In the Feldman’s Neighborhood, there’s an entire block on AdamsStreet lined with two-story stucco apartment buildings.
Welcome to Goodmanville—a historic neighborhood dotted withclusters of high-density student housing that many refer to asmini-dorms.
Michael Goodman says he’s demolished dozens of single-family homesto build new apartments as a way to address the UA’s need for morestudent housing. To him, Feldman’s Neighborhood is a perfect spot to doso; it’s north of campus, north Speedway Boulevard and east of StoneAvenue, a place where he’s invested in rental properties since theearly 1970s.
Neighbors say his student housing has come at a big price. They sayhe’s effectively destroyed parts of their neighborhood and has refusedto address neighborhood concerns—and has went so far as to filelawsuits against the city to defend his property rights.
Goodman first sued in 2006 after the city issued a stop-work orderon a seven-parcel development off Elm Street, between Third and Fourthavenues. Instead of looking at the project as a series of single-familyresidences, the city told Goodman that the project needed to beaddressed as one large development because of its size.
The court sided with the city, and the large stretch of propertyremains undeveloped and fenced off. Behind this vacant land, however,is a series of completed Goodman developments on Lee and Drachmanstreets, and then there’s that entire block on Adams Street. There’sonly one exception in that block, an owner-occupied house that standslike a lone sentry between two towering mini-dorms. (An owner of thathouse refused to comment.)
Litigation between Goodman and the city continues. He filed a secondlawsuit in 2007 regarding changes in Tucson’s demolition code whichcould have prevented Goodman from immediately tearing down properties.Goodman won that case, and the nonprofit Goldwater Institute agreed tohelp him with litigation to test the waters for the Private PropertyRights Protection Act, which voters passed as Proposition 207 inNovember 2006. The law requires governments to compensate landowners ifnew regulations decrease property values.
On Monday, Aug. 31, as the Tucson Weekly was getting ready tohead to press, the Goldwater Institute and Goodman were expected inPima County Superior Court to ask the court to force the city to payrestitution, because the demolition delay has cost Goodman thousands ofdollars.
And Tucson taxpayers can expect even more litigation from theGoldwater Institute. Lawyers with the conservative public-policyorganization say they plan to head back to court to challenge a designmanual that’s expected to go before the mayor and City Council forfinal approval in October.
Feldman’s Neighborhood Design Manual is a project that city plannershave worked on with residents and developers to find a solution thatwill allow developers to continue building while offering protectionsto homeowners who wish to protect the historic character of the area.Goodman and other developers were on the manual’s planning committee,but resigned as the project was completed, saying it didn’t offerdevelopers enough incentives and would make projects too costly.
At an Aug. 13 public hearing in front of zoning examiner PeterGavin, Goodman said the design manual violates his property rights andthat the city could face a $44 million lawsuit as a result of Prop 207.At the hearing, Goodman said he’s been developing student housing since1973 and now has 36 properties in Feldman’s, and another 15 in adjacentneighborhoods.
Goodman told Gavin that if the design manual is enacted, currentland owners will lose. Eighty percent of the neighborhood is made up ofrental properties, and many of the landlords aren’t aware of how themanual’s regulations will damage the value of their properties, hesaid.
When asked if the manual prevents him from developing his property,Goodman said it doesn’t, but that it would cost him more.
“The only way (the lots) are going to get redeveloped is you have tobe able to make a profit on them … At this time, the going rate forbedrooms in a nice place is about $700 a bedroom. I have rentals thatare $4,000 a month, $5,000 a month (per lot),” Goodman said at thehearing.
This is why his properties add value to the neighborhood: Investorscan earn more with student housing. The manual’s restrictions will takeaway from that value, and that’s why he anticipates another lawsuit, hesaid.
“I don’t know how the city is going to get around it,” he said.
Neighbors who complain that he is destroying historic property aremisguided, according to Goodman. The older adobe homes in theneighborhood are “not contributing to anything except the blight inthat area.
“Realistically, you have to acknowledge there are a certain numberof homes that are truly worth saving as good examples of historicdevelopment, but the majority of them are not.”
For more than 46 years, Canara Price has lived in one of those oldadobe homes. Price arrived with her husband in Tucson in the ’60s,bringing with her with a teaching degree, years of memories of growingup in the Mississippi Delta, and sons getting ready for high school andcollege.
She says she found herself right at home in the old adobe house, inthe middle of a close-knit neighborhood where everyone knew theirneighbors.
Back then, the streets surrounding her house were part of what manystill call Sugar Hill, a predominately African-American community thatgrew around rows of houses given to African-American veterans whoserved in World War II.
Price’s house is filled with decades of memories, including numerouspictures of her family and friends. On the top of a bookshelf is alarge black-and-white college-graduation portrait of her; it’s rightnext to her diploma, framed and prominently displayed.
Price laughs easily, and her eyes have a sparkle under herblack-framed glasses. Despite her graying hair and her slow, cane-aidedgait, Price doesn’t look like someone who is 96 years old.
“If I had to live over, I’d want the same parts, the same four sonsand the same husband,” Price says, beaming.
“Really, you’d do it all again, and not change anything?” asksneighbor Kathleen Williamson.
“Yes. That’s right,” Price answers.
She’d even pick the same house, she says, as she slowly walksthrough the master bedroom to step onto her back porch. Not long ago,like most of her neighbors, Price had a full, unobstructed view of theSanta Catalina Mountains. However, the view now includes a two-storyyellow stucco building with a garage on the bottom, a large balconyjetting from the top floor, and a green clay-tiled roof.
“I can live with this for a few years,” Price declares, joking abouther advanced age.
Her home will one day be inherited by her sons and grandchildren,who will have to make a decision about what to do with it. Williamson,who bought her house—across the street from Price’s home—in1991 when she was completing her doctorate at the UA, smiles at Price,but is quick to remind her to tell her family to talk to her beforethey think of selling to Goodman.
Price and Williamson settle into chairs near a piano that sits inthe room that once belonged to Price’s youngest son. Price looks overat Williamson, a local attorney and musician who has taken care ofPrice when she’s needed help around the house or company. Together,they talk about old neighbors who have passed away—so many overthe years that the neighborhood is no longer predominatelyAfrican-American.
The neighborhood was once mostly owner-occupied, but is now about 80percent renters. Williamson says she feels lucky that she bought herhouse while many of the aging African-American residents were stillalive. She forged a lot of friendships back then.
Price’s husband died in 1990. She says Williamson moved into theneighborhood at just the right moment. Williamson takes Price toparties where Williamson and her friends play music, even invitingPrice to join in on piano and sing.
“There’s a party at my friend Darwin’s tonight, and you’re invitedto come with me. Can I pick you up at 5?” Williamson asks herfriend.
They make plans, this tall, redheaded woman with a hint of a NewYork City accent, and this 96-year-old African-American woman raised inthe Mississippi Delta.
Williamson admits she wonders who will be around to offer her helpas she gets older. Worse, Williamson says, she wonders if she’ll wakeup one day to the sounds of a demolition next door.
“That’s how neighbors find out he’s building. The house sells, andthen a little later, without warning, it’s taken down,” shelaments.
Williamson’s house is her retirement pad. She’s only a few yearsaway from paying off her mortgage, but if her property ends upsurrounded by Goodman buildings, she’s certain it will have littlevalue as an owner-occupied house.
Price is more optimistic about Williamson’s future.
“You reap what you sow,” she says, smiling at Williamson.
Diana Lett, vice president of the Feldman’s Neighborhood Association,says she wonders the same things as Williamson. She and her partnerhave lived in their home for 22 years and regularly help out their85-year-old neighbor. She and other neighborhood-association membershave been walking a fine line: They’ve been trying to slow downGoodman, while at the same time encouraging him to look at other areasin the neighborhood that are vacant and along largearterials—perfect for the dense student housing he wants tobuild.
“Large-scale developers like Mike Goodman like to frame this storyas the old NIMBY neighbors against the university. That’s not how itis,” Lett says. “Most of the owner-occupieds like us have someconnection to the university. And most of us have lived quiteharmoniously with students this entire time.”
Neighbors say Goodman’s buildings are party houses, with festivitiesoften lasting well past 2 a.m. They encourage each other to call thepolice and have worked hard to help the police red-tag apartments asoften as possible. Some of those calls, however, have led toretaliation from the students and have made some neighbors scared tocall in complaints.
Lett says the problems partially have to do with Goodman’s designand his insistence on building high-density clusters. That means thereare often three to four buildings on each parcel.
“Having a cluster of buildings that clearly do not fit into theneighborhood is a problem, and may, in fact, encourage what I call the’spring break at Rocky Point mentality’: ‘We can do anything and getaway with it.’ It very well may be an issue with the architecture,because we’ve noticed that when his buildings are built in isolation (asingle building on one parcel), there isn’t that kind of behavioralproblem from the students,” Lett says.
What’s also troubling to Lett is Goodman’s defense of hisdevelopments—that he is filling a need for student housing.
“Developers have created this false dichotomy that the neighborhoodisn’t as important as the needs of the UA, even though UA officialshave gone on record repeatedly saying they support historicneighborhoods and their preservation. It’s a straw man, because thereality is that what we have in Tucson is an embarrassment in riches ofsites that are well-suited for development of student housing.”
Lett has put together a list of properties in Feldman’s Neighborhoodthat are distressed commercial properties and vacant lots onneighborhood arterials.
“We’ve got two huge vacant lots on Speedway (Boulevard): one at thecorner of Stone (Avenue) and Speedway (Boulevard), and anothernearby—one is almost an entire city block. Of course, it’scheaper to buy up residential properties from older people that don’tknow they should ask for more.”
Lett says there are some property owners who want to sell theirhomes—but are opposed to selling them to Goodman. She claimsGoodman has used other people to do the negotiations for him, beforecoming in at the last minute.
“If people urgently need to sell their house, even if they are nottoo pleased, they have no choice at that point but to go along with it.That’s how he’s bought a number of properties,” Lett says.
The claim by Goodman at the Aug. 13 hearing that the majority ofproperties in Feldman’s are not historic or worthsaving—especially considering there’s a need for studenthousing—troubles Lett, too.
“Well, that’s just absurd; there’s no conflict there,” she says.”There’s room for development; there’s room for historic preservation,and those two goals don’t have to be in conflict. He saysinfill-incentive-district properties are totally unacceptable to him,because they are too far from the UA—three blocks further fromthe UA than his properties. … Here’s the thing: They are directlyacross the street from Pima Community College. To say there is nothingappropriate there for student housing is just a lie, pure andsimple.”
After the Tucson Weekly left a message at his leasing officeand then sent him an e-mail, Goodman responded by e-mail, saying thathe wasn’t sure about an interview.
“I am very reluctant to meet with you because it is my opinion thatyour magazine is both left-leaning and has published erroneous andbiased information about me and the issues of infill in the UA area. Ifyou would agree to: (a) submit your questions to me in writing, and (b)publish all your questions verbatim and all my written responses bothverbatim and immediately following the appropriate question, then Iwould consider cooperating via this format. This should (ensure) atruer presentation to your readers of the questions, the context, andthe answers. However, I doubt that a more truthfully didactive articleis what you or your publication is seeking,” Goodman wrote.
After Goodman was told the Weekly would not agree to thoseterms, he wrote: “While I am very reluctant to meet with you formatters previously stated, I sincerely feel that the citizens of Tucsonshould be made aware of the millions of dollars of potential liabilitythat the city of Tucson will be subjecting itself to and which willlikely be coming from the citizens’ pockets if the Feldman’s DesignManual is adopted.
“The value of most of these properties for redevelopment under thecurrent zoning code is higher than the value for the housing that nowexists. If this is not true, I and others wouldn’t be buying, tearingexisting houses down and building larger units which bring in greaterrents. Passage of the design ordinance will eliminate the ability tobuild these larger units and will therefore eliminate the higher valuethat these properties can now command for redevelopment purposes. …The days of the city’s bullying property owners and oversteppingprivate ownership rights with impunity are over. I and others havespent much hard-earned money in defending our property rights and therights of others and will continue to do so regardless of cost.
“Some of your readers owning property in Feldman’s will probablywant to join the class-action lawsuit that will undoubtedly arise ifthe Feldman’s Design Manual is adopted. Almost 80 percent of Feldman’sproperty owners are investors who use their property for rental incomeand will be adversely affected if this ordinance is adopted.”
Goodman then agreed to be interviewed over the phone.
“Nobody bought a house and woke up, and said, ‘Oh my gosh, there’s auniversity here,’” he says. “Seventy-eight percent of the currentproperty owners bought their property for investments. The real issueis the students. But where are students suppose to live?”
Goodman says that he’s done a lot of good for the neighborhood,throwing out drug dealers and prostitutes and creating new rentals thatgive students a choice.
“What I build are luxury apartments these students want, (with)granite counters in the kitchens (and) nice bathrooms,” Goodman says.”I did not create the demand; the demand was already there.”
After talking briefly, Goodman said he had to go into a meeting andwould call back, but he never did.
When Leslie Robinson Jr. sits down to talk about the changes takingplace in the surrounding neighborhoods, he pauses for a moment. Hiseyes well up with tears, and he stops talking to catch his breath.
Williamson reaches out and touches his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Robinson,” she says.
He shakes his head back and forth, then smiles. His wife, Mary, sitsacross from him at a table in the social hall of Mount Olive Church ofGod in Christ, a small church on Lee Street steeped in African-Americantraditions.
Right next door is a building on a lot once owned by the city thatthe church used for parking. When the city decided to take bids on theproperty several years ago, Robinson says, the church put in a bid, butthe city accepted Goodman’s offer instead.
“There was still land between us, and we found out we could file aquitclaim to get it, and when we tried, we found out Mr. Goodman hadjust filed to get the rest of that property,” Robinson says, referringto a utilities easement.
“He put a fence along the property right away, and when we asked himif we could work out a deal to use it for parking, he told us he couldprobably work out a deal with us for $500 a month.”
Memories of the transaction still stings, Robinson says. Many peoplein his congregation remain upset that the city didn’t consider theirbid.
The congregation, founded by Mary’s father in 1927, isn’t the sameas it used to be, but the Robinsons say UA students and families fromDavis-Monthan Air Force Base find the church and join the congregationfor services every Sunday.
The Robinsons say that when they first met with Goodman to talkabout the property, he told them he didn’t have much use for Jesus.
“We still pray for (Goodman) anyway,” Robinson says, smiling.
After Williamson and I leave the church to walk to her home, thejets from Davis-Monthan fly overhead, making it difficult to talk forseveral moments.
“Before Michael Goodman, that used to be my biggest issue. … Wedid put enough pressure on those guys, (and the jets) are not as bad asthey used to be. Then this Goodman thing came,” Williamson says.
Williamson recalls a neighbor, Mrs. George, who passed away a fewyears ago. Her son put her house up for sale, while Goodman began tobuild the apartments next to the Mount Olive church. The house satunsold for months, and eventually, the son had no choice but to sell toGoodman.
“The reason it didn’t sell was because when he built thatmonstrosity right next door to the church, everybody knew what couldhappen next,” Williamson says.
The biggest cluster of Goodman’s properties is a block from herhouse. At night, she can hear the parties through her bedroom window,she says. When she walks by the buildings, her heart breaks as shethinks about what used to be there—small homes on large lots witha variety of vegetation and wildlife.
“It’s a monoculture out here of alcoholic white male undergrads.I’ve lived here since 1991, and this neighborhood was better and saferbefore,” she says.
The Feldman’s Neighborhood Design Manual, which provides a list ofdo’s and don’ts for developers like Goodman, is scheduled go before theCity Council in October.
Gavin, the zoning examiner who heard the public testimony at theAug. 13 meeting, formally approved the design manual on Aug. 25.
Will Goodman’s threats to sue determine how the City Council willvote?
According to City Councilwoman Karin Uhlich, of Ward 3, in whichmost of Feldman’s Neighborhood sits, the city can’t decide how to votebased on threats.
“But we want to make sure we’re in compliance with Prop 207. So far,this new law has been untested in the courts, and the way I see it, itis subject in some respects to interpretation on both sides.
“What does need to be addressed is this issue of student housing andprotecting historic and single-family residential neighborhoods. Wereally are trying to approach it with a number of strategies,” Uhlichsays.
She agrees with Feldman’s residents like Lett who say thatdevelopers need to look at land along major corridors to accommodatethe growing student population. She also says putting high-densityapartments on land zoned for single-family residential isn’t in thespirit of that zoning.
“I think the mayor and council is willing to take a stand as long asthat stand is on solid ground, based on the understanding of what thelaw is. That’s really the issue for me—to not get caught up in afearful approach or an aggressive approach. I don’t think it’s aboutpicking a fight just because we’re upset that people are developingtheir properties. I think what we’re doing is really trying to form(new guidelines) that can stand up in court.”
Goldwater Institute attorney Clint Bolick says the design manual isa good example of the value of Prop 207. So far, he says, Tucson is theonly city involved in Prop 207 litigation in the state.
“Right now, the value of Goodman’s property largely is made up ofhis right to construct much more valuable structures. … If thecommunity wants to limit growth and development, and that diminishesproperty values in the process, who should pay for that?” Bolickasks.
Lett says that’s a very good question. She offers another example ofdiminishing property values: When a neighbor decided to retire, she puther house up for sale, and it was listed at $220,000. The final priceshe received was $178,000.
“This was in 2005, before prices tanked,” she says. “The differencewas solely attributable to the buyers finding out that one of Mr.Goodman’s duplexes was going to be built next door.
“This was her retirement savings,” Lett says. “It was bad news forher and bad news for all of us. We’ve learned that about 20 percent ofproperty value can be lost if he builds next door to you.”
goodmans
demolition, goldwater institute, high density, protection act
For a while, the UK radio industry have been talking about putting together an online player that delivers the option to listen to all UK radio stations from one place, whether BBC or commercial. The aim of collaboration is simple; promote the medium and then allow consumers to choose what content they want to listen to. More radio listening = better for the radio industry.
