money in our town,” another audience member called out, “as will the federal agents, DHS employees, and other government types—”
“On our dime,” a man shouted.
“Why, I’ll bet people will want to tour the facility,” someone else said. “They gonna offer tours?”
Good lord, Holly thought. Educational tours on Islamo-fascism. Who would want to tour a prison unless—in that instant, a possibility latched onto Holly’s brain like a barnacle on the hull of a ship. She tried to catch John’s eye.
“They don’t allow tours down in Marion,” someone yelled from the audience. “Hell, you can’t get within miles of the place. They got guards roaming the woods.”
John spoke up again. “May I remind the audience we’re talking about terrorism here, not tourism?”
Someone shouted, “What the hell’s the difference? We need to make some money. This town’s been dying a slow death ever since the feds said those Interstates would be the key to our revival!”
“Yeah, I can see it now,” John said. “In cell 43, we have a two-headed baby terrorist. It’s being detained so the government can run experiments to determine whether a two-headed terrorist is twice as dangerous because it has two brains, or half as dangerous because it’s has one body.”
“Good lord, John!” Heather Briggs exclaimed.
At the back of the hall, John’s wife was standing, a look of disbelief and horror on her face. She bent to help her father up and then shepherded her parents out of the room without a backward glance.
As the evening progressed, opposition to Islamo-terrorism was barely carrying the day over support for Islamo-fascist tourism.
The last of the speakers wandered up to the mike around ten o’clock. “We have to make a hard choice. Can we even provide the resources this facility requires? I believe we cannot allow this facility to change the essential character of our town. We’re a Christian people. We have veterans returning from the War on Terror. Is it fair to ask these individuals to live in the same town as the people that killed our citizens on 9/11, and that they were called upon to kill or capture?”
Heather seized the opportunity for closing remarks.
“You make a valid point. I don’t feel comfortable passing one of those women whose head is covered. Just being honest. That information center is a block away from my store, a local business owned by three generations of Briggs. It makes me really, really nervous, I don’t mind saying. How did they get a permit? Do they even have a permit? Do they need one? Maybe it isn’t fair, but I’d as soon not live with these people who look Arabic—”
Veranda stood up and interjected in a voice laced with exasperation. “Heather, Arabic is a language, not a fashion statement.”
Ignoring him, she continued. “Maybe I’m not as sophisticated as someone who has a law degree or work experience in our nation’s capital,” she said, extending her gaze out to the audience, “but my roots are in this town. But,” she raised her finger, “and this is a big but, beggars can’t be choosers, and if we don’t choose this development, Saluki’s gonna be the one going begging. And we haven’t even talked about eminent domain. We may not even have a choice here.”
“Hell,” someone yelled from the back of the hall, “the way they coddle them bastards, maybe each one’ll get a new Briggs recliner for their cell!”
That was enough. Blake checked his watch to make sure they’d met their requirements for community input, and then closed out the meeting assuring the public that the council would carefully consider all comments made this evening, that written comments were still welcome online at the town’s website, and they would be opening up a dialogue with DHS at the appropriate time.
30
November, 2010
Holly drove to St. Louis early one Saturday to visit Penndel and pick up some materials he had gathered for her, among them photographs of the neighborhood before and after the museum had been built. The furor over the supposed Saluki detention center had died down as there’d been no further developments. John never spoke of it and so neither did she. Of course, others in town still gossiped and maneuvered and prayed for the project and the tax revenue it promised or swore they’d stop it no matter what. Either way, Holly took advantage of the calm to promote her museum idea.
She and Penndel took some time out of the morning to make a pilgrimmage to visit Joe, and that’s when the idea came to her. She discussed it with Penndel and he told her she was crazy, that John would never agree to it. But she was so possessed by the idea that she could barely remember driving home. Especially since there were still several hours of daylight to get started.
She went straight to the Lowe’s home warehouse off the Interstate and purchased a couple of boxes of one, two, and three inch nails, a hammer, a large saw, and placed an order for a load of two by fours, two by sixes, large plywood sheets, and assorted other lumber. At the cashier, she reques
ted delivery, but was told they couldn’t schedule the delivery until later in the week. She looked at her watch. She had approximately four hours of sunlight left.
“I’ll take it now,” she said.
Holly drove to the pick-up area of the parking lot and rolled up alongside the young man in charge of deliveries. From her low perch in the driver’s seat, she looked him up and down, sucked in a great volume of air, ran both of her hands through her hair like twin turbo-charged combs, and smiled. The kid didn’t look so bored anymore.
She opened the door, elongated her five-foot frame out of the car, assiduously, as if she had contemplated this moment all day. She looked at him, diverted her glance to the sun slightly to his left and behind him and then asked. “Have you ever built a treehouse?”
“Ma’am?”
“You know, a treehouse. Didn’t you and your buddies ever take your daddy’s junk lumber and go build a fort in the woods?”
“My dad built one in the backyard once. He yelled and cursed at the instructions all day. He said they must have been translated from Chinese or something.”
“You don’t follow instructions to build a treehouse. You just build it.”
“No, never done that.”
“You build it because you want a place to escape. You build it so you can tell your friends you have your own secret place.”
He looked at her, bewildered.
“You build it so you have a special place for …”
“For what?”
She sighed and played absently with a tendril of hair wrapped around her finger. “A treehouse is where I kissed a boy for the first time.”
She had his attention now.
Holly handed him her ticket. “Now, I purchased a few pieces of lumber to build a treehouse not far from here. As you can see, I can’t fit it all into this Mustang. So, I need it delivered. They told me inside it would take two or three days. The thing is, I’m hot to start building a new treehouse now.” The young man raised his eyebrows at the word, ‘hot’.
The Moment Before Page 22