Englewood Story

Link: http://EyeOnEnglewood.com

Hippie-Chick fumed and cried and told us she was leaving at the end of December. "Thanks, Englewood, for ruining my Christmas. I will never live in this town again." And, she left.

By this time our South Korean student had managed to arrange a guardianship for us. Our relationship was "legal" according to Englewood standards.

December 27, 2007, I wrote an e-mail to the City Manager telling him we were in full compliance with the City's definition of household.

Manager Sears didn't care about compliance after all. His aim was to boot us out of his neighborhood and make us suffer for living within eye-shot of his own home. He also wasn't keen on the fact that we had called him a spider weaving a web for us.

The City Manager's park side property with a private river running through it simply did not coincide with seeing mixed races living near his house. Where two were welcome, more might come. There was a slippery slope to consider.

Manager Sears continued to confer with City Attorney Brotzman and Building Department Supervisor, Lance Smith. Jointly, they determined how to refuse us an approval of our final inspections.

Nothing was illegal about not giving us a final inspection on our permits, except as to a breech of contract, and they could always claim they were looking out for us in a dangerous situation if we took them to court.

It would be hush-hush that it was the City forcing our mixed race students out of our home. We were the only one facing liability if any of the students complained to HUD or to Colorado Civil Rights Division about being tossed out of their home. As yet, nothing could be proven about the City's intimidation, threats, or refusal of City services.

So, when we called for final inspections on January 3, 2008, the City inspectors came together saying they'd planned it that way.

The correction notices they left with us asked for caulking a bathroom toilet, correcting a shower's water heat by one degree, and instructing us to put a handrail return at the top of our stairway. Inspector Charles Petty penned, "refused" in the "final inspection" column.

Inspector Craig Daly wrote a memo to the file stating that everything appeared in good condition, but that the original plumber on the permit had not finished the job. There was no danger or safety concern mentioned.

But, Lance Smith immediately called Roger at Castle Plumbing and made a deal with him, not to hold him liable for any dangerous issue that might arise at the Bartnick's house, if he would immediately write a letter for the City files that he hadn't done the finish plumbing at the house. Of course he complied because it relieved him from liability as a plumber who had abandoned his job.

Then, on January 7, 2008, Lance refused not only finals on the final inspections, but also refused to give us new permits. He said City Attorney Dan Brotzman had ordered him not to. I showed him our correction notice from the final, and said, "I'm here to comply with your inspector's request to buy yet another permit." I told him we had finished the corrections on the inspectors' Notices, but he refused to perform a final inspection. I asked him to back up his refusals with a written policy or law, and he said he would ask the City's attorney and get back with me.

I went that evening and addressed City Council, asking them to right a wrong happening at the City Staff level regarding our home, and also asked them face to face to investigate where the City's right to plan or map out proposed zoning divisions ends and where a homeowner's right extends as to private uses of the inside of their home.

At the end of the meeting, Councilman McCaslin ranted against us saying, "You can kill more flies with honey than vinegar." My experience with the City's one and only "brick wall" posture was beginning to support other residents' claims of injustice.

On January 12, We received Mr. Smith's letter refusing to perform a final inspection or grant us a new permit, or to write a letter of completion. He carbon copied the letter to City Manager Sears and City Attorney Brotzman. He cited a half of a sentence of code that aroused my curiosity. The code mentioned R-3 Group. Perhaps we were some kind of group home?

I looked up the code and law unfolded like tulip petals. The first thing I noticed was that under Englewood's Group Home code, we were in full compliance to host unrelated people in our district.

The City's term R-3 was listed on our permit as a kind of single-family style of home. Mr. Smith had written a memo to City Manager Sears telling him there was no difference in the building standards between single-family homes and boarding houses.

In fact, if we wanted to, we could have shared the house with 8 unrelated people, 2 per bed-room. This law showed not only that we were within our rights, not outside them, but also that we had not abused our rights. Ours was a home for study and reflection. No dangerous issues of too many people had ever occurred here.

The City called it a "boarding house." With a huge sigh of relief, we decided to be a residential boarding house. We looked over State codes and health codes and found that no permits or licenses were required because we were still only a private residence. This suited us fine and we decided to rely on it whole-heartedly. But, why hadn't the City Manager ever let on to us about it? Surely he knew about the codes enacted during his tenure as Manager?

On January 15, 2008, City Manager Sears was responsible for serving us with a Summons and Complaint, in layman's terms, it was a groundless and malicious prosecution. We were appalled. Didn't there have to be some correlation of facts behind a City's Complaint?

I complained about Gary Sears to his professional management association that he was depriving us of due process and had broken trust with us as to our building permits also. I complained to the Supreme Court about the City attorneys' involvement.

We wrote a Motion to Dismiss and another for Summary Judgment. Nothing happened. We were forced to hire an special zoning attorney for the conference at ten times the amount my husband makes working at Craig Hospital. At pre-trial, we conferred with the City's special prosecutor and told him that our research showed we had found our affirmative defense in the City's Boarding House code.

I also asked the City for an Appeal of Lance Smith's refusal to perform the final inspection. The City refused using a flimsy excuse that I had waited too long to request an appeal. It was later that I found out that Inspector Craig had closed out our plumbing and mechanical permits without further claim against us.

Soon after, Special Prosecutor Alan Katz, whom the City had hired because of our complaints against their own attorneys, wrote his own Motion to Dismiss, and I discovered on my birthday that the Judge had approved it. Nothing could have made us happier.

An attorney for Cherry Hills later told us he had never seen an attorney get a municipal case dismissed before, much less by a regular person. We celebrated that evening at a local Englewood eatery with friends, cheers all around and unanimous congratulations.

Link: http://EyeOnEnglewood.com

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!!!

Some people have asked the obvious question, "Can't you just hire an attorney?... If you are too poor, won't they provide you one?" So, here is our story.

In the new playing field, I stumbled around with legal arguments to the City's two new Complaints against both Bill and myself.

Although I had been a good little paralegal in a couple of law firms, I did not understand form, rules of evidence, rules of motion writing or how to reign in my own anger at the powerful treachery goings on under the official cloak of authority.

I regularly called on attorneys to see if they would handle our case. This attorney and that flatly stated that we could not pay their fees, that they only worked for cities or corporations with deep pockets and return business.

I called a local attorney who agreed that I had a case but announced that she worked as a part-time judge for the City and could not risk her employment, nor could she ethically represent me against them. She told me to call the Denver University law school. They would love this kind of challenge she assured me.

I wrote a letter, attaching the Complaint, and walked it across campus and up to the third floor of this regal looking law school building. The receptionist looked at me sympathetically and then said the professor handling this department was on maternity leave and would not be engaging with anyone new for quite some time.

Some attorneys were cryptically rude in letters of rejection. Another one spoke at length to me about having taken two cases like this before but having lost them.

I found precedent in my research that seemed to say that it was the duty of zoning departments to define the families and households in their districts, and that the court would uphold their intent. This precedent frightened me.

We applied for a legal aid attorney to no avail. Though our earnings were not at poverty level, the hourly rate attorneys were typically charging had doubled since my career in law offices. Old charts and definitions for deciding who qualified for legal assistance were outdated. They left a large hole for average homeowners like ourselves to tumble through.

In our case, what my husband made in a day equaled the price of travel time to court for young attorneys who just yesterday were practicing in mock court settings at law school! Perhaps I knew more than they did, but for sure, I was more zealous to defend our cause.

One attorney took thousands of dollars in retainer fees, then decided to settle without our approval because of his personal conflicts on the calendar. When we refused, he insulted us, threatened us by forecasting a total loss complete with a hundred thousand dollars in fines and jail. We panicked for a couple days and argued heatedly. In the end, we decided to stay our course of faith, loose our retainer to this unethical man, and not look back.

I read Psalm 37 in Eugene Peterson’s The Message. “Get insurance with God and do a good deed. Settle down and stick to your last. Keep company with God, get in on the best. Open up before God, keep nothing back; he’ll do whatever needs to be done; He’ll validate your life in the clear light of day and stamp you with approval at high noon.

“Bridle your anger, trash your wrath, cool your pipes—it only makes things worse. Before long the crooks will be bankrupt; God-investors will soon own the store.

“Bullies brandish their swords, pull back on their bows with a flourish. They’re out to beat up on the harmless, or mug that nice man out walking his dog. A banana peel lands them flat on their faces –-slapstick figures in a moral circus.

Meditating like this infused me with comfort, gentleness and hope. This version makes for a contemporary simile. Sometimes, I laugh and cry at the same time because things off limits for an American girl to say in her prayers, were stated in raw form in the poems of David the Shepherd and David the renegade leader. I could relate to this David.

But, how could I “bridle my anger?” This seemed too difficult for me much of the time. At times, I was filled with anger.

Every time I thought I was passed it, the reality of the prosecution, the weight of the city leaning on me, taking away the one thing I could give back to my husband and to God, slapped me in the face.

When I went out for a walk, our neighbor Anne would jump out of her front door and hold herself back from leaping at me. Her hatred was a force of energy hard to describe. They now had four video surveillance cameras on their property, one captured part of our house and our driveway.

I applied to a Christian Attorney’s network, but they only specialized in the hot topics of discrimination such as pro-life issues and church rights. Again, we were turned down.

A Land Rights League of attorneys brought our case to their board of directors, but in the end, their plates were already full.

The ACLU was fighting another defense case for business owners who had dared to improve the aging facades of their businesses, and against whom the City of Englewood had also filed suit. I saw in my research that they had defended a common law couple in Montana who had faced a similar violation of their city’s definition of household. I contacted them with our problem.

The ACLU rarely defends people who openly claim Christ. I guess they figure, “Let Christ defend his own.” At any rate, they were too busy to defend us.

“Stalwart walks in step with God; his path blazed by God, he’s happy. If he stumbles, he’s not down for long; God has a grip on his hand.” Psalm 37, The Message

We found a firm that wanted to take us on Pro Bono. We held our breath. But, because there were so many people involved as so called "witnesses" against us, there turned out to be a conflict of interest with someone in the firm being related to the Drakes.

They gave us hope about the merits of our case, but in the end were prevented from actually representing us.

Another firm again took us on, took our retainer, prepared to send out twelve subpoenas in our defense only to be informed that the City of Englewood had retained another partner in the firm on a gas station litigation matter, and they refused to allow this firm to put up the usual Chinese Curtain between the issues and partners.

This is a City's prerogative, to waive or not to waive their right, but in the case of the City of Englewood, they have so many irons in the fire, that all the firms who specialize in municipal issues are already retained and being employed in litigation matters. Think about all the tax money being spent on $200 - $350 per hour litigation!

There were seemingly no attorneys available to defend our cause. We were shut out from obtaining a legal defense, or forced to waive our rights to a speedy trial in order to find one.

Link: http://EyeOnEnglewood.com

When I designed the house and hired the contractor, it was with a contingency for a treehouse in the grand umbrella looking tree out back. I drew a few steps up from the deck out the back of that room and into an awaiting secret hideout in the tree.

Being a tomboy growing up, I was always intrigued with living in trees. My elder sister called me "monkey" and even tried to humiliate me by reporting my new fiancé that I used to make monkey sounds in front of the mirror. She underestimated the fortitude of Wild Bill with Shorts.

Wild Bill, or Bill with Shorts, didn’t come by those nick-names without reason. He was a man who walked to work in the Winter with his little black shorts on. He had some hot blood running through those veins. One of my favorite pictures is of him in his black shorts, black windbreaker, white socks and black sandals on a rocky volcanic mound on a stormy Vancouver coastline holding an umbrella. He looks like Christopher Robin to me somehow.

We were staying in a treehouse designed after the Canadian's Winnie the Poo stories, in a youth hostel, on Salt Spring Island that year for holiday.

On our 10th anniversary, I had bribed him to visit Africa with me by booking us in a tree house that hung over the fiery Zambezi River with crocodiles and hippos beneath, and the possibility of a green mamba snake coiled nearby.

Once, I had discovered an entire magazine of the finest treehouses in the world and dreamed for hours, days, months over it. How was it possible in America to live in a treehouse?

Well, one might buy a property with mature trees, for instance, and then design and build one from the regular house, so that one might have access to a real kitchen and a nearby potty. Yes. That’s it!

We built our home, but with the contractor fired, and my husband a nurse, not a builder of homes or even treehouses, I was a frustrated monkey to be sure.

But after our Seminary boys finished our decks for us (one was building the new Nordstroms downtown with his father who was the project manager there, and the other was an experienced framer from before Seminary days bringing in some of the bread and butter for his family because of the loss of his father who had died prematurely)... I saw that we were already IN the tree.

We no longer needed a treehouse, because the deck was embraced by the limbs of the tree. In short order, that room which was to be a den in the house became our bedroom.

Over the next two years, the wonder of our private getaway in the tree proved magical. The chatter of birds in the early morning woke us up with a childlike wonder plastered across our faces.

We pretended we lived in Africa. We pretended in the rainstorms, and on calm Saturday mornings.

We marveled at the turning of seasons in our tree. In Autumn, the transparent yellow with lemony sunshine radiating through,-- in Winter, the dramatic arching, twisting limbs of black and white, draped in snow, and in Springtime, the baby lime leaves sprouting. This room was my happiness, my secret joy.

On mornings when I had barely slept the night before because of sleepless problem solving with the various onslaughts of the neighbors and the City, I would wake up to the funny squirrels playing in the tree.

I could hear them overhead, running across the roof, see them leap into the tree, chase each other, defy each other, primp each other, hump each other, carry the small furry balls of their babies into safe hiding, and even calmly stared them down a mere two or three feet from eye to eye.

I would bring out rotting fruit as offerings to my entertaining jesters in this courtyard.

The dichotomy of our heavenly Father's loving kindness to us in the midst of our angst was a daily reprieve. In fact, we began to say, this was not the exception to our private hell, but it was rather our private heaven in which hell was attempting to overtake. That put things into perspective.

Once, during the first year of the onslaught, I attempted to propose an ordinance to the City as a remedy for the situation.

In my open records obtained from the City a short time later, I discovered how I was being mocked by the City Manager and City Attorney Brotzman. “What shall we call this ordinance?” One proposed. “Oh, that’s a no-brainer,” came the reply. “Our house is a very, very, very fine house… with two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard…” Brotzman had written.

Little did they know.