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One of Portland's more notorious addresses is once again shaping up as a combat zone between its Harley-riding occupants and the local powers-that-be. In 1979, the small house at 9014 N Lombard St. achieved infamy after a member of the Outsiders Motorcycle Club, which was headquartered there, gunned down Police Officer David Crowther during a drug raid at the residence. The club member, Robert Christopher, was convicted of murder but released two years later, after it came out that police had lied to obtain their search warrant and planned to plant drugs at the address. That bust-gone-bad sparked a probe into the bureau's Special Investigations Division that resulted in a reversal of more than 50 convictions. Now the county wants to raze the site to put up a health clinic. But owner Larry Anderson doesn't want to go. Anderson has owned the house since 1977 and run the Harley Davidson shop next door since 1974. He didn't live there in 1979 and says he wasn't involved in the goings-on that led up to the shooting. It was his former business partner at the shop who wanted to join the Outsiders and coaxed Anderson into letting the club move in. On the night of the raid, Anderson says, he called the house to find out what was happeningand had his phone answered by Sheriff Dan Noelle. Today, Anderson shares the property with his wife, Jessica, their toddler son, and three Rottweilers. That's in addition to the four tenants upstairs and a couple dozen Harleys in various states of disassembly in the shop next door. They could all be moved out if the county sites the health clinic on Anderson's block. But, like the house's earlier occupants, Anderson is not keen on the idea of being pried out by the authorities. "I told them they could come to my front gate and talk to me, but if they want to kick in any doors they'll be eating lead," he says. Those types of statements seem to have caught the attention of some police officers. In recent weeks a rumor has circulated through the cop shop that Anderson is arming for resistance. Anderson recalls an incident--shortly after Steven Dons shot and killed an officer earlier this year--in which an officer approached him while he was soldering his cyclone-fence gate and asked if he was upgrading his "fortifications." "They seemed to picture my place in the same kind of light," he said. Anderson told WW he's not planning a local version of Ruby Ridge, but he's also not going to give up his property without a fight. Anderson first learned of the county's designs on his property several years ago in the neighborhood paper. Then in March 1996, city building inspectors found several code violations in the house. Since then, he's been through several rounds of offers and counter-offers with the county real-estate department. The county's first offer, in summer 1996, was for $47,000, close to the assessed value of his property at the time. Following two appraisals later that year, the county raised its offer to $180,000, plus relocation costs. Doing his own research, Anderson in December '96 came up with a counter-offer of $285,000--plus back taxes, liens and his costs of moving--and delivered it to the county. "They gagged on it," he says. Eddie Campbell, an aide to County Chairwoman Bev Stein, noted that the other properties on the block sold for either their tax-assessment value or an appraised value. "Obviously, we're dealing with taxpayers' money," he said. "Is it fair to pay twice as much?" Currently, the county is waiting on the results of an updated independent appraisal, due sometime this week, according to Bob Oberst, county real-estate manager. Based on that, the county hopes to renew negotiations with Anderson and come to a resolution. Anderson, however, says he's had enough. "I don't think I even want to talk with them anymore," he says. "My place is not for sale." A weary edge enters Dwayne Prather's voice as he describes the county's five-year travail in finding a new site for its health clinic. The clinic slated for Anderson's property currently operates out of three 1940s duplexes shared with the Housing Authority on North Woolsey Street, about a mile from the new site. Prather, director of support services for the County Health Department, said the current facility has reached maximum capacity. Records are stored in what used to be the kitchen of one unit, and there's room for only six months' worth of files instead of the usual two years. The new facility will provide primary care and WIC services and offer home visits through a field nurse office, says health department spokeswoman Gina Mattioda. The current clinic can provide 40-50 visits a day, whereas the new facility would allow 80-90. The clinic has met resistance from the St. Johns Neighborhood Association, which doesn't want to see a neighbor evicted and resents additional congestion. "The location is probably one of the second-busiest intersection areas," says Terri Ratliff of the association. "We have horrible traffic out here." Prather says Anderson's block was not the first one considered. But after ruling out virtually every other nearby property, he says, "We've been sort of forced to look at that area." If Anderson refuses to sell and the county wants to proceed with its development plans, the county ultimately can condemn the property and take possession, compensating the owner. Except for transit projects, Oberst said, the county hasn't condemned property for development in at least 10 years. Meanwhile, Anderson walks around his shop, pointing out skeletons of motorcycles and shelf upon shelf of parts lining the walls. He says Mayflower movers figured it would cost $18,000 to relocate the 40 tons of inventory. Anderson's understanding is that the government would foot the bill as one of his relocation "benefits." "Benefits, my ass," he concludes. "I wouldn't have to bother with the benefits if I didn't have to move." |
