A Prayer for the City (67 page)

They were honest words, spoken from the vantage point of someone who had seen the sorrow over and over—the homeless man wrapped in rags on the rim of the perfectly sculpted fountain; the son in the relentless light of the hospital waiting room who wanted to know why,
why
, his father had been killed in the line of duty, the little girl who had taken his hand on the shabby block of Stella and asked for a swimming pool. The statistics alone—a city that in twenty-five years had lost over a quarter-million jobs, a city that in twenty-five years had lost 30 percent of its tax base—described a place that had already lost one of its limbs to cancer. But still his words to some degree were seen as exaggeration, another mayor just crying wolf.

Cohen himself, expanding upon a model that was being considered for Washington, D.C., had a tantalizing suggestion: a federal tax credit of 10 percent for
all
residents of cities that were officially deemed to be distressed on the basis of such established criteria as mortality, poverty rates, and unemployment. Such a credit would immediately offset the taxes that so many cities levied on residents and businesses to remain solvent. Just as important, it would encourage those of means to return to the city not on the basis of emotion or culture or entertainment but on the basis that had the only real chance of working in America—a direct appeal to the pocketbook. It could potentially bring to cities what they needed the most, not just changes in the tax code or job-creation money or federal procurement, but the infectious and electric surge of human capital that is the first step in all turnarounds and miracles.

It was an idea, an intriguing idea, but in the tenor of the country, it seemed likely to remain exactly that. Soccer moms and soccer dads were the latest political obsession, and it was their needs that set the agenda. Given the reconstituted downtown of the American city, streets paved with the newest standard of health—Disney and Niketown and Hard Rock Cafe and Planet Hollywood and Starbucks and megaplex movie theaters with enough screens to entertain an entire neighborhood for two hours—there was a perception that cities had turned the corner into good times anyway.

There were positive signs. Reported major crimes dropped 3 percent nationwide in 1996, including 14 percent in New York and 12 percent in Los Angeles. Beyond crime, community development groups, proving the miracle of persistence, had built new housing in areas of cities around the country that seemed beyond hope. But these changes were blips, not sustained trends. The idea that cities had come close to reversing themselves was dangerously misleading, ignorant of poverty rates; ignorant of the timeline of decline that occurred not just for five years but for nearly fifty; ignorant of social and racial stratification; ignorant of the types of jobs that the audience economy threw off; ignorant of what would happen in the next recession when the disposable dollars of tourists and suburbanites were no longer disposable. There was also the danger that what lay behind the fancy wrap of the downtown, the gray areas of abandoned factories and worn-out neighborhoods, had been rendered invisible, the Bermuda Triangle of American life.

The movers came at 1:30
P.M.
, and an hour later had carted out Cohen’s desk, bookcase, round table, and pictures. It left him in the awkward position of working in an office that now had nothing in it except for a golf putter, a rolled-up Oriental carpet, a stale-looking couch, and a hard-backed wooden chair. Undeterred, Cohen stood at the credenza by the window and continued to work. He fielded a call about the school board, and he described to a well-wisher how he was now standing in an office that had virtually no furniture in it. At 4:15
P.M.
, he gave up his six-shooter, his beeper, and noted, almost like recalling the first words of his children, that it was the mayor who had made the final beep. There was something fitting about that, a perfect beginning-and-end symmetry in their working relationship. Cohen was moving only several blocks away, and he would continue to serve in a highly active role as an advisor. He still had the keys to City Hall, and given his loyalty to Rendell, he would always be on call.

But Cohen would have a different object of obsession now, the law firm
of Ballard Spahr. Inevitably ethical conflicts would arise that would make it impossible for Cohen to dispense advice even if he wanted to. The mayor, as hard as he tried to convince himself that Cohen really wasn’t going very far, knew how different it would be. During the course of a given day in the second floor right angle of City Hall where they had toiled, they had actually seen quite little of each other. But the presence of Cohen, willing to work forty-eight hours a day if only Congress would pass the necessary legislation, provided a comfort as steady as a lighthouse. In a literal sense the light of Cohen’s office had always been on, the one precious square of dependability in the architectural cuckoo’s nest of City Hall. In a city that had spent so much of its modern history in varying degrees of chaos and conflict, the uplift of that was immeasurable. Or as the mayor himself put it, “The best thing about David was that he was always there.”

Rendell had no choice but to carry on. The intensity of his mission had not diminished, but there were inevitable questions about what he would do with his own future once his second term expired. By city charter he could not seek reelection as mayor. Running for statewide office was a possibility, governor or senator, but Rendell himself wasn’t sure if he had the burning desire to mount another massive campaign. He talked about maybe heading a foundation, or going into business with his son. He even mused about becoming baseball commissioner, and his name had already been touted in the press. Given his encyclopedic knowledge of sports and his unique ability to massage egos, it was a job that suited him perfectly. But it seemed unimaginable for Rendell to leave his natural habitat of politics. However he had come by it, wherever he had gained it, he had the rare gift of public leadership, and it was far too essential to be sacrificed to a ball and a bat.

When Cohen was asked how he felt about Rendell, it wasn’t at all surprising that he used almost exactly the same words as the mayor had used about him. “We are best friends, but we are also like brothers. He’s like my father. I’m like his father.” It was around 5:00
P.M.
, and he sat in a chair in the corner of his empty office, the walls adorned with dozens of jutting hooks where the pictures had once been. It had all the pleasantry of a minimalist stage set for some avant-garde play about hell and the deprivation of the bureaucrat, but he didn’t seem to mind. He still had a phone. He still had a credenza on which to read the final trickle of memos and letters. If that’s all that had been afforded to him at the beginning, it wouldn’t have mattered. It was only when he was asked if he had grown to love the mayor
that he became uncomfortable, a slight pause and squirm as if the question didn’t seem to make the slightest sense, an emotion that had no place in the pragmatist’s repeated journey from point A to point B. “I love my family,” he said.

But in the world of politics and power, a world that almost inevitably turned affection into hate and regard into scorn, it was more than just loyalty that had made him so indefatigable on behalf of Ed Rendell. He might not be able to express it, and his pragmatist’s religion would never allow him the liberation of saying it, but it was abundantly clear that he did love the mayor, just as it was abundantly clear that the mayor loved him. In the endless war for the survival of the city, they had pulled off perhaps the greatest miracle of all. They had remained true to each other. They had remained intact. “We have been to hell and back,” said Cohen as he sat in that chair. “There’s an intensity of what we have been through that is unique.”

At about 7:00
P.M.
, after one final meeting, it was time to go. He was having dinner with his family and his best friend, Arthur Makadon, at a Chinese restaurant and there was no point in being late, particularly since everything had come to a standstill. But the phone rang, and it was the mayor on the line asking him about a letter. Cohen of course knew exactly what he was referring to and said he would bring it right over. He went with his usual purpose to his secretary’s desk in the outer office, but he had gotten confused and the letter on the desk wasn’t the one that the mayor wanted. He searched the empty corners of his own office, then went to a series of clunky beige cabinets, then to an accordion file, and he could not find it.

He went over to the mayor and said it wasn’t there, and the mayor told him not to worry about it, and then he went back to his office and searched the very same places again. A police officer had come to put his remaining possessions into his car, and now he was running late for dinner, and he finally seemed poised to leave and turn the lights out for good. But then he went back to the accordion file and looked all over again, combing through the same crevices he had just combed through moments ago, but still,
still
, he could not find it. And then the strangest thing happened, and David L. Cohen did something he had never before done until the very last minute of his very last day. He left without finding it, descending the curved stairway of City Hall with the familiar echo of scuffed sole against stone that he had made a thousand times before, but with the unfamiliar step of someone who no longer served the city.

A book such as this is truly a collaborative effort, and there are dozens who helped. Michael Carlisle, my agent at the William Morris Agency, played so many roles in this book that I finally lost track—cheerleader, editor, therapist, slayer of panic attacks. His care and compassion were just unique. Jon Karp, my editor at Random House, was wonderful. He worked inexhaustibly, with an invigorating meticulousness that kept me on my toes at all times. He both listened and gave criticism in proper measure, and was wise far beyond his years. Jon’s bosses, Harold Evans and Ann Godoff, were at all times supportive and enthusiastic.

Within the Random House team, there were so many who went out of their way to make this book special: Sean Abbott, Deborah Aiges, Dennis Ambrose, Gabrielle Bordwin, Bridget Marmion, Tanya Pérez-Rock, and Robbin Schiff. Special mention must go to Abigail Winograd for making me realize that copyediting truly can be an art form, particularly with writers who clearly ignored their grammar lessons in school. Sorry, Abigail.

Within the labyrinth of the mayor’s office, there were many who graciously put up with me for four years. I have never seen a trio work with better cheer than Marge Staton, Donna Cisowski, and Annie Karl. The mayor had a variety of schedulers, three of whom deserve Purple Hearts for ultimate grace under pressure: Eden Kratchman, Karen Lewis, and the saintly Susan Segal. Robin Schatz, who headed constituent services for the mayor, had a gift for compassion that was inspirational. Within David Cohen’s office, Ginnie Lehoe and Yvonne Reed could not have been nicer.

I am indebted to Anthony Buchanico for getting me to the thick of the action time and time again. I would also like to thank some of the other police officers who, in addition to their daily duties protecting the mayor, made my life incredibly pleasant: Joe Adams, Rudy Braxton, Jr., Ron Clemins, Mike Gulkis, Ernie Kiefer, Tony Pino, Jimmy Previti, Joe Rimato, Deborah Sheeron, and Reggie Wilkins.

Among others who worked for the city, special thanks should go to Ted
Beitchman for his spirited opinions on government, the media, baseball, and bars; Joe Torsella for his engaging ideas on how to energize cities; and Greg Rost for being both kind and wise.

I simply could not have written this book without the help of three other people who were connected to the city. One is Kevin Feeley, who not only put up with every pain-in-the-neck request I made but also became a valued friend. The other two are David Cohen and Ed Rendell.

David Cohen and I basically shared an office for four years, to the point where I put up a little picture of my children in his bookcase as a way of claiming turf. I utterly invaded his personal space, and he didn’t protest once. As for the mayor, what can I say? The pressures on him at all times were relentless, but he never took them out on me. By year two of my presence, I would have understood completely if he had pulled me from the little leather couch where I sat and tossed me into the City Hall courtyard. Instead he went out of his way to give me the best, most unfettered view possible into the heart of the city.

I also could not have written this book without the incredible cooperation of four individuals who gave of their time tirelessly—Mike McGovern, Jim Mangan, Fifi Mazzccua, and Linda Morrison. They truly are heroes, not only because of their passion for the city, but also for putting up with me.

On a personal note, I would like to thank Matt Purdy for reading the manuscript in its most bloated form and offering smart suggestions. I would like to thank Rick Hole for keeping me both sane and properly medicated when it didn’t ever seem like this book would get written. I would like to thank E. Ann Wilcox, then the librarian at the Maritime Museum, for her help in locating crucial documents about the navy yard. I would also like to thank Ian Keith. I had intended to make Ian, a schoolteacher in Philadelphia at the time, one of the voices in the book. He had a rich and resonant story, but I was never able to find the right home for it. We spent hundreds of hours together, and I made frequent demands on his time. I do not believe the time was wasted, because it was in the process of our encounters that we developed a friendship and respect far more lasting than any book.

I would like to thank my children, Gerry, Zachary, and Caleb, for their patience and understanding during the five and a half years it took me to do this. “We should say thank you to God for printing such a heavy book,” remarked Caleb, who is five, and truer words have never been spoken.

I would also like to give thanks and love to the incomparable Kim. She came into my life at the right time, she listened to my rants of self-doubt with remarkable attentiveness, and for some reason that must have to do with miracles, she is still here.