It's taken 15 years to replace half the public housing apartments demolished at Elm Haven. Can another lawsuit save a floundering replacement program?
Thursday, August 30, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
The house at 759 Quinnipiac Ave. nearly bought by the Housing Authority but still on the market.
It's easier to tear down than to build up. Or to scatter, as the case may be.
In the early '90s, the Housing Authority of New Haven (HANH) tore down 368 units of public housing at the notorious Elm Haven project—where Monterrey Place now stands—with relative ease (mismanagement that nearly led the feds to revoke a $40 million demolition grant notwithstanding). Replacing just half of those lost units as "scattered site" apartments, by contrast, has taken over 15 years—and it's still not done! A 1995 court-ordered settlement mandated that HANH build 183 units of subsidized housing by 1998 to replace units lost at Elm Haven, and they're still 19 units short.
Integrating public housing tenants into one and two-family homes in neighborhoods, rather than warehousing them in dense developments, has taken so long, in fact, that the attorneys for the displaced tenants have gone back to court to put pressure on the Housing Authority to finish the job.
Over the years, neighborhood opposition, high housing prices and census tract restrictions (the scattered site homes can't go in neighborhoods with high minority concentrations) have slowed the pace of replacing the Elm Haven dwellings. But in a new court filing, New Haven Legal Assistance Association attorney Shelley White argues that it's incompetence on the Housing Authority's part that's hampering progress.
White's filing asks a federal court judge to force HANH to "immediately" purchase properties in non-impacted zones that would fulfill the settlement terms, regardless of the year the home was built or whether it resides within an historic district. In the last year alone, White says, HANH has eyed three properties for scattered site homes, then backpedaled in the face of neighborhood opposition.
White's motion, filed in mid-August, details what she says is the Housing Authority's incompetence. It took HANH nearly five years, she writes, to sign a contract with a private developer to build six units on Fulton Street—property HANH has owned since 1993 and which won't be finished until 2008. The authority found a developer to build on the site in 2002 but didn't sign a contract with them until 2005. By then the contractor wanted $260,000 more for the project and the contract had to be renegotiated. Construction finally started this February.
HANH's effort to build 20 scattered site homes off Dell Drive, along the East Haven border, derailed when neighbors sued in 2004 to block the construction, and again later when the zone used to approved the site was ruled illegal by the state Appellate Court. By the time the ruling was overturned and the developer got the go-ahead in 2005, HANH was forced to commit an additional $865,000 because construction costs had risen. In 2006, though, the developer withdrew its proposal and now the homes are being built for private sale.
Since May 2006, when the Dell Drive plan fell through, the Housing Authority has acquired only one unit—21 Long Hill Terrace—and did so after promising neighbors they wouldn't buy more property in their neighborhood, says White. In the last seven years, HANH has developed and occupied 30 units that were outstanding in 2000. Nineteen sites still need to be purchased and nine that the Housing Authority already owns are vacant. The court settlement agreement mandates that HANH should fill each unit within 30 days of a home being available.
Ironically, the 20 subsidized units that HANH hopes to place in the 23-story condominium tower proposed for the downtown Shartenberg site wouldn't fulfill the obligation: HANH won't own those units—it's getting Section 8 vouchers that keep them affordably priced for years—so they can't count toward the total.
It has not been easy for HANH to find housing that meets the requirements of the settlement. Scattered site homes must go in neighborhoods where minority concentration does not exceed 47 percent, and the homes can't be so expensive that the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (the federal agency funding and overseeing HANH) balks at the price. The racial requirement disqualifies most of New Haven: 71 percent of New Haven census tract groups exceed minority concentration limits, according to the 2000 census.
In June, the Housing Authority asked White to agree to relax the settlement terms to allow scattered site homes in neighborhoods with 48 to 59 percent minority concentration, and to let one-bedroom units count toward the total. (The original settlement requires scattered site homes to be family units, since that's what was lost at Elm Haven.)
The Housing Authority has a backlog of people waiting for one bedroom apartments, HANH attorney Rolan Young says in a July 11 letter to White, so allowing them as scattered site housing would achieve two goals. HANH had found 13 family units and eight one-bedroom ones it wanted to purchase in neighborhoods just over the racial limits.
In a response letter, White says she'll consider homes outside the approved neighborhoods on a case-by-case basis, but that she can't allow one-bedroom apartments "under any circumstances as the class is focused on families and not single persons."
Besides, White says, HANH has refused to consider the few homes that do qualify. She says she has suggested four homes to HANH, all of which HANH rejected because they are "historic," which are presumably older homes that would cost more to heat and maintain.
Housing Authority Chairman Bob Solomon disputes that, and says White has offered little help in the way of suggesting viable propertites to purchase.
"She doesn't have any good ideas, she doesn't help us find property. She just complains when things don't happen."
White bases her incompetence claim on what she says are the Housing Authority's hit-or-miss search tactics. HANH has a database of every property in non-impacted areas and has contacted property owners to inquire about buying the homes. This has yielded no results, White writes in her new court filing. HANH has also contacted members of the New Haven Board of Aldermen to help them find suitable housing. But that has proved counterproductive, writes White, because alders are elected by the very residents who oppose adding public housing tenants to their neighborhood.
One home that fit White's criteria for exception was 759 Quinnipiac Ave., in Fair Haven Heights. At first White planned on telling HANH "No," because the home is in a racially impacted neighborhood. But when she drove by the house and saw how beautiful it was, she says, she gave her blessing.
That decision came with its own set of troubles.
Chris Olesen and Joann Gardner own 759 Quinnipiac Ave.—a tan two-story home on top of a small hill with a bright red door, floor-to-ceiling windows and a pink rosebush in front yard. They bought the home in 2004 and in 2006 put it up for sale. The couple spent a year negotiating the sale of their home to the Housing Authority, eventually dropping their price by $70,000 to meet HANH's needs. But when HANH backed out in the face of neighborhood opposition, the couple sued for breach of contract. (The couple's attorney, Melinda Powell of Hartford, declined comment on the lawsuit.)
HANH initially offered $405,000 for the property and planned to close in March of this year, but then lowered its offer to $355,000. HANH lowered its offer a second time, to $335,000, reasoning that converting it to a two-family, removing lead paint and other renovations would drive up the cost by $195,000.
Property value and curb appeal were on people's minds at the June 25 public hearing on the purchase. The home's owners were not there, but several of their neighbors were. Neighbors essentially told HANH they didn't have a problem with poor people, but that 759 is a "key home" in a "key block" of the neighborhood. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could ruin things for area homeowners. Neighbors argued that public housing tenants would turn off potential neighbors or investors.
But the home had been on the market for a year and no one other than HANH had bid on it, said Bob Solomon, the Housing Authority chairman.
"We're at least willing to put a fair amount of money into it," Solomon told the crowd.
Neighborhood activist Chris Ozyck presented a posterboard of photos of the home's interior: standing water and piles of coal in the basement. (Olesen and Gardner claim the water in the basement is Ozyck's fault: They paid him to install drainage and claim he didn't do it. He says he did.) Solomon, exasperated, told Ozyck that HANH had already paid for environmental and lead paint studies. Ozyck also brought in paint samples to show the home needed to be lead abated.
HANH has a spotty track record as a landlord, but its scattered site properties are managed privately, and scored fair on federal inspections. One scattered site home near 759 Quinnipiac Ave. earned an 83 (out of 100) on its 2006 inspection, and another scored 80. Other properties scored worse, with walls, doorways and gutters damaged at those homes.
The day following the hearing—the day before HANH was to close on the house—they backed out of the deal.
So why do neighbors oppose more public housing on the East Shore? Is it racism, as Olesen and Gardner's lawsuit alleges? NIMBY-ism? Or something else entirely? The Heights, with lower home prices than East Rock, Westville and other whiter neighborhoods, has absorbed more scattered site homes than anywhere in New Haven: a total of 114 units, compared to the second place Annex, with only 23.
"To have people who lived in our neighborhood for two years leave and call us racist, that hurts," says the neighborhood's alderman, Alex Rhodeen. Proof that the neighborhood isn't racist are all the public housing units already there, and the fact that Rhodeen suggested HANH buy other properties in his ward.
HANH backed out of 759 Quinnipiac Ave. for financial reasons, says Solomon, though at the meeting he told neighbors, "We would not have thought to acquire this building if the budget wouldn't cover it." Directly after the meeting, Solomon says he met with staff who were concerned the cost of the home and the upkeep it would need were prohibitive.
"I think it's a good thing that you're allowed to change your mind," says Solomon. But why, during the six months HANH was negotiating with Olesen and Gardner, did the issue not come up? "We rely on outside contractors, and staff make some assessments. Sometimes someone comes in with superior knowledge," says Solomon, meaning the neighbors. "Our staff is feeling a lot of pressure because of lawsuits and threats."
Friday, July 25, 2008
Maturo's Blackout
More ink on the East Haven mayor's calendar shenanigans.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
What was East Haven Mayor Joe Maturo hiding under all that black ink on his office calendar?
He said they were doctor's appointments for his swollen prostate, which sunshine laws allow to remain secret for privacy reasons. Turns out they were cell phone numbers, two weddings, dinner, a convention and a fund-raiser, most of which took place after work hours.
East Haven Democrats and their candidate for mayor, Councilwoman April Capone Almon, want to show Maturo's been an absentee mayor, relaxing at his Florida vacation home for weeks on end while the town struggled with raising taxes and keeping city services intact. Dems made a Freedom of Information request for his office schedule and received two schedules: his desk calendar and the printout of his Microsoft Outlook calendar, full of mysteriously redacted entries. The desk calendar had 67 redacted entries and the Outlook version had 40.
"Those [redactions] were done by my secretary who thought we shouldn't be putting them in—I didn't know it at the time," Maturo told the Advocate last month. "She blocked out my doctor's appointments and my family's doctor's appointments."
Redacting doctor's appointments is legally permissable if the redaction is accompanied by a brief explanation. But it turns out the doctor's visit excuse is only a half-truth. Or, to be mathematically accurate, a one-sixth truth.
The Advocate was forwarded an Aug. 28 email to Lisa Siegel, the FOI ombudsman working with East Haven Dems, from East Haven town counsel Larry Sgrignari in which Sgrignari details the redacted items. Maturo's 2007 calendar—up to April—shows he went to four doctor's appointments. In 2006 he went six times.
"The list says cell phone, but not the number or who [it belongs to]," says Capone Almon. "I'd like to know who he was talking to."
Capone Almon is curious and baffled by the redactions. "Why would he redact inaugural ball? Why would he redact a wedding?"
Who knows. Maturo did not return the Advocate's phone calls seeking comment. Maybe he'll speak up this Thursday when the case goes to a FOI hearing in Hartford. Maybe that's blacked out on his calendar too.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
What was East Haven Mayor Joe Maturo hiding under all that black ink on his office calendar?
He said they were doctor's appointments for his swollen prostate, which sunshine laws allow to remain secret for privacy reasons. Turns out they were cell phone numbers, two weddings, dinner, a convention and a fund-raiser, most of which took place after work hours.
East Haven Democrats and their candidate for mayor, Councilwoman April Capone Almon, want to show Maturo's been an absentee mayor, relaxing at his Florida vacation home for weeks on end while the town struggled with raising taxes and keeping city services intact. Dems made a Freedom of Information request for his office schedule and received two schedules: his desk calendar and the printout of his Microsoft Outlook calendar, full of mysteriously redacted entries. The desk calendar had 67 redacted entries and the Outlook version had 40.
"Those [redactions] were done by my secretary who thought we shouldn't be putting them in—I didn't know it at the time," Maturo told the Advocate last month. "She blocked out my doctor's appointments and my family's doctor's appointments."
Redacting doctor's appointments is legally permissable if the redaction is accompanied by a brief explanation. But it turns out the doctor's visit excuse is only a half-truth. Or, to be mathematically accurate, a one-sixth truth.
The Advocate was forwarded an Aug. 28 email to Lisa Siegel, the FOI ombudsman working with East Haven Dems, from East Haven town counsel Larry Sgrignari in which Sgrignari details the redacted items. Maturo's 2007 calendar—up to April—shows he went to four doctor's appointments. In 2006 he went six times.
"The list says cell phone, but not the number or who [it belongs to]," says Capone Almon. "I'd like to know who he was talking to."
Capone Almon is curious and baffled by the redactions. "Why would he redact inaugural ball? Why would he redact a wedding?"
Who knows. Maturo did not return the Advocate's phone calls seeking comment. Maybe he'll speak up this Thursday when the case goes to a FOI hearing in Hartford. Maybe that's blacked out on his calendar too.
Immaturo
East Haven's mayor is playing hooky.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
Would you take nine weeks’ vacation at your job? What about five? You could if you were East Haven Mayor Joe Maturo. Maturo has been East Haven’s mayor for 10 years, and the Town Hall rumor mill has it he’s out of town quite often.
East Haven Democrats decided to check up on that rumor and filed a Freedom of Information request seeking Maturo’s schedule for the past fiscal year. The mayor’s office uses Microsoft Outlook for scheduling purposes, but it told Gene Ruocco, Democratic Party chairman, they had to hire specialists at $75 an hour to retrieve and print the schedule. Maturo’s calendar from July 2005 to April 2007 cost Ruocco $265.
According to dates a Town Hall mole gave to Democrats, Maturo was on vacation in Florida from Feb. 23 to March 29, 2007—five weeks. Paper copies of Maturo’s Microsoft Outlook schedule show both of those dates labeled with “Fla.” (Matruo has a vacation home in Florida.) During those dates, items were redacted with black marker on Feb. 7, 13, 14, 17, 20 and 21. In total, 40 items were redacted from Maturo’s calendar.
In 2006, Maturo was gone from March 4 to March 24.
“We need a full-time mayor,” says Democratic mayoral candidate April Capone Almon. “This is not a part-time job. If you didn’t show up, how would it affect your job?”
Reached by phone and asked if he was free to answer some questions, Maturo said “Noooop.” He declined to discuss it, but called me right back. Vacations are not calculated by the fiscal calendar, argues Maturo, they’re done by the calendar year. “I took four weeks’ vacation one year, and four weeks’ another.” He adds that when he’s gone, he’s constantly in contact with the office either by phone or email. Plus, he doesn’t vacation during summer because he goes to East Haven’s concerts on the Green. And anyway, who wants to go to Florida in the summer?
What about those blacked out dates on his calendar? Those are doctor’s appointments, the mayor says, for his swollen prostate gland. Private things like doctor’s appointments may be excluded from FOI requests, if there’s an explanation accompanying them. Ruocco complained about the redactions and the calendar’s high costs to the state’s FOI commission and a hearing date will be set for early fall.
The East Haven town charter does not specify the amount of vacation time a mayor is allotted. However, it does say the town will pay the Town Council chairman up to two weeks to serve as acting mayor. A full day as East Haven mayor pays $288.46, according to expense records.
“The problem is he’s an absentee mayor,” says Ruocco.
“I’m glad they’re talking about my vacation time,” quips Maturo. “That just means they don’t have anything else to talk about.”
In addition to Maturo’s regular duties as mayor, East Haven mayors also serve as chairman of the Board of Finance. In Maturo’s 10-year tenure, there have been 131 Board of Finance meetings, and he’s missed 122 of those, according to Capone Almon.
Maturo doesn’t go to those meetings, he says, because “it puts political pressure” on the board. “They don’t need me there. The only time I go is at budget time and if I think there’s something really crucial.”
“He’s the chair, so he’d be leading the [finance] meeting,” says Capone Almon. “He should know what’s going on. How plugged in can he be if he doesn’t attend the meetings?”
Thursday, August 23, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
Would you take nine weeks’ vacation at your job? What about five? You could if you were East Haven Mayor Joe Maturo. Maturo has been East Haven’s mayor for 10 years, and the Town Hall rumor mill has it he’s out of town quite often.
East Haven Democrats decided to check up on that rumor and filed a Freedom of Information request seeking Maturo’s schedule for the past fiscal year. The mayor’s office uses Microsoft Outlook for scheduling purposes, but it told Gene Ruocco, Democratic Party chairman, they had to hire specialists at $75 an hour to retrieve and print the schedule. Maturo’s calendar from July 2005 to April 2007 cost Ruocco $265.
According to dates a Town Hall mole gave to Democrats, Maturo was on vacation in Florida from Feb. 23 to March 29, 2007—five weeks. Paper copies of Maturo’s Microsoft Outlook schedule show both of those dates labeled with “Fla.” (Matruo has a vacation home in Florida.) During those dates, items were redacted with black marker on Feb. 7, 13, 14, 17, 20 and 21. In total, 40 items were redacted from Maturo’s calendar.
In 2006, Maturo was gone from March 4 to March 24.
“We need a full-time mayor,” says Democratic mayoral candidate April Capone Almon. “This is not a part-time job. If you didn’t show up, how would it affect your job?”
Reached by phone and asked if he was free to answer some questions, Maturo said “Noooop.” He declined to discuss it, but called me right back. Vacations are not calculated by the fiscal calendar, argues Maturo, they’re done by the calendar year. “I took four weeks’ vacation one year, and four weeks’ another.” He adds that when he’s gone, he’s constantly in contact with the office either by phone or email. Plus, he doesn’t vacation during summer because he goes to East Haven’s concerts on the Green. And anyway, who wants to go to Florida in the summer?
What about those blacked out dates on his calendar? Those are doctor’s appointments, the mayor says, for his swollen prostate gland. Private things like doctor’s appointments may be excluded from FOI requests, if there’s an explanation accompanying them. Ruocco complained about the redactions and the calendar’s high costs to the state’s FOI commission and a hearing date will be set for early fall.
The East Haven town charter does not specify the amount of vacation time a mayor is allotted. However, it does say the town will pay the Town Council chairman up to two weeks to serve as acting mayor. A full day as East Haven mayor pays $288.46, according to expense records.
“The problem is he’s an absentee mayor,” says Ruocco.
“I’m glad they’re talking about my vacation time,” quips Maturo. “That just means they don’t have anything else to talk about.”
In addition to Maturo’s regular duties as mayor, East Haven mayors also serve as chairman of the Board of Finance. In Maturo’s 10-year tenure, there have been 131 Board of Finance meetings, and he’s missed 122 of those, according to Capone Almon.
Maturo doesn’t go to those meetings, he says, because “it puts political pressure” on the board. “They don’t need me there. The only time I go is at budget time and if I think there’s something really crucial.”
“He’s the chair, so he’d be leading the [finance] meeting,” says Capone Almon. “He should know what’s going on. How plugged in can he be if he doesn’t attend the meetings?”
Voices of the Immigrants
Ten immigrants swept up in the June 6 federal raids on New Haven tell their stories.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
In the early morning hours of June 6, white vans carrying federal immigration officers crept into New Haven. They swept through Fair Haven, the city's predominantly Latino neighborhood, barging into homes and stopping people on the street. Anyone who didn't have the proper immigration papers was arrested. In all, 32 were taken. In many cases, according to witnesses, the federal agents didn't identify themselves and didn't explain what was happening.
Fear gripped the neighborhood. Children were left at school because parents were afraid to leave their homes to pick up their kids. The Latino advocacy organization JUNTA for Progressive Action delivered food to homes because undocumented immigrants were too terrified to go to the grocery store.
Across the country immigration raids are in a stepped-up mode. President Bush announced on August 10 that the number of teams conducting these raids has grown from 15 in 2005 to 68 as of last week. By September's end there will be 75. The federal government will also begin to send warning letters to employers who have several workers with Social Security numbers that don't match their names. They'll also be raising fines for those employers.
In June, New Haven Mayor John DeStefano lambasted the federal government for the way the raids were carried out. He called the arrests retaliation for New Haven's confirming that week that the city would be offering municipal ID cards to all city residents, including undocumented immigrants.
The ID cards and the raids have put New Haven at the center of the national immigration debate, and the 32 detainees have become a symbol of a failed federal immigration policy. The Advocate sought out the detainees and their families to better understand their situations and the how their arrest and confinement has changed their lives. What follows are the stories of 10 people arrested that day, gleaned from interviews conducted during the two months since the raids.
Koikoi Guilavogui
Koikoi Guilavogui's wife will probably give birth to a baby girl while he is in jail. Wendy Guilavogui, a nurse, met her husband, who is a nurse's aide, through work. When she found out their birthdays are one day apart—they were both born in 1978—Wendy gave Koi her phone number and suggested they celebrate together.
That was in February 2004. Instead of waiting until their March birthdays, Koi called that day after his shift. Wendy already had two kids and was going through a divorce, so she was hesitant to get into a relationship. But they did, and in 2006 they had a son, Jayden, and got married.
Koi is from Guinea. Two of his sisters live in Connecticut and have political asylum here. When Koi first arrived in the United States, in 2002, he went to Baltimore and stayed with family. He applied for asylum there, then moved to Connecticut to be near his sisters. His asylum case was rejected and he appealed.
In Guinea, Koi's uncle had formed a pro-democracy organization that was brutally repressed. His uncle was assassinated and his family was persecuted. If Koi returns to Guinea, he'll be targeted.
After Koi and Wendy were married in December 2006, the couple filed papers to change Koi's immigration status. She filed a petition for alien relative and he filed an application to adjust status. "We were told the paperwork was pending," says Wendy.
So the couple was shocked and confused on June 6 when they were awoken by immigration officials. Around 8:30 a.m. there was a loud knocking on the door. From the bedroom, Wendy heard someone yell, "Police!" They entered the bedroom and told her to get out of bed, but to leave Jayden behind in the room.
The officers asked for Koi's ID, and he looked through his wallet. All he had was an expired international driver's license. Then they took him away.
Koi has no criminal history, but he did have a deportation order, which means he is not eligible for bond. After working the phones for two days, Wendy found out her husband was being held in Massachusetts. She can talk to him on the phone, but he can only call collect or use a phone card. Wendy mails him money orders to buy phone cards, because she is not allowed to mail him the cards. She makes the two-hour drive twice a week for his one-hour visiting session. Wendy and Koi sit on opposite sides of a plexi-glass window and speak via phones.
When Wendy takes Jayden to visit his dad, the boy sits on her lap and says into the phone, "I lub you, daddy. I mizz you."
Since the raids, Jayden has been acting out. "He never gave me problems before," says Wendy. But Jayden's tantrums aren't her only worry.
Wendy works the night shift and her sister takes care of the kids while she works. But she can't get anyone to sit when she has to sleep, so she gets exhausted and cranky. The household income is half of what it used to be, so Wendy's been eating at her parents' home in Stratford to save money.
Because she's going to have a C-section, she's not allowed to lift anything heavier than the baby—which will make carrying the family's laundry to the laundromat difficult. Paying bills will be harder, too, because she'll be bedridden for six to eight weeks after surgery and giving birth.
Wendy's scheduled her C-section for the last possible date, August 24, in the hope that by then her husband will be home.
Koi's job allowed Wendy to work part-time and continue studying to become a nurse. But with the loss of his income and support, she's considering reapplying for welfare. She's worried about losing her two-bedroom apartment and a van that she's almost paid off.
If Koi is deported, Wendy wants to follow—she wants to be with her husband and she can't afford to raise her children here without him. But Guinea has the world's highest rate of female genital mutilation. If the Guilavoguis don't allow their six-year-old daughter, Jackie, to be mutilated, they'd be ostracized. Wendy has filed suit against Secretary of Homeland Security Michael Chertoff, Attorney General Alberto Gonzales and the Bureau of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS). If the deportation occurs, the suit argues, Koi will "face violent persecution and crippling social isolation."
Gerardo and Silvino Trujillo
Cousins Gerardo and Silvino Trujillo stick together. They live together and work together. Gerardo, 21, has been in New Haven for six years; Silvino, 24, for seven.
They have an aunt and a cousin here but don't see them very often.
The only job the cousins had until they were arrested was at a Hamden bakery. They lost their jobs after spending two weeks in jail following the raid.
That's understandable, says Silvino, because it was a small bakery. The two had to hustle to find new jobs. They're still working with their hands, though; instead of kneading bread, they wield hammers working construction jobs. They took the jobs without even asking what they pay was—they were that desperate and trusting.
They cousins say they're scared to go out anymore, but they work long hours so they're too tired to do much else except sleep and watch TV.
Silvino and Gerardo are like yin and yang. Silvino talks a lot; he's animated and his face often breaks into a wide grin. His ears are pierced and he seems relaxed, comfortable with himself.
Gerardo depends on his older cousin to speak for him and needs a little prodding before he'll lift his head and open his mouth. He's shy and loathe to make eye contact.
On the day they were arrested, Silvino had been working the night shift at the bakery and left around 4 a.m. "I had just fallen asleep when around 6:45 they came into my bedroom and woke me up by turning on the lights," he says. "I was really confused, ya know, because I wasn't awake. They asked me what my name was and then they grabbed and handcuffed me. We were asking, 'What's happening?' But they didn't say anything."
The immigration agents did not ID themselves. They didn't explain what was going on and they didn't tell the cousins where they'd be taken. Silvino and Gerardo were loaded into a windowless van with eight others. "We were scared," admits Silvino. The others were scared and confused, too.
"I thought there must have been an error because I know I didn't do anything wrong," says Silvino.
"I was really scared and I couldn't figure out why they were arresting me," says Gerardo. In jail, "I couldn't sleep. You can't sleep worrying about what's going to happen to you."
No one who had been arrested understood what was happening. "I called my aunt and I was asking, 'What's going to happen to us?'" says Silvino. "I thought maybe she would have some information, but she was really scared and I ended up calming her down. She didn't have any answers for me and we couldn't talk long anyway," because phone calls were expensive.
When they heard about the rallies and protests in New Haven in the days following the raids, the cousins say they were happy to know people were supporting them.
"That helped a lot," says Gerardo. "It made us feel less alone."
But they say, "We don't leave the house unless it's to work. We're very tired, but we're also nervous," explains Silvino. "You're not the same person after spending time in jail. It's just not the same anymore. It changes you knowing that one day you can wake up and be sent to jail. Maybe in a little while I won't be so scared anymore."
Orlando Rodriguez Casetelan
Orlando Rodriguez Castelan, 25, has only been in the New Haven area for five months. He has a wide, round face with soft features. He keeps his mustache neatly trimmed and he has a tiny mole between his eyebrows. He's shy and quiet, but quick to smile. He's a mechanic, and he's got black grease-rimmed fingernails to prove it. His hands are covered in a constellation of scars and scabs that he gets from working on expensive cars at a body shop.
He spends his days under the hood of cars like Ferraris and Lamborghinis. He began working with cars at the tender age of 10 and fell in love with them, although he doesn't own a car himself.
Instead, Rodriguez Castelan rides the bus to work. On Monday, June 11, he was waiting for the bus in the morning when a car pulled up in front of him. Rodriguez Castelan noticed the passenger was talking on his cell phone. The bus would arrive in less than five minutes.
Rodriguez Castelan waited patiently, not paying much attention to the car in front of him. As the bus pulled up, the passenger hung up his cell phone, got out of the car and approached Rodriguez Castelan. "Do you speak English?" he asked. "Do you speak Spanish?" he asked next. Yes, said Rodriguez Castelan. The man grabbed Rodriguez Castelan's wrists, handcuffed him and shoved him into the back of the car.
"What's going on?" asked Rodriguez Castelan. "I'm the police," responded the man in civilian clothes.
Rodriguez Castelan keeps to himself. He lives with his brother-in-law and his nephew, but they rarely see each other because of their different work schedules. When Rodriguez Castelan was taken to jail, he met others in his situation and became fast friends with Amilcar Soto Velasquez.
They speculated on whether they would ever get out of jail, what their families were doing or talking about. They gave each other hope. "I thought I'd never get out," says Rodriguez Castelan.
Amilcar Soto Velasquez
Amilcar Soto Velasquez has been in New Haven for five of his 22 years. Most of his family is in Florida, he says, but a friend brought him to Connecticut.
As a landscaper, Soto Velasquez practically has the winters off: He works one or two days a week, if at all. But he just shrugs his shoulders when I ask what he does during all that free time. After a while, he says he likes soccer, but he doesn't play during the winter. During the summer he makes up for time off by working long hours six days a week and sometimes on Sundays.
Soto Velasquez is a man of few words, but when he does speak it's rapid-fire. He spits his words out quickly; they trip over each other in an avalanche of sentences. He has an angular face with wisps of a mustache stretching towards his lips.
Soto Valasquez says his bosses didn't mind that he was absent two weeks after getting arrested because he has been a reliable employee for four years. Immigration officials didn't come to his house; they showed up at Teresa Vara's house, where he was visiting and staying the night. Vara and Soto Velasquez are dating.
There were several people in the house, and Teresa's friend Norma Sedeno was the only one who wasn't arrested. The immigration agents allowed Norma to stay behind so that she could take care of the children, Norma says.
"I was extremely worried the first few days in jail," says Soto Velasquez. "I thought I'd be deported without the money for my bond." Friends ended up loaning him the $7,000 he needed to get home.
Teresa Vara
Teresa Vara, 32, has no family in New Haven. Instead, she lives with a woman who has lots of family, Norma Sedeno, 27, who has two brothers, a cousin, a husband and three children.
There were seven adults in Vara and Sedeno's home (Amilcar Soto Velasquez was visiting), none of whom speak English, when the raids occurred. "When ICE (Immigrations Customs and Enforcement) came in we thought they were police," remembers Vara. "They came in without saying anything or identifying themselves."
Vara speaks rapidly and confidently. Words aren't enough for her: She waves her arm, shakes her head and scrunches up her face to make a point. Vara's quick to laugh and quick to cry. Its easy to assume that being arrested for the first time and being separated from the few people she knows in Connecticut has pushed her to emotional extremes.
When Vara saw ICE that morning, she was in her pajamas and wearing flip-flops. She wanted to use the bathroom. They didn't let her change and they didn't let her go to the bathroom.
"There's one person in our house who speaks a little English, and I said to him, 'Ask them what they want.' But they didn't tell us anything," says Vara.
All the men were handcuffed and the immigration agents asked the women if they had kids. "I don't have any kids here, so they handcuffed me and took me off," she says. It was two or three hours before Vara was allowed to use the restroom.
Norma Sedeno was left alone with her three children and a part-time job. Her normally bustling home was quiet. Her brothers Luis and Cirilo and her husband Apolinar had all been arrested. Luis, who has deep dimples, has been in New Haven since 1999. Cirilo was the first family member to arrive in New Haven.
Shortly after the raids, Norma was the voice and face of those left behind. She has a long thick rope of black hair and a wide face with upwards slanting eyes. She spoke at a few rallies through translators. When she spoke, her eyes were full of tears and her voice wobbled insecurely.
Norma's husband and brothers provide for Norma's kids. During the two weeks while she waited to see her family again, Santa Rosa de Lima helped her financially. JUNTA for Progressive Action donated food to Norma and other families in her situation. Her oldest son kept asking when everyone would come home. Sedeno kept asking herself and anyone who would listen, "Why my house?"
The day after the raid, Vara was transferred to Boston, where she met Damiana Reyes, a Dominican who was picked up while working at Chick's in West Haven. Reyes' sister Antonia and her husband have green cards. Her husband had already filled out the paperwork to apply for Reyes' green card when she got picked up. They have children in the Dominican Republic whom they'd like to bring here too.
Reyes and Vara spent a lot of time together in Boston. "We were going through the same thing," says Vara.
Vara had two jobs before the raids, but she lost both of them. She secured a low-paying job after she got out, but she's looking for a part-time job to complement that, or a better paying full-time job.
Reyes' bond was reduced from $15,000 to $1,500 and Vara's to $3,500. "But I only have $4,000 saved up, total," says Vara.
José Efraín Solano Yangua
José Efraín Solano Yangua, 26, was the first of 15 accused-undocumented immigrants to appear before a federal immigration judge June 14 in Hartford. Pro bono lawyers from Yale representing the group painted a picture of Solano Yangua for the judge.
Solano Yangua moved to New Haven in 2000, and since 2003 he's paid taxes to the federal government. Many immigrants who'd like to be naturalized are told they should pay taxes in case a future law requires them to show proof of time spent here. Paying taxes would prove that; it would also show the immigrant is devoted to the United States.
Solano Yangua has had no prior contact with immigration officials, lawyers told the judge. He owns a car, has a bank account and he takes English classes at Springs Learning Center. He's been with the same employer since he moved to New Haven.
He has close cropped hair and he was clean shaven for his day in court.
Lawyers told the judge that Solano Yangua has a brother, Edison Fernando Yangua Calva, who was also picked up in the June 6 raids. The two are the sole source of income for their diabetic father and four younger brothers in Ecuador. Their mother is dead.
The immigration agents found a Michigan driver's license at Solano Yangua's home. Does that mean he's mobile, or a flight risk, or he's not interested in staying in Connecticut?, the judge wanted to know. Solano Yangua works in landscaping—a seasonal job, explained lawyers. From November 2003 to March 2004 he went to Michigan to look for winter work. At that time Michigan allowed undocumented residents to get a driver's license. He took advantage of the opportunity.
The following week in court, both of the brothers' bonds were set at $6,000.
Eduardo Diaz Bernal
Eduardo Díaz Bernal, 39, is a short and stocky man with puffy cheeks and closely cropped hair spiked with gel. His mouth is framed by a thin mustache and a small triangular soul patch.
Díaz Bernal has been living in Fair Haven for six years. He has cousins here, but he's not very close with them. They see each other a few times a month and go to church together at Santa Rosa de Lima, but that's it. Otherwise, he's alone.
Díaz Bernal lives with friends, but they're not very close: He's not even sure where they work. But they cook together, and Díaz Bernal and roommate Diego are regularly trying to convince their other roommate Washington Colala to eat foods laced with chiles. Colala would rather just eat rice, says Díaz Bernal with a shake of his head.
The three single men have been learning to cook. They're experimenting. That's what men do, Díaz Bernal says, when they're on their own. Díaz Bernal is divorced and it clearly pains him to think about it. He and his wife were married 13 years and together they have two daughters, 11 and 18. But the woman remarried quickly and she's had several other children since.
Instead of dwelling on family, Díaz Bernal focuses on cars. He works at a motorcycle store on the shoreline. He's been there for two years, and beforehand he worked in a car wash. He's gone through four cars in his six years here. Recently a friend borrowed his car, got into an accident, and never paid anything for wrecking his car.
Díaz Bernal's thinking about getting a new car—it would make the 40-minute bus ride to his job easier—but he doesn't want to dole out that kind of cash if he'll end up deported. "I don't know what's waiting for me," he says.
On June 6 around 6 a.m., Díaz Bernal was in the bathroom about to take a shower. He heard the doorbell ringing a lot but thought nothing of it. Then someone was persistently knocking on the bathroom door. Strangers were calling his name in a gringo accent. "I came out of the bathroom and they were already in the house. They said they were federal immigration agents. I was in my pajamas and flip-flops and they wouldn't let me change my clothes. They handcuffed me, and then I saw Washington sitting on the floor handcuffed too," he says.
The agents wanted to know where Diego was, but he had already gone to work. They wanted to know where he worked and Díaz Bernal told them he didn't know. He was taken to a private jail in Rhode Island and was held there for two weeks. His bond was reduced to $1,500. Father James Manship of Santa Rosa de Lima church paid the bond and Díaz Bernal says he's working to pay it back.
"I'm not a bad man. I just work," he says. "If I've done something wrong and the police come for me, I deserve it. But, is it wrong to work? I've always wanted to work. If you're not working, you're not doing anything."
Díaz Bernal spent two weeks looking over his shoulder after getting out of jail. He says he's paranoid and worried. Several police officers are regular customers where he works. He used to hang around and chat when the officers came in, but now Díaz Bernal hides when they come to the shop.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
In the early morning hours of June 6, white vans carrying federal immigration officers crept into New Haven. They swept through Fair Haven, the city's predominantly Latino neighborhood, barging into homes and stopping people on the street. Anyone who didn't have the proper immigration papers was arrested. In all, 32 were taken. In many cases, according to witnesses, the federal agents didn't identify themselves and didn't explain what was happening.
Fear gripped the neighborhood. Children were left at school because parents were afraid to leave their homes to pick up their kids. The Latino advocacy organization JUNTA for Progressive Action delivered food to homes because undocumented immigrants were too terrified to go to the grocery store.
Across the country immigration raids are in a stepped-up mode. President Bush announced on August 10 that the number of teams conducting these raids has grown from 15 in 2005 to 68 as of last week. By September's end there will be 75. The federal government will also begin to send warning letters to employers who have several workers with Social Security numbers that don't match their names. They'll also be raising fines for those employers.
In June, New Haven Mayor John DeStefano lambasted the federal government for the way the raids were carried out. He called the arrests retaliation for New Haven's confirming that week that the city would be offering municipal ID cards to all city residents, including undocumented immigrants.
The ID cards and the raids have put New Haven at the center of the national immigration debate, and the 32 detainees have become a symbol of a failed federal immigration policy. The Advocate sought out the detainees and their families to better understand their situations and the how their arrest and confinement has changed their lives. What follows are the stories of 10 people arrested that day, gleaned from interviews conducted during the two months since the raids.
Koikoi Guilavogui
Koikoi Guilavogui's wife will probably give birth to a baby girl while he is in jail. Wendy Guilavogui, a nurse, met her husband, who is a nurse's aide, through work. When she found out their birthdays are one day apart—they were both born in 1978—Wendy gave Koi her phone number and suggested they celebrate together.
That was in February 2004. Instead of waiting until their March birthdays, Koi called that day after his shift. Wendy already had two kids and was going through a divorce, so she was hesitant to get into a relationship. But they did, and in 2006 they had a son, Jayden, and got married.
Koi is from Guinea. Two of his sisters live in Connecticut and have political asylum here. When Koi first arrived in the United States, in 2002, he went to Baltimore and stayed with family. He applied for asylum there, then moved to Connecticut to be near his sisters. His asylum case was rejected and he appealed.
In Guinea, Koi's uncle had formed a pro-democracy organization that was brutally repressed. His uncle was assassinated and his family was persecuted. If Koi returns to Guinea, he'll be targeted.
After Koi and Wendy were married in December 2006, the couple filed papers to change Koi's immigration status. She filed a petition for alien relative and he filed an application to adjust status. "We were told the paperwork was pending," says Wendy.
So the couple was shocked and confused on June 6 when they were awoken by immigration officials. Around 8:30 a.m. there was a loud knocking on the door. From the bedroom, Wendy heard someone yell, "Police!" They entered the bedroom and told her to get out of bed, but to leave Jayden behind in the room.
The officers asked for Koi's ID, and he looked through his wallet. All he had was an expired international driver's license. Then they took him away.
Koi has no criminal history, but he did have a deportation order, which means he is not eligible for bond. After working the phones for two days, Wendy found out her husband was being held in Massachusetts. She can talk to him on the phone, but he can only call collect or use a phone card. Wendy mails him money orders to buy phone cards, because she is not allowed to mail him the cards. She makes the two-hour drive twice a week for his one-hour visiting session. Wendy and Koi sit on opposite sides of a plexi-glass window and speak via phones.
When Wendy takes Jayden to visit his dad, the boy sits on her lap and says into the phone, "I lub you, daddy. I mizz you."
Since the raids, Jayden has been acting out. "He never gave me problems before," says Wendy. But Jayden's tantrums aren't her only worry.
Wendy works the night shift and her sister takes care of the kids while she works. But she can't get anyone to sit when she has to sleep, so she gets exhausted and cranky. The household income is half of what it used to be, so Wendy's been eating at her parents' home in Stratford to save money.
Because she's going to have a C-section, she's not allowed to lift anything heavier than the baby—which will make carrying the family's laundry to the laundromat difficult. Paying bills will be harder, too, because she'll be bedridden for six to eight weeks after surgery and giving birth.
Wendy's scheduled her C-section for the last possible date, August 24, in the hope that by then her husband will be home.
Koi's job allowed Wendy to work part-time and continue studying to become a nurse. But with the loss of his income and support, she's considering reapplying for welfare. She's worried about losing her two-bedroom apartment and a van that she's almost paid off.
If Koi is deported, Wendy wants to follow—she wants to be with her husband and she can't afford to raise her children here without him. But Guinea has the world's highest rate of female genital mutilation. If the Guilavoguis don't allow their six-year-old daughter, Jackie, to be mutilated, they'd be ostracized. Wendy has filed suit against Secretary of Homeland Security Michael Chertoff, Attorney General Alberto Gonzales and the Bureau of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS). If the deportation occurs, the suit argues, Koi will "face violent persecution and crippling social isolation."
Gerardo and Silvino Trujillo
Cousins Gerardo and Silvino Trujillo stick together. They live together and work together. Gerardo, 21, has been in New Haven for six years; Silvino, 24, for seven.
They have an aunt and a cousin here but don't see them very often.
The only job the cousins had until they were arrested was at a Hamden bakery. They lost their jobs after spending two weeks in jail following the raid.
That's understandable, says Silvino, because it was a small bakery. The two had to hustle to find new jobs. They're still working with their hands, though; instead of kneading bread, they wield hammers working construction jobs. They took the jobs without even asking what they pay was—they were that desperate and trusting.
They cousins say they're scared to go out anymore, but they work long hours so they're too tired to do much else except sleep and watch TV.
Silvino and Gerardo are like yin and yang. Silvino talks a lot; he's animated and his face often breaks into a wide grin. His ears are pierced and he seems relaxed, comfortable with himself.
Gerardo depends on his older cousin to speak for him and needs a little prodding before he'll lift his head and open his mouth. He's shy and loathe to make eye contact.
On the day they were arrested, Silvino had been working the night shift at the bakery and left around 4 a.m. "I had just fallen asleep when around 6:45 they came into my bedroom and woke me up by turning on the lights," he says. "I was really confused, ya know, because I wasn't awake. They asked me what my name was and then they grabbed and handcuffed me. We were asking, 'What's happening?' But they didn't say anything."
The immigration agents did not ID themselves. They didn't explain what was going on and they didn't tell the cousins where they'd be taken. Silvino and Gerardo were loaded into a windowless van with eight others. "We were scared," admits Silvino. The others were scared and confused, too.
"I thought there must have been an error because I know I didn't do anything wrong," says Silvino.
"I was really scared and I couldn't figure out why they were arresting me," says Gerardo. In jail, "I couldn't sleep. You can't sleep worrying about what's going to happen to you."
No one who had been arrested understood what was happening. "I called my aunt and I was asking, 'What's going to happen to us?'" says Silvino. "I thought maybe she would have some information, but she was really scared and I ended up calming her down. She didn't have any answers for me and we couldn't talk long anyway," because phone calls were expensive.
When they heard about the rallies and protests in New Haven in the days following the raids, the cousins say they were happy to know people were supporting them.
"That helped a lot," says Gerardo. "It made us feel less alone."
But they say, "We don't leave the house unless it's to work. We're very tired, but we're also nervous," explains Silvino. "You're not the same person after spending time in jail. It's just not the same anymore. It changes you knowing that one day you can wake up and be sent to jail. Maybe in a little while I won't be so scared anymore."
Orlando Rodriguez Casetelan
Orlando Rodriguez Castelan, 25, has only been in the New Haven area for five months. He has a wide, round face with soft features. He keeps his mustache neatly trimmed and he has a tiny mole between his eyebrows. He's shy and quiet, but quick to smile. He's a mechanic, and he's got black grease-rimmed fingernails to prove it. His hands are covered in a constellation of scars and scabs that he gets from working on expensive cars at a body shop.
He spends his days under the hood of cars like Ferraris and Lamborghinis. He began working with cars at the tender age of 10 and fell in love with them, although he doesn't own a car himself.
Instead, Rodriguez Castelan rides the bus to work. On Monday, June 11, he was waiting for the bus in the morning when a car pulled up in front of him. Rodriguez Castelan noticed the passenger was talking on his cell phone. The bus would arrive in less than five minutes.
Rodriguez Castelan waited patiently, not paying much attention to the car in front of him. As the bus pulled up, the passenger hung up his cell phone, got out of the car and approached Rodriguez Castelan. "Do you speak English?" he asked. "Do you speak Spanish?" he asked next. Yes, said Rodriguez Castelan. The man grabbed Rodriguez Castelan's wrists, handcuffed him and shoved him into the back of the car.
"What's going on?" asked Rodriguez Castelan. "I'm the police," responded the man in civilian clothes.
Rodriguez Castelan keeps to himself. He lives with his brother-in-law and his nephew, but they rarely see each other because of their different work schedules. When Rodriguez Castelan was taken to jail, he met others in his situation and became fast friends with Amilcar Soto Velasquez.
They speculated on whether they would ever get out of jail, what their families were doing or talking about. They gave each other hope. "I thought I'd never get out," says Rodriguez Castelan.
Amilcar Soto Velasquez
Amilcar Soto Velasquez has been in New Haven for five of his 22 years. Most of his family is in Florida, he says, but a friend brought him to Connecticut.
As a landscaper, Soto Velasquez practically has the winters off: He works one or two days a week, if at all. But he just shrugs his shoulders when I ask what he does during all that free time. After a while, he says he likes soccer, but he doesn't play during the winter. During the summer he makes up for time off by working long hours six days a week and sometimes on Sundays.
Soto Velasquez is a man of few words, but when he does speak it's rapid-fire. He spits his words out quickly; they trip over each other in an avalanche of sentences. He has an angular face with wisps of a mustache stretching towards his lips.
Soto Valasquez says his bosses didn't mind that he was absent two weeks after getting arrested because he has been a reliable employee for four years. Immigration officials didn't come to his house; they showed up at Teresa Vara's house, where he was visiting and staying the night. Vara and Soto Velasquez are dating.
There were several people in the house, and Teresa's friend Norma Sedeno was the only one who wasn't arrested. The immigration agents allowed Norma to stay behind so that she could take care of the children, Norma says.
"I was extremely worried the first few days in jail," says Soto Velasquez. "I thought I'd be deported without the money for my bond." Friends ended up loaning him the $7,000 he needed to get home.
Teresa Vara
Teresa Vara, 32, has no family in New Haven. Instead, she lives with a woman who has lots of family, Norma Sedeno, 27, who has two brothers, a cousin, a husband and three children.
There were seven adults in Vara and Sedeno's home (Amilcar Soto Velasquez was visiting), none of whom speak English, when the raids occurred. "When ICE (Immigrations Customs and Enforcement) came in we thought they were police," remembers Vara. "They came in without saying anything or identifying themselves."
Vara speaks rapidly and confidently. Words aren't enough for her: She waves her arm, shakes her head and scrunches up her face to make a point. Vara's quick to laugh and quick to cry. Its easy to assume that being arrested for the first time and being separated from the few people she knows in Connecticut has pushed her to emotional extremes.
When Vara saw ICE that morning, she was in her pajamas and wearing flip-flops. She wanted to use the bathroom. They didn't let her change and they didn't let her go to the bathroom.
"There's one person in our house who speaks a little English, and I said to him, 'Ask them what they want.' But they didn't tell us anything," says Vara.
All the men were handcuffed and the immigration agents asked the women if they had kids. "I don't have any kids here, so they handcuffed me and took me off," she says. It was two or three hours before Vara was allowed to use the restroom.
Norma Sedeno was left alone with her three children and a part-time job. Her normally bustling home was quiet. Her brothers Luis and Cirilo and her husband Apolinar had all been arrested. Luis, who has deep dimples, has been in New Haven since 1999. Cirilo was the first family member to arrive in New Haven.
Shortly after the raids, Norma was the voice and face of those left behind. She has a long thick rope of black hair and a wide face with upwards slanting eyes. She spoke at a few rallies through translators. When she spoke, her eyes were full of tears and her voice wobbled insecurely.
Norma's husband and brothers provide for Norma's kids. During the two weeks while she waited to see her family again, Santa Rosa de Lima helped her financially. JUNTA for Progressive Action donated food to Norma and other families in her situation. Her oldest son kept asking when everyone would come home. Sedeno kept asking herself and anyone who would listen, "Why my house?"
The day after the raid, Vara was transferred to Boston, where she met Damiana Reyes, a Dominican who was picked up while working at Chick's in West Haven. Reyes' sister Antonia and her husband have green cards. Her husband had already filled out the paperwork to apply for Reyes' green card when she got picked up. They have children in the Dominican Republic whom they'd like to bring here too.
Reyes and Vara spent a lot of time together in Boston. "We were going through the same thing," says Vara.
Vara had two jobs before the raids, but she lost both of them. She secured a low-paying job after she got out, but she's looking for a part-time job to complement that, or a better paying full-time job.
Reyes' bond was reduced from $15,000 to $1,500 and Vara's to $3,500. "But I only have $4,000 saved up, total," says Vara.
José Efraín Solano Yangua
José Efraín Solano Yangua, 26, was the first of 15 accused-undocumented immigrants to appear before a federal immigration judge June 14 in Hartford. Pro bono lawyers from Yale representing the group painted a picture of Solano Yangua for the judge.
Solano Yangua moved to New Haven in 2000, and since 2003 he's paid taxes to the federal government. Many immigrants who'd like to be naturalized are told they should pay taxes in case a future law requires them to show proof of time spent here. Paying taxes would prove that; it would also show the immigrant is devoted to the United States.
Solano Yangua has had no prior contact with immigration officials, lawyers told the judge. He owns a car, has a bank account and he takes English classes at Springs Learning Center. He's been with the same employer since he moved to New Haven.
He has close cropped hair and he was clean shaven for his day in court.
Lawyers told the judge that Solano Yangua has a brother, Edison Fernando Yangua Calva, who was also picked up in the June 6 raids. The two are the sole source of income for their diabetic father and four younger brothers in Ecuador. Their mother is dead.
The immigration agents found a Michigan driver's license at Solano Yangua's home. Does that mean he's mobile, or a flight risk, or he's not interested in staying in Connecticut?, the judge wanted to know. Solano Yangua works in landscaping—a seasonal job, explained lawyers. From November 2003 to March 2004 he went to Michigan to look for winter work. At that time Michigan allowed undocumented residents to get a driver's license. He took advantage of the opportunity.
The following week in court, both of the brothers' bonds were set at $6,000.
Eduardo Diaz Bernal
Eduardo Díaz Bernal, 39, is a short and stocky man with puffy cheeks and closely cropped hair spiked with gel. His mouth is framed by a thin mustache and a small triangular soul patch.
Díaz Bernal has been living in Fair Haven for six years. He has cousins here, but he's not very close with them. They see each other a few times a month and go to church together at Santa Rosa de Lima, but that's it. Otherwise, he's alone.
Díaz Bernal lives with friends, but they're not very close: He's not even sure where they work. But they cook together, and Díaz Bernal and roommate Diego are regularly trying to convince their other roommate Washington Colala to eat foods laced with chiles. Colala would rather just eat rice, says Díaz Bernal with a shake of his head.
The three single men have been learning to cook. They're experimenting. That's what men do, Díaz Bernal says, when they're on their own. Díaz Bernal is divorced and it clearly pains him to think about it. He and his wife were married 13 years and together they have two daughters, 11 and 18. But the woman remarried quickly and she's had several other children since.
Instead of dwelling on family, Díaz Bernal focuses on cars. He works at a motorcycle store on the shoreline. He's been there for two years, and beforehand he worked in a car wash. He's gone through four cars in his six years here. Recently a friend borrowed his car, got into an accident, and never paid anything for wrecking his car.
Díaz Bernal's thinking about getting a new car—it would make the 40-minute bus ride to his job easier—but he doesn't want to dole out that kind of cash if he'll end up deported. "I don't know what's waiting for me," he says.
On June 6 around 6 a.m., Díaz Bernal was in the bathroom about to take a shower. He heard the doorbell ringing a lot but thought nothing of it. Then someone was persistently knocking on the bathroom door. Strangers were calling his name in a gringo accent. "I came out of the bathroom and they were already in the house. They said they were federal immigration agents. I was in my pajamas and flip-flops and they wouldn't let me change my clothes. They handcuffed me, and then I saw Washington sitting on the floor handcuffed too," he says.
The agents wanted to know where Diego was, but he had already gone to work. They wanted to know where he worked and Díaz Bernal told them he didn't know. He was taken to a private jail in Rhode Island and was held there for two weeks. His bond was reduced to $1,500. Father James Manship of Santa Rosa de Lima church paid the bond and Díaz Bernal says he's working to pay it back.
"I'm not a bad man. I just work," he says. "If I've done something wrong and the police come for me, I deserve it. But, is it wrong to work? I've always wanted to work. If you're not working, you're not doing anything."
Díaz Bernal spent two weeks looking over his shoulder after getting out of jail. He says he's paranoid and worried. Several police officers are regular customers where he works. He used to hang around and chat when the officers came in, but now Díaz Bernal hides when they come to the shop.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The IDs of August
Will immigrants be scared away from New Haven's city ID cards?
August 02, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
Southern Connecticut Immigration Reform, the anti-immgrant group of suburbanites leading the crusade against New Haven's Elm City Resident Cards, is demanding the city reveal the names of those who apply for them, and has filed public records requests for the information.
So what will they do with the names once they have them? Well, they're not really sure.
SCtIR organizer Dustin Gold of Northford (that's North Branford, where undocumented immigrants are still living in the shadows) says, "We're just trying to show that if we can get it, other people can get it."
Although the wait at City Hall for the cards is several hours long, there's some evidence the fear campaign is scaring at least a few people.
Eduardo, from Mexico, says he'd like a card but he's hesitant. "Like my friends say, the mayor is trying to help us [by issuing these cards] but it could be good or it could be a bad thing," he says.
At JUNTA for Progressive Action, Eduardo spoke with John Jairo Lugo, director of Unidad Latina en Acción, about his fears regarding the card. By buying a card, Eduardo worries that immigration officials would know where he lives. What could happen to him, he wanted to know, if he filled out an application and handed over his personal information to the city?
The immigrant community was shaken to the core after federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents raided Fair Haven and arrested 30 undocumented immigrants on June 6, the day after the city ID cards were approved.
Lugo showed Eduardo the card application and explained there is nothing on the card to indicate immigration status or nationality. "[With a Spanish name] You could be Puerto Rican, you could be Mexican-American born here or you could be an immigrant. They don't know," Lugo said.
So Eduardo filled out an application.
New Haven Mayor John DeStefano's office has received at least three public records requests from SCtIR, says Kathleen Foster, assistant corporation counsel. Kica Matos, whose office is handling the cards, and lawyers with the Yale Law Clinic are reviewing the requests.
But the information SCtIR is seeking is just an extremely long list of names, addresses and birthdates. They won't know who's an undocumented immigrant and who's not. And that's the point: The city's new ID cards are supposed to make people safer by allowing them to open bank accounts and prove who they are to police or other officials when necessary, not to spotlight their immigration status.
August 02, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
Southern Connecticut Immigration Reform, the anti-immgrant group of suburbanites leading the crusade against New Haven's Elm City Resident Cards, is demanding the city reveal the names of those who apply for them, and has filed public records requests for the information.
So what will they do with the names once they have them? Well, they're not really sure.
SCtIR organizer Dustin Gold of Northford (that's North Branford, where undocumented immigrants are still living in the shadows) says, "We're just trying to show that if we can get it, other people can get it."
Although the wait at City Hall for the cards is several hours long, there's some evidence the fear campaign is scaring at least a few people.
Eduardo, from Mexico, says he'd like a card but he's hesitant. "Like my friends say, the mayor is trying to help us [by issuing these cards] but it could be good or it could be a bad thing," he says.
At JUNTA for Progressive Action, Eduardo spoke with John Jairo Lugo, director of Unidad Latina en Acción, about his fears regarding the card. By buying a card, Eduardo worries that immigration officials would know where he lives. What could happen to him, he wanted to know, if he filled out an application and handed over his personal information to the city?
The immigrant community was shaken to the core after federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents raided Fair Haven and arrested 30 undocumented immigrants on June 6, the day after the city ID cards were approved.
Lugo showed Eduardo the card application and explained there is nothing on the card to indicate immigration status or nationality. "[With a Spanish name] You could be Puerto Rican, you could be Mexican-American born here or you could be an immigrant. They don't know," Lugo said.
So Eduardo filled out an application.
New Haven Mayor John DeStefano's office has received at least three public records requests from SCtIR, says Kathleen Foster, assistant corporation counsel. Kica Matos, whose office is handling the cards, and lawyers with the Yale Law Clinic are reviewing the requests.
But the information SCtIR is seeking is just an extremely long list of names, addresses and birthdates. They won't know who's an undocumented immigrant and who's not. And that's the point: The city's new ID cards are supposed to make people safer by allowing them to open bank accounts and prove who they are to police or other officials when necessary, not to spotlight their immigration status.
Losing Control: Bringing Maydelle Home
Maydelle Trambarulo's expected 30 to 60 stay in Connecticut has lasted over three years. August 02, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
Maydelle Trambarulo's family has spent the last three years fighting to free the elderly New Jersey woman from Connecticut.
Maydelle is 76 years old and suffers from dementia and Parkinson's disease. Ralph, her husband of nearly 52 years, lives in New Jersey. The Connecticut probate court system has essentially divorced the two by dividing their finances and not allowing Maydelle to go home. Her grandchildren think she's been kidnapped by the courts and her husband thinks she's dead. Maydelle thinks she's being punished. Ralph is 80, and is too ill to travel the five hours it takes to come visit her.
Maydelle's problems started after she fell and broke her hip in 2004. Ralph and Maydelle had recently moved from New Jersey to Delaware to be near their son, Paul. Visiting nurses helped the aging couple. So did Paul and his partner Brian Pincin, who lived just six blocks away. Ralph and Maydelle had lived in a large two-story New Jersey home for 47 years. Their four children worried about their safety, so the couple downsized and moved closer to family.
Teresa Sirico, an East Haven realtor and Ralph's niece, visited them in their new Delaware home after several years of no contact. The Trambarulo family had gathered to celebrate Maydelle's August birthday and help out after she broke her hip.
Sirico told the Trambarulos that Maydelle should go to Connecticut with her to get care from Yale doctors. The family says Sirico told them she would take Maydelle to Connecticut for 30 to 60 days and then return her to her Delaware home. Maydelle was only semi-lucid; she didn't fully understand what was going on. But after some discussion, the family agreed the trip would be a good idea and helped their mother grant Sirico power of attorney over Maydelle.
"That sounded good, we wanted the best for her," says Alice Wright, Maydelle's daughter, in a phone interview from her Florida home.
But three years later Maydelle is still in Connecticut. She missed her husband's 80th birthday. She missed their 50th wedding anniversary. She's missed her grandchildren's birthdays and several graduations. She doesn't understand why her family has to keep coming to Connecticut to fight Sirico and the Probate Court system to bring her home to New Jersey.
Maydelle was brought to Connecticut in August 2004 but was never taken to Yale as Sirico proposed. Instead, she was deposited at an assisted living facility in Woodbridge, and in 2006 she was transferred to Mariner's Point in East Haven after a brief stay in Derby. When she did have hip surgery it was at the Hospital of St. Raphael with a doctor who works both at Yale and St. Raphael. On Sept. 15, 2004, Sirico filed for conservatorship over Maydelle.
There are now two lawsuits going on to bring Maydelle home. There is an appeal at the Superior Court in which her family says Connecticut has no jurisdiction over a New Jersey woman. And there is a motion in the Probate Court to overturn the conservatorship and return Maydelle to her family.
In Superior Court last month, Sirico testified that she notified Maydelle's family of what she was doing. The family gasped and called her a liar. The judge told them to quiet down.
Maydelle's oldest daughter, Anne Haines, says she received notice of the application two days after Sirico filed it.
In 2004, control of Maydelle and her finances was handed over to attorney Mark Dellavalle, who specializes in foreclosures and car accidents. In granting conservatorship to Dellavalle, the judge divided the elderly couple's assets, worth upwards of $1 million, as if they were divorced—Ralph only has access to half of their money, while the other half is being spent by Maydelle's lawyers.
When Ralph decided he wanted to return to New Jersey and buy a home, he had to take out a mortgage.
Dellavalle charges Maydelle $200 an hour for his services. Maydelle also has a court-appointed attorney, Paul Whitaker (who also specializes in foreclosures), and a guardian ad litem, Robyn Berke, a Bridgeport attorney who is supposed to tell the judge what is best for Maydelle. They're also being paid by Maydelle.
All medical and financial decisions concerning Maydelle are made by Dellavalle, with input from Whitaker, Berke and Sirico.
"How can these perfect strangers know what's best for our mother?" asks Haines, the eldest of Ralph and Maydelle's three daughters. "It seems to us to be a tremendous conflict of interest. Is it what's best for my mother or what's best for their checkbook? They're getting paid. If she leaves Connecticut, that's the end of their gravy train."
For the 18 months between Nov. 10, 2004 and May 5, 2006, Dellavalle charged Maydelle $48,555. Maydelle's husband and her four children are fighting their mother's lawyers in court to bring her home. Maydelle's money is paying the lawyers who keep her here.
Maydelle needs help dressing, washing and with personal hygiene. She's depressed and confused. She's told Sirico and her lawyers she wants to stay in Connecticut. But she cries to her children that she wants to go home. "Every time I talk to her she says 'Why am I being punished? Why am I in prison?'" says daughter Alice Wright.
"Every time we're visiting she'll say 'I'm ready, let's go.' We have to say, 'Mom, we're working on it.' She doesn't understand why she just can't go home to New Jersey," says Wright.
"The key question from our point of view is, what does the woman want? And what kind of care is she getting?," says Judge James Lawlor, the state's Probate Court administrator. "I was satisfied that her wishes were being respected and her care is good. I certainly wouldn't ship the woman off to New Jersey just because someone else wants her there."
After hearing both sides' arguments on Monday, New Haven Probate Judge Jack Keyes says he will visit Maydelle to ask her himself what she wants. But Maydelle does not like probing questions from strangers. Maydelle is warm and sweet with family members. She smiles, laughs and make jokes. But when I visited her she fielded questions from strangers with a "Why do you ask?" instead of an answer.
Theoretically it doesn't matter what Maydelle says, because legally she is considered incompetent. Her lawyers are supposed to do what she wants and what is best for her. Yet how much weight can a lawyer give to statements made by someone who's legally incompetent? Maydelle could say she wants to live on Mars for all the law cares.
There's another legal conundrum here—a vagueness to the current law that allows cases like Maydelle's to go forward. A conservatorship is supposed to be filed in the district in which the conservee, or ward, resides or has domicile. A domicile, legally speaking, is a permanent place of residence. In Maydelle's case, that would be New Jersey, where she lived at the same address for 47 years. A residence is merely where you are living currently. Sirico filed for conservatorship in Woodbridge, where Maydelle had been for less than a month.
Is Maydelle a Connecticut resident? Her family certainly doesn't think so.
The changes to the conservatorship laws might rectify this. Starting in October, when a conservatorship is placed on someone whose domicile is not in Connecticut, the conservatorship must be reviewed every 60 days. It must be canceled if the person hasn't had an opportunity to return home. Maydelle hasn't been given that option yet.
Two of Ralph and Maydelle's children live in New Jersey and two are in Florida. On a good day, it's a five hour drive from the Haines' New Jersey home to their mother's new East Haven residence. Wright and brother Paul fly from Florida when there's a court date. The families rent cars to travel between their mother and their father and pay for hotels in Connecticut.
"This has probably cost our family $250,000" in travel costs and lawyer's fees, estimates Haines.
Sirico was reached by phone but would not agree to be interviewed. Her only comment was: "What I've done is what's in the best interest of my aunt. The court record speaks for itself."
In court, Sirico said she rescued Maydelle from a "despicable" household. Sirico visits Maydelle once a day, sometimes more. She takes her to doctors' appointments and to water therapy.
This isn't the first time Sirico has applied for conservatorship over someone.
Court records show that in 1996, Sirico applied for conservatorship over her mentor, Fred Devita, after he had a stroke. She was denied, but she did get power of attorney. Sirico had worked for Devita until he invited his daughter Mary to work full-time in his realty office. Mary and Sirico did not get along, so Devita asked Sirico to leave. Devita's wife and his other daughters also did not get along with Sirico, according to court documents.
After Devita had a stroke, Sirico began showing up at the hospital and also at the family home. Sirico began to manage Devita's rental properties. She also took him grocery shopping, to doctors' appointments and to water therapy.
In court testimony, family friend and attorney Frank Grazioso says Sirico told him Devita's daughters were neglectful and didn't want to be involved.
But the three daughters took care of their ailing mother who had Alzheimer's and cancer. Daughter Mary even had her mother move in with her. After her mother moved, the locks on the family home were changed.
According to court documents, Grazioso, who was friends with Devita for 45 years, says Devita told him Sirico "was doing this as a favor. It was one of his justifications to me for having her do it. This isn't going to cost the girls anything."
Mary testified she once heard Sirico telling her father's therapist that he didn't want to see his children until after an upcoming court date. "He doesn't want his kids visiting," Mary says she overheard. She entered the living room where Devita, Sirico and the therapist were. "Is that true? Do you not want me here?" she asked her father. He said no, and then took her hand.
The daughters also say that Sirico told Devita that daughter Karen Connolly had poisoned him.
After Devita died Nov. 1, 1999, Sirico tried to remove Mary as the executor of her father's will. After a judge wouldn't let her, Sirico sent the family a bill for $25,000 for services she had provided Devita. The judge ruled in favor of Sirico.
Maydelle's family knows what happened between the Devita family and Sirico. They've talked to his daughters and they've read the court files. But they say they're not going to worry just yet about whether Sirico will sue. Right now they're concentrating on getting their mother back.
By Betsy Yagla
Maydelle Trambarulo's family has spent the last three years fighting to free the elderly New Jersey woman from Connecticut.
Maydelle is 76 years old and suffers from dementia and Parkinson's disease. Ralph, her husband of nearly 52 years, lives in New Jersey. The Connecticut probate court system has essentially divorced the two by dividing their finances and not allowing Maydelle to go home. Her grandchildren think she's been kidnapped by the courts and her husband thinks she's dead. Maydelle thinks she's being punished. Ralph is 80, and is too ill to travel the five hours it takes to come visit her.
Maydelle's problems started after she fell and broke her hip in 2004. Ralph and Maydelle had recently moved from New Jersey to Delaware to be near their son, Paul. Visiting nurses helped the aging couple. So did Paul and his partner Brian Pincin, who lived just six blocks away. Ralph and Maydelle had lived in a large two-story New Jersey home for 47 years. Their four children worried about their safety, so the couple downsized and moved closer to family.
Teresa Sirico, an East Haven realtor and Ralph's niece, visited them in their new Delaware home after several years of no contact. The Trambarulo family had gathered to celebrate Maydelle's August birthday and help out after she broke her hip.
Sirico told the Trambarulos that Maydelle should go to Connecticut with her to get care from Yale doctors. The family says Sirico told them she would take Maydelle to Connecticut for 30 to 60 days and then return her to her Delaware home. Maydelle was only semi-lucid; she didn't fully understand what was going on. But after some discussion, the family agreed the trip would be a good idea and helped their mother grant Sirico power of attorney over Maydelle.
"That sounded good, we wanted the best for her," says Alice Wright, Maydelle's daughter, in a phone interview from her Florida home.
But three years later Maydelle is still in Connecticut. She missed her husband's 80th birthday. She missed their 50th wedding anniversary. She's missed her grandchildren's birthdays and several graduations. She doesn't understand why her family has to keep coming to Connecticut to fight Sirico and the Probate Court system to bring her home to New Jersey.
Maydelle was brought to Connecticut in August 2004 but was never taken to Yale as Sirico proposed. Instead, she was deposited at an assisted living facility in Woodbridge, and in 2006 she was transferred to Mariner's Point in East Haven after a brief stay in Derby. When she did have hip surgery it was at the Hospital of St. Raphael with a doctor who works both at Yale and St. Raphael. On Sept. 15, 2004, Sirico filed for conservatorship over Maydelle.
There are now two lawsuits going on to bring Maydelle home. There is an appeal at the Superior Court in which her family says Connecticut has no jurisdiction over a New Jersey woman. And there is a motion in the Probate Court to overturn the conservatorship and return Maydelle to her family.
In Superior Court last month, Sirico testified that she notified Maydelle's family of what she was doing. The family gasped and called her a liar. The judge told them to quiet down.
Maydelle's oldest daughter, Anne Haines, says she received notice of the application two days after Sirico filed it.
In 2004, control of Maydelle and her finances was handed over to attorney Mark Dellavalle, who specializes in foreclosures and car accidents. In granting conservatorship to Dellavalle, the judge divided the elderly couple's assets, worth upwards of $1 million, as if they were divorced—Ralph only has access to half of their money, while the other half is being spent by Maydelle's lawyers.
When Ralph decided he wanted to return to New Jersey and buy a home, he had to take out a mortgage.
Dellavalle charges Maydelle $200 an hour for his services. Maydelle also has a court-appointed attorney, Paul Whitaker (who also specializes in foreclosures), and a guardian ad litem, Robyn Berke, a Bridgeport attorney who is supposed to tell the judge what is best for Maydelle. They're also being paid by Maydelle.
All medical and financial decisions concerning Maydelle are made by Dellavalle, with input from Whitaker, Berke and Sirico.
"How can these perfect strangers know what's best for our mother?" asks Haines, the eldest of Ralph and Maydelle's three daughters. "It seems to us to be a tremendous conflict of interest. Is it what's best for my mother or what's best for their checkbook? They're getting paid. If she leaves Connecticut, that's the end of their gravy train."
For the 18 months between Nov. 10, 2004 and May 5, 2006, Dellavalle charged Maydelle $48,555. Maydelle's husband and her four children are fighting their mother's lawyers in court to bring her home. Maydelle's money is paying the lawyers who keep her here.
Maydelle needs help dressing, washing and with personal hygiene. She's depressed and confused. She's told Sirico and her lawyers she wants to stay in Connecticut. But she cries to her children that she wants to go home. "Every time I talk to her she says 'Why am I being punished? Why am I in prison?'" says daughter Alice Wright.
"Every time we're visiting she'll say 'I'm ready, let's go.' We have to say, 'Mom, we're working on it.' She doesn't understand why she just can't go home to New Jersey," says Wright.
"The key question from our point of view is, what does the woman want? And what kind of care is she getting?," says Judge James Lawlor, the state's Probate Court administrator. "I was satisfied that her wishes were being respected and her care is good. I certainly wouldn't ship the woman off to New Jersey just because someone else wants her there."
After hearing both sides' arguments on Monday, New Haven Probate Judge Jack Keyes says he will visit Maydelle to ask her himself what she wants. But Maydelle does not like probing questions from strangers. Maydelle is warm and sweet with family members. She smiles, laughs and make jokes. But when I visited her she fielded questions from strangers with a "Why do you ask?" instead of an answer.
Theoretically it doesn't matter what Maydelle says, because legally she is considered incompetent. Her lawyers are supposed to do what she wants and what is best for her. Yet how much weight can a lawyer give to statements made by someone who's legally incompetent? Maydelle could say she wants to live on Mars for all the law cares.
There's another legal conundrum here—a vagueness to the current law that allows cases like Maydelle's to go forward. A conservatorship is supposed to be filed in the district in which the conservee, or ward, resides or has domicile. A domicile, legally speaking, is a permanent place of residence. In Maydelle's case, that would be New Jersey, where she lived at the same address for 47 years. A residence is merely where you are living currently. Sirico filed for conservatorship in Woodbridge, where Maydelle had been for less than a month.
Is Maydelle a Connecticut resident? Her family certainly doesn't think so.
The changes to the conservatorship laws might rectify this. Starting in October, when a conservatorship is placed on someone whose domicile is not in Connecticut, the conservatorship must be reviewed every 60 days. It must be canceled if the person hasn't had an opportunity to return home. Maydelle hasn't been given that option yet.
Two of Ralph and Maydelle's children live in New Jersey and two are in Florida. On a good day, it's a five hour drive from the Haines' New Jersey home to their mother's new East Haven residence. Wright and brother Paul fly from Florida when there's a court date. The families rent cars to travel between their mother and their father and pay for hotels in Connecticut.
"This has probably cost our family $250,000" in travel costs and lawyer's fees, estimates Haines.
Sirico was reached by phone but would not agree to be interviewed. Her only comment was: "What I've done is what's in the best interest of my aunt. The court record speaks for itself."
In court, Sirico said she rescued Maydelle from a "despicable" household. Sirico visits Maydelle once a day, sometimes more. She takes her to doctors' appointments and to water therapy.
This isn't the first time Sirico has applied for conservatorship over someone.
Court records show that in 1996, Sirico applied for conservatorship over her mentor, Fred Devita, after he had a stroke. She was denied, but she did get power of attorney. Sirico had worked for Devita until he invited his daughter Mary to work full-time in his realty office. Mary and Sirico did not get along, so Devita asked Sirico to leave. Devita's wife and his other daughters also did not get along with Sirico, according to court documents.
After Devita had a stroke, Sirico began showing up at the hospital and also at the family home. Sirico began to manage Devita's rental properties. She also took him grocery shopping, to doctors' appointments and to water therapy.
In court testimony, family friend and attorney Frank Grazioso says Sirico told him Devita's daughters were neglectful and didn't want to be involved.
But the three daughters took care of their ailing mother who had Alzheimer's and cancer. Daughter Mary even had her mother move in with her. After her mother moved, the locks on the family home were changed.
According to court documents, Grazioso, who was friends with Devita for 45 years, says Devita told him Sirico "was doing this as a favor. It was one of his justifications to me for having her do it. This isn't going to cost the girls anything."
Mary testified she once heard Sirico telling her father's therapist that he didn't want to see his children until after an upcoming court date. "He doesn't want his kids visiting," Mary says she overheard. She entered the living room where Devita, Sirico and the therapist were. "Is that true? Do you not want me here?" she asked her father. He said no, and then took her hand.
The daughters also say that Sirico told Devita that daughter Karen Connolly had poisoned him.
After Devita died Nov. 1, 1999, Sirico tried to remove Mary as the executor of her father's will. After a judge wouldn't let her, Sirico sent the family a bill for $25,000 for services she had provided Devita. The judge ruled in favor of Sirico.
Maydelle's family knows what happened between the Devita family and Sirico. They've talked to his daughters and they've read the court files. But they say they're not going to worry just yet about whether Sirico will sue. Right now they're concentrating on getting their mother back.
Shock and Flaw
Did New Haven police rush Tasers onto the streets before the kinks were ironed out? The answer might stun you.
July 26, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
It took nearly two years of bickering about whether or not the New Haven police should carry Tasers, and when and why they should use them, before 46 Taser-armed cops hit the streets on July 10. And just four days later, one was used.
Maybe things shouldn't have been so rushed.
The first use shows that City Hall and police brass still have some kinks to work out. Floyd Haywood, 22, was shocked with a Taser at 3 a.m. in front of 76 Day St. after he punched an officer. The aftermath of the first Taser use was nearly as chaotic as what lead up to it.
Haywood's been abusing the mother of his twins, according to police reports, and in June the two got into an argument that ended with Haywood punching her in the mouth. Police secured a warrant and found Haywood July 14 on Day Street. He started throwing punches at cops. No cop on scene had a Taser, so they called for backup. Officer Steve Silk arrived on scene and subdued Haywood with the stun gun.
At that point, fire personnel or American Medical Response technicians should have removed the Taser probes, according to the city's general order governing Taser use. It says, "qualified medical personnel, i.e. AMR/NHFD will remove any probes embedded in the skin."
But firefighters on scene wouldn't do it. They're not supposed to, says Pat Egan, the fire union president. Firefighters haven't been trained to remove probes. After a back-and-forth between police and firefighters, Haywood was sent to Yale-New Haven Hospital by ambulance.
Then another problem surfaced: No police supervisor on duty had been trained to download the Taser video automatically recorded by the machine. Police had to call in an off-duty training officer to download the video. The general order says the video must be downloaded by the end of the shift it was used on by either the chief, a certified instructor or a designated supervisor.
Overtime coming from the understaffed police department is already a problem: Between July 2006 and May 2007, more than $5 million was spent on police overtime. So why not train all supervisors on duty instead of paying overtime for someone to download and watch a Taser video at 3 a.m.? Assistant Police Chief Herman Badger says only a few people are approved to download to "maintain the integrity of the evidence." City taxpayers are footing the overtime bill for what seems like a lack of trust and organization in the police department. And that's shocking.
July 26, 2007
By Betsy Yagla
It took nearly two years of bickering about whether or not the New Haven police should carry Tasers, and when and why they should use them, before 46 Taser-armed cops hit the streets on July 10. And just four days later, one was used.
Maybe things shouldn't have been so rushed.
The first use shows that City Hall and police brass still have some kinks to work out. Floyd Haywood, 22, was shocked with a Taser at 3 a.m. in front of 76 Day St. after he punched an officer. The aftermath of the first Taser use was nearly as chaotic as what lead up to it.
Haywood's been abusing the mother of his twins, according to police reports, and in June the two got into an argument that ended with Haywood punching her in the mouth. Police secured a warrant and found Haywood July 14 on Day Street. He started throwing punches at cops. No cop on scene had a Taser, so they called for backup. Officer Steve Silk arrived on scene and subdued Haywood with the stun gun.
At that point, fire personnel or American Medical Response technicians should have removed the Taser probes, according to the city's general order governing Taser use. It says, "qualified medical personnel, i.e. AMR/NHFD will remove any probes embedded in the skin."
But firefighters on scene wouldn't do it. They're not supposed to, says Pat Egan, the fire union president. Firefighters haven't been trained to remove probes. After a back-and-forth between police and firefighters, Haywood was sent to Yale-New Haven Hospital by ambulance.
Then another problem surfaced: No police supervisor on duty had been trained to download the Taser video automatically recorded by the machine. Police had to call in an off-duty training officer to download the video. The general order says the video must be downloaded by the end of the shift it was used on by either the chief, a certified instructor or a designated supervisor.
Overtime coming from the understaffed police department is already a problem: Between July 2006 and May 2007, more than $5 million was spent on police overtime. So why not train all supervisors on duty instead of paying overtime for someone to download and watch a Taser video at 3 a.m.? Assistant Police Chief Herman Badger says only a few people are approved to download to "maintain the integrity of the evidence." City taxpayers are footing the overtime bill for what seems like a lack of trust and organization in the police department. And that's shocking.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)