Print

Email story

Comment

Email editor

What's a proper price for 'progress'?

Their little houses stood in the way of a grand vision. The Supreme Court seemed against them. But backlash emboldened them.

By TAMARA LUSH
Published February 12, 2006

Riviera Beach was once nicknamed "Conch Town" for the Bahamian fishermen who lived there in the 1920's. Developers are now buying up these neighborhoods so they can be made into waterfront condominium complexes. Click for gallery

RIVIERA BEACH - Once, Martha Babson's garden was green and lush, filled with pink orchids and dense tropical foliage.

Babson paid $35,000 in 1993 for the little block home and the empty lot next door. She painted the house aqua. She carved a path in between the plants so she could pad around barefoot and always see the water of the Intracoastal, just a few hundred yards away.

Most people steered clear of Riviera Beach - its garbage-strewn streets were home to drug dealers and prostitutes. Not the most chic part of Palm Beach County, but to Babson it was paradise.

Then the city said that her neighborhood was "blighted." They said that someday they might take her land and her house by eminent domain and put a marina and condominiums in its place. They said the plan would help the entire city, and that Babson and the others should "sacrifice."

Trouble was, Babson didn't want to sacrifice.

Babson, who is 58 and makes $18,000 a year painting houses and watering lawns, thought it was her constitutional right to own, and keep, her property for as long as she wanted. So since 2000, when the city first unveiled its plan, she and a growing group of residents have fought what some would call progress.

"Why should the little guy always get the short end of the stick?" she says. "They're not doing this to the rich. They're doing this to the trailer parks and the Martha Babsons."

* * *

There was a time when Babson and city officials wanted the same thing: a better Riviera Beach.

In 1999, Babson was part of a citizens' downtown redevelopment committee. The group wanted to help folks clean the trash off their properties, put awnings on their tiny homes and generally try to nudge the city's image into something respectable. After all, they thought, Riviera Beach is on the waterfront.

A new mayoral candidate had similar plans. Michael Brown was young and charismatic, born and raised in the city. He promised to rid the city of corruption and transform it into something great.

Babson voted for Brown. But only a few months after he was elected, Brown announced his idea: create a Community Redevelopment Area near the waterfront, so that a developer could build marinas, yacht construction companies, condos, shops and parks. In all, the plan encompassed 858 acres and had the potential to affect 2,262 households, or almost 20 percent of the city. Designating a Community Redevelopment Area meant that the city could take properties for "public purpose" - as long as those properties met the definition of blight.

Babson's ideas were far more modest. She wanted to put a shine on what already stood in Riviera Beach, not bulldoze all the funky history of the place.

"We just felt like a donkey had kicked us in the diaphragm," Babson said.

* * *

Prior to this, Babson wasn't much of a joiner. She was content to garden, cook and raise parrots and parakeets. She had no children. She adopted chickens, and sometimes, they scurried into the house.

She had a TV, but no cable, so she could only watch one fuzzy channel. Although many called her a hippie, it was because of her simple life, not her political views. She had never been to an antiwar protest, not now or even during the tumultuous 1960s when she attended Boston University.

But the idea that the city would take her land - or anyone's land - to build a condo or a yacht club was too much.

During meetings, she would openly spar with Brown.

"We're living amid opulence," Brown said. "We're the most impoverished area on the east side of Palm Beach."

Babson agreed, but why couldn't a mix of code enforcement and a strong police presence be tried first?

Owners would be offered more than the appraised value of their homes, Brown promised. But Babson found out that the developer behind the project only wanted to pay 30 percent above what the county said her home was worth: about $75,000.

It wasn't a fair deal, she thought, not when she knew she could sell it for more on the open market.

In 2002, Babson did her own study of the Community Redevelopment Area, taking photos of each home or property and detailed notes on any historic aspects or discrepancies.

The results were interesting: some lots that were classified as vacant had homes on them. One house was "dilapidated," the city's study said, but Babson discovered it was two years old.

The fight turned bitter. Brown, who is black, claimed that the people fighting against the plan were backed by the city's minority - white, wealthy businessmen. Black residents were in favor of his vision, he said.

"Normally when eminent domain is used the impact is on poor, powerless minorities," he said. "In this case some of the people affected by eminent domain happen not to be black."

Babson bristled at such suggestions. Yes, she was white, but she wasn't rich. She had driven the same Volkswagen Rabbit since 1981. Its hood was held down by a coat hanger.

Brown said there were other economic benefits, day care and charter schools for the poor.

"Something wonderful is going to happen to this community," Brown said. "Those residents, hundreds of people of color, will experience something for the first time: equity in their homes."

Many liked his ideas; he was re-elected twice. Not because of Babson. She was still skeptical.

"The rest of the city is getting better day care and we have to sacrifice," said Babson. "I'm sorry. That's communism."

Yes, home values throughout the city would probably increase, but would anyone - black or white - be able to afford to sell and buy a comparable home anywhere else in Palm Beach County, where the median home price is well over $450,000?

Babson didn't think so.

* * *

The battle in Riviera Beach was slogging through its fifth year when the U.S. Supreme Court issued a ruling that seemed to change everything.

On the face of it, the June 2005 decision in Kelo vs. the City of New London looked like bad news for Babson's cause. The court had sided against Susette Kelo, who, like Babson had been trying to stop her Connecticut city from using eminent domain on behalf of a private developer.

But Babson's dismay quickly turned to hope when she saw the public backlash. The national media, including the Los Angeles Times and Fox News, looking for other similar cases got wind of the Riviera Beach story. Babson was the spokeswoman.

"If Kelo had never happened, no one would know about Riviera Beach," she said.

By the end of 2005, Babson had many willing ears - State Rep. Everett Rice, R-Treasure Island, among them - and House Speaker Allan Bense had appointed a committee to study the definitions of blight and community redevelopment agencies.

Babson hadn't quite won the fight, but hadn't lost yet, either. She had never received a letter that her home might be taken, but her friends had. Many couldn't sell or wouldn't repair their homes while living under the threat of eminent domain, and a collective funk had settled throughout the town.

* * *

On Jan.6, a man who owns a local marina walked into Babson's yard.

"How much do you want for your house?" he asked. "I've got an investor."

Babson didn't give it much thought - this guy had asked her this before. But he came back with the investor on Jan.12, like he said he would. A third man returned a few days later.

He held a blank contract.

She asked the man whom he worked for. He told her that he was the agent for Wayne Huizenga Jr. - the son of the owner of the Miami Dolphins, the son of one of the richest men in Florida. Babson was dizzy. She had followed every detail of the plans for her city, knew all the players and all the developers who had shown interest in Riviera Beach. Huizenga wasn't one of them.

"How much do you want?" the man asked.

* * *

On the day of the closing, Babson's mind was elsewhere. Pia, one of her parakeets, had flown away.

She put on her red dress, and as she climbed into the battered VW - it's the same aqua color as the house - the parakeet flew onto a tree near its cage. She tried to get the bird inside, but gave up when she realized how late she was for the closing.

Like so many other things in Riviera Beach, Babson's decision to sell was fraught with conflicting emotions. She was a little anxious, a little afraid, a little excited.

Riviera Beach, and what it was turning into - a yachting version of Celebration - was not the place Babson wanted to call home.

There were also the practical benefits of selling. She makes enough money to pay her mortgage, but not quite enough to fix her roof. She simply could not afford to live in her house much longer.

"I am not selling because I am too tired to fight," she said. "My fight was on principal. But I was thrilled, frankly, that I was no longer stuck here, unable to even put my house up on the market because of the threat of eminent domain."

The closing took a half hour. She got $732,000 for her home (it was recently assessed at $200,000, according to county records), enough to buy a new car and a place in Gainesville, where she can realize her dream of being a Thai massage therapist.

The parakeet was still sitting in the tree when she got back. It found its way into the cage, and Babson uncorked a bottle of wine to celebrate the day. A neighbor strolled by, walking her dogs.

"It's a done deal," she called out, grinning. "Life is nothing but a journey."

She vows to continue to fight against what she calls "eminent domain abuse" - after all, many of her friends in Riviera Beach still may lose their homes. She now has the money, and a reliable car, so she can go to Tallahassee to speak up at hearings.

She doesn't know what will become of Riviera Beach, whether Huizenga will transform it or whether Brown will.

All she knows is that everyone on her street sold to Huizenga. And the street next to her. And the street after that.

--Tamara Lush can be reached at lush@sptimes.com or 727 893-8612.

[Last modified February 12, 2006, 00:27:07]