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Bullock put the letter down. Well written, it concisely described government abuse of the eminent-domain power. The role of Pfizer and a development agency in seizing homes on behalf of the city intrigued him. Right away Bullock saw the two key elements his firm looked for before accepting a case: a cutting-edge legal issue and outrageous government behavior. Bullock wondered whether the property owners would make sympathetic plaintiffs.

Intrigued, Bullock shared the letter with Mellor, who agreed it had potential and deserved a follow-up phone call.

Peter Kreckovic got nervous when he heard Bullock’s voice on his answering machine, saying he had some questions. Kreckovic hadn’t really expected a response. Encouraged, he called Bullock and introduced himself. He found Bullock talked more like an activist than a lawyer. The conversation quickly focused on Pfizer and the property owners whose homes were at risk. Kreckovic described Susette and her elderly neighbors.

Bullock liked what he heard. He asked Kreckovic to gather more information and get back to him.

At the end of her nursing shift, Susette paid a visit to a nursing home in the area. Her elderly neighbor Daniel Anton had recently been transferred there from his Fort Trumbull home. The fear of losing his house had led to a rapid decline in his physical health.

Many of Susette’s elderly neighbors were succumbing to anxiety attacks about the uncertainty of their future. Susette blamed Claire, who had sent one elderly neighbor, Walter Pasqualini, a letter. “I would like to apologize for any confusion or anxiety that may have occurred regarding NLDC and the potential acquisition of your home,” Claire told Pasqualini. “It is not the desire of the NLDC to disrupt the quality of life you enjoy in your home. However, we are moving forward with our plans and as you are aware, our development plans may include the parcel of land that your home is situated on. But again, we are not asking you to move.”

Susette peeked in Anton’s room. Barely awake, he motioned for her to come in. She clasped his frail hand and glanced at his medical chart. It indicated his vital signs were poor. She figured he had little time left.

“What is going to happen to my home in Fort Trumbull?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Anton worried about his older brother, Albert, who still resided in the house they had shared together. “Where will my brother go?” he said.

“We’re going to try and make it all right,” she said. She looked up at the ceiling to keep from crying.

That night she sent an e-mail to her neighbors and to members of the coalition, reporting on her visit with Anton and his question. “I am sorry to say,” Susette wrote, “that I don’t believe Mr. Anton is going to live long enough to find out.”

A few days later Anton died.

June 8, 2000

It was 8 a.m. when Sarah Steffian trailed her husband and Steve and Amy Hallquist into Scott Sawyer’s office. The exceedingly tall former college-basketball player led them into a conference room and invited them to sit down.

Determined to retain a lawyer, the group had one overriding question for Sawyer: was he willing to go against the establishment?

Sawyer had just finished bringing a series of environmental lawsuits against the U.S. Coast Guard. But he didn’t know enough about the situation in Fort Trumbull to weigh in just yet. The group gave him a brief summary of the dispute. “We’re finding resistance from every lawyer we’ve approached,” Steve Hallquist explained. “Nobody wants to touch this.”

“Well, let me tell you a little bit about me,” Sawyer said. Rather than discuss his professional credentials, Sawyer told the tragic story of his sister’s accidental death years earlier. In the fall of 1988, Jill Sawyer, then a college student, and three friends had disappeared one night after visiting a juice bar in New Haven. Five days later, the girls were pronounced dead when the car they had been in was pulled from a river. At the time of the accident, the City of New Haven had been repairing the Chapel Street Bridge, which was closed