consciousness. It shouldn’t be the kind of thing that has any chance of coming up in casual conversation, because after all, six years have gone by, and this is ancient history. God forbid your brother-in-law falls off the wagon. I can hear him now, letting on to somebody across the bar—”
“Abe. Mose hasn’t had a drink in years.”
His voice in tight control, Glitsky said, “He’s an alcoholic, Diz. Headmits that himself. Every day at his meetings. You know how nervous it makes me feel to know that my future is a couple of ounces of Scotch away from being destroyed?”
Hardy crossed an ankle over a knee. “A little dramatic, Abe, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t. It’s well within the realm of possibility.”
Hardy sighed. “I’ll talk to him, not that he needs reminding. Would that help?”
“Honestly, probably not. I’m not saying it would come out in everyday life if everything stays the same. But if something changes and he stresses out and starts drinking . . .”
“He’s not going there.”
“Famous last words.” Glitsky glared at his friend, arms crossed over his chest. “Actually, the last thing you should do is talk to Moses about it, put it in the front of his brainpan as something he has to deal with. We’ve just got to hope he doesn’t leak. For that matter, we have to hope that none of us leaks for the rest of our lives. Gina’s great, but she writes books. What if she wakes up one day and decides this would be a great plot? What if one of us gets religion and feels the need to confess publicly? It’s so easy in the movies—you blow away the bad guys, and they roll the credits and never think about it again. This situation isn’t like that. Not even close.”
“Well, while I don’t worry about Moses and you do, Frannie bought half a steer and wants me to cook it on Sunday, and we wondered if you guys wanted to come over and help us eat it. Moses won’t be there.”
Something like a smile appeared on Glitsky’s face. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve had a hunk of beef?”
“Probably too long.”
“That’s the right answer. What can we bring?”
Hardy gave him a grin. “Just your family and that sunny, carefree personality we know and love so well.”
5
L IAM G OODMAN AND his—at the time—paralegal Rick Jessup had worked with Jon Lo since 2008, before Goodman’s election to the Board of Supervisors, back when he was in private practice and Mr. Lo needed legal help handling the rezoning of ten properties that he owned downtown. Six of these multifamily apartment buildings had been residential units—rented almost exclusively to Korean tenants—for over forty years, ever since Lo’s grandfather built them in the 1960s. San Francisco’s aggressive rent control laws by themselves limited profits in the early years, to the degree that they would have been untenable as investments had it not been for the phenomenal rise in real estate prices. But the prices had kept rising, and it seemed that all was well.
In the late ’80s, Lo’s father had refinanced and taken over $3 million in cash out of the properties, which he’d then invested in four more buildings, filled with more recently emigrated Korean renters. These tenants represented an influx of capital, true, but some of his tenant families, especially from the earlier buildings, were in their third or even fourth generation. Many of these tenants were paying under a thousand dollars a month when individual rooms in private homes or condos right next door often commanded two to four thousand.
But the laws were unambiguous—as long as the tenant resided in the unit, the increase in rent was held at one percent per year.
In 2008, Jon Lo found himself in a cash-flow bind. The recession and bursting of the housing bubble had wiped out two thirds of the equity in all of his downtown properties. At the same time, several of his tenants—laid off or cut back or simply poorer—stopped
“Abe. Mose hasn’t had a drink in years.”
His voice in tight control, Glitsky said, “He’s an alcoholic, Diz. Headmits that himself. Every day at his meetings. You know how nervous it makes me feel to know that my future is a couple of ounces of Scotch away from being destroyed?”
Hardy crossed an ankle over a knee. “A little dramatic, Abe, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t. It’s well within the realm of possibility.”
Hardy sighed. “I’ll talk to him, not that he needs reminding. Would that help?”
“Honestly, probably not. I’m not saying it would come out in everyday life if everything stays the same. But if something changes and he stresses out and starts drinking . . .”
“He’s not going there.”
“Famous last words.” Glitsky glared at his friend, arms crossed over his chest. “Actually, the last thing you should do is talk to Moses about it, put it in the front of his brainpan as something he has to deal with. We’ve just got to hope he doesn’t leak. For that matter, we have to hope that none of us leaks for the rest of our lives. Gina’s great, but she writes books. What if she wakes up one day and decides this would be a great plot? What if one of us gets religion and feels the need to confess publicly? It’s so easy in the movies—you blow away the bad guys, and they roll the credits and never think about it again. This situation isn’t like that. Not even close.”
“Well, while I don’t worry about Moses and you do, Frannie bought half a steer and wants me to cook it on Sunday, and we wondered if you guys wanted to come over and help us eat it. Moses won’t be there.”
Something like a smile appeared on Glitsky’s face. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve had a hunk of beef?”
“Probably too long.”
“That’s the right answer. What can we bring?”
Hardy gave him a grin. “Just your family and that sunny, carefree personality we know and love so well.”
5
L IAM G OODMAN AND his—at the time—paralegal Rick Jessup had worked with Jon Lo since 2008, before Goodman’s election to the Board of Supervisors, back when he was in private practice and Mr. Lo needed legal help handling the rezoning of ten properties that he owned downtown. Six of these multifamily apartment buildings had been residential units—rented almost exclusively to Korean tenants—for over forty years, ever since Lo’s grandfather built them in the 1960s. San Francisco’s aggressive rent control laws by themselves limited profits in the early years, to the degree that they would have been untenable as investments had it not been for the phenomenal rise in real estate prices. But the prices had kept rising, and it seemed that all was well.
In the late ’80s, Lo’s father had refinanced and taken over $3 million in cash out of the properties, which he’d then invested in four more buildings, filled with more recently emigrated Korean renters. These tenants represented an influx of capital, true, but some of his tenant families, especially from the earlier buildings, were in their third or even fourth generation. Many of these tenants were paying under a thousand dollars a month when individual rooms in private homes or condos right next door often commanded two to four thousand.
But the laws were unambiguous—as long as the tenant resided in the unit, the increase in rent was held at one percent per year.
In 2008, Jon Lo found himself in a cash-flow bind. The recession and bursting of the housing bubble had wiped out two thirds of the equity in all of his downtown properties. At the same time, several of his tenants—laid off or cut back or simply poorer—stopped
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