An Update On Developer Alan Levin's Plot To Impose A Vast Mental Monstrosity On Quaintly Historic Armory Park.
By Margaret Regan
DOWN ALONG THE tree-lined streets of downtown's Armory
Park, the city's first-ever historic district, things seem peaceable
enough.
There's not much traffic in this little pocket of Tucson's history,
a railroad neighborhood that owes its eclectic architecture to
the new ideas and materials that chugged into town with the first
trains in 1880. Longtime Hispanic families live alongside Anglo
rehabbers, and their modest red-brick Victorians doze in the mid-afternoon
sun, their wooden porches wrapped around them like comfortable
shawls.
At the northern fringe of the district, along 12th Street, where
historic charm blurs into urban grit, it's busier. A plasma center
at the corner of 12th Street and Fourth Avenue conducts a lively
commerce, attracting down-and-outers who make their way in the
world by selling their own blood products. To the east, a group
of men gathers noisily outside a group house, and a woman walking
by carefully edges over toward the street as she passes.
Soon, if the state Department of Economic Security has its way,
and if developer Alan Levin has his, 12th Street will be even
more hoppin'.
DES wants to move its downtown welfare office from a building
across from the Ronstadt Transit Center to a weedy industrial
lot Levin owns on the eastern edge of Armory Park.
Brought together with Levin by real-estate matchmaker PICOR,
DES settled on the site at 12th Street and Third Avenue with zero
consultation with its new neighbors. Since they're moving only
half a mile away, DES officials claim, they're not legally bound
to get public comment.
Right now, the project is stymied in litigation. The City of
Tucson has repeatedly denied Levin the permits he needs, so he
filed a lawsuit. He claims his right to build a gigantic "big
box" warehouse or whatever else he pleases on his land, literally
across the street from the historic district's charming pitched-roof
houses. The city argues the proposed warehouse's immense size--38,400
square feet--sheet-metal walls, and flat roof simply don't conform
with the design guidelines set out in a 1979 city plan. Buildings
abutting the historic district have to match in scale, texture,
style and color.
DES, in turn, has been putting the screws on Levin. When the
two parties signed a lease back in March--on a structure that
had yet to be built or even approved--Levin agreed to a $1,200-a-day
fine if he didn't deliver the new building by August 1. He didn't,
so now he's paying.
The case ended up in Pima County Superior Court last month before
Judge Robert Donfeld. After a couple of days of inflammatory testimony
by Levin's team, Donfeld directed the two sides to get together
for talks, and to report back to him November 24. City Attorney
Michael McCrory now says that they "are in negotiations of
a sort. There's been some movement on all sides. We're trying
to come up with an agreement."
Both parties may yet come out smiling, but the nasty stuff that
erupted in court illustrates the cynical politics of development.
Levin's lawyer, Thomas Parsons, asserted an interesting new legal
right, what you might call the Precedent of the Ugly Building.
It goes like this: Since Levin had already gotten away with putting
four ugly warehouses on the property (one houses the Tucson Cooperative
Food Warehouse, another the Rocks and Ropes gym), he had established
a right to build still another ugly building. The city can't invoke
design rules at this late date, he reasoned.
Parsons is certainly right that Levin's vast sheet-metal warehouses
are darn painful on the eyes, but in cross-examination McCrory
was able to extract from Levin the truth that in the past he had
been made to conform with looser design rules governing warehouses.
The 1979 plan allows the city to be pickier with the fifth and
final building, McCrory says, because it will be the closest to
the historic houses. The plan also requires a developer to run
his blueprints by the neighborhood's historic review board, which
Levin claims amounts to a private body being empowered to reject
his project. Nonsense, McCrory says. "Review" is not
the same as "veto."
Worse even than the Precedent of the Ugly Building and the Right
to Ignore the Neighborhood, Parsons invoked the Divisive Race
Hatred Principle, portraying the Armory Park homesteaders as a
band of racists bent on keeping DES clients of color out of their
neighborhood. As always, it's a curious tactic for a millionaire,
white developer who lives among his own kind to brand residents
of a mixed, inner-city neighborhood as racists. And Armory Park
already has in its midst plenty of social service agencies helping
people of all colors, which is one more reason residents don't
think DES should locate there. (The judge, to his credit, squelched
this whole line of racial reasoning.)
But Levin is just another garden-variety developer asserting
his Sacred Property Rights at the expense of the property rights
of homeowners who have less money than he has. The bigger question
is, what sort of corruption is motivating DES? Because while Levin
shamelessly played his race card, DES plotted to make life a little
bit harder for the people, brown, black and white, it's charged
to serve.
The new DES place will be more convenient for the DES staffers,
who'll be able to drive to the suburban-style complex and park
with ease. But it'll be a real step down for their clients, who
include disabled people and single moms, some of them pregnant,
many of them laden down with babies and toddlers. Now these clients
get off the bus at Ronstadt Center and easily head across Sixth
Avenue to the DES office. If DES prevails, these clients will
have to hike nearly half a mile to the new place, south across
busy Broadway Boulevard, and then east past the blood sellers
and street loiterers of 12th Street.
And in these days of dwindling welfare budgets, taxpayer-funded
DES will divert more of its cash to administrative costs in the
new building.
Levin will be collecting a top-dollar rent of $15.75 a square
foot in the new place, about double what DES pays now on Sixth
Avenue. No wonder he's eager.
IT LOOKS like Tucson will be able to use its zoning laws
to persuade the unbending Levin to work with the neighborhood.
What's the big problem, after all, in making a more attractive
building, one that will serve as a buffer between warehouses and
historic houses? But the state is recalcitrant. State officials,
hell-bent on putting the DES at the edge of Armory Park and near
the much-ballyhooed new gateway to downtown, have shown no desire
to work with the city. Instead, they, like developer Levin, have
declared their Right to Do What They Want Where They Want, the
city's own plans be dammed.
And what they want is to force the city, and their hard-pressed
clients, to accept an out-of-the-way building that nobody else
wants.
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