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One by one, the plaintiffs and other neighbors streamed in. The mood was like Christmas in March. With the night-lights from the nearby Pfizer building visible through the windows, Dery broke out beer and wine for his friends.

“Is it really over?” Susette asked enthusiastically. “I can’t believe it. It’s over!”

The members of the group raised their glasses. They had reason to toast. More than four years after real-estate agents had descended on their neighborhood and threatened them with eminent domain, the homeowners had done what everyone said couldn’t be done: they had beaten City Hall. They had won the right to stay put.

Bitter over what they had been through, they verbally pummeled Claire, recalling how she had once remarked that the people in Fort Trumbull would jump at the chance to sell their homes and move if the NLDC offered them $15,000 in relocation costs because these people had never seen that kind of money.

Susette and Matt Dery rubbed their fingers together while jointly mimicking what Claire had said: “These people have never seeeeen $15,000.” Their reenactment generated laughs.

Dery reminded the group that Rich Beyer, Byron Athenian, and the Cristofaro family couldn’t celebrate. “It’s a bittersweet victory,” he said. “Everybody didn’t win. We have to continue to support the others.”

“And we’ll be beside them all the way,” Susette said. “We stick together in the fort. We won’t disband.”

That evening—before Londregan and the NLDC attorneys had finished reading the decision—the Institute for Justice cranked out a press release under the heading “Majority of Fort Trumbull Homeowners Win, Others to Appeal.” “This is a great day for these property owners and the Constitution,” Bullock said. “We are absolutely thrilled that most homeowners’ rights were upheld. And we will, of course, appeal the decisions for the remainder as they remain where they should be—in their homes.”

Londregan didn’t appreciate getting calls from the press just hours after the judge had handed out advance copies to the attorneys. He thought the attorneys were supposed to hold the information in confidence until the following day, when the judge was going to make the decision available to the public. O’Connell felt the same way. He was sick and tired of the institute and its tactics.

“I’m not used to competing in the media,” Londregan said later. “I’m just used to going to court and arguing a case. We are such novices in the media-relations business that we never got our story out to the public.”

Still, both lawyers gave statements to the press that night. “I would say the city is pleased with the decision and that the judge has agreed with the city on all legal, substantive, and procedural issues,” Londregan said.

O’Connell was more succinct. “The assault on the validity of eminent domain failed.”

Besides losing in court, they had also been badly outdone in the PR department.

The next day, Corradino’s decision was made available to the public. Mayor Lloyd Beachy immediately appealed to his colleagues on the city council to renounce any thoughts of appealing. “The city can take eminent domain off the table,” he told them. “We can say we are not going to appeal.”

For Beachy, the choice was clear. The time had come to bury the hatchet and to move forward with the development under the terms that had been laid out by the court. Continuing to wage appeals would only waste the city’s time and money. Other members of the city council agreed. The fighting had gone on long enough. Appeals would only lengthen the delay in starting construction. Led by Beachy, the city urged the NLDC not to appeal.

But the NLDC was bitter and wanted to fight on, especially after seeing the supersized photo of Susette and Matt Dery celebrating victory under the banner headline “EMINENTLY THEIR DOMAIN” on the front page of the morning paper. But the NLDC board members could also see the writing on the wall—City Hall had lost its desire to fight on, and public sentiment had clearly