In the brightly lit corridor of the Cohn Adult Learning Center, John Summers faces yet another round in a seemingly endless series of confrontations. The west side Metro Council member has already endured a number of barbs by the time Monday night rolls around, when about 300 Sylvan Park residents have gathered to vote on special zoning protection for the neighborhood where Summers has lived for 16 years. The vote, as much a referendum on Summers’ leadership style as about the zoning issue, is a defeat for the polarizing legislator, with 146 opposing the conservation overlay, as the special zoning is called, and 116 supporting the measure. Nevertheless, he says he’s moving forward with the zoning legislation.
After the vote, Bobby Francescon, a bearded craftsman who is one of Summers’ neighbors, explains why he feels the seven slick mailers he received from the pro-overlay camp are offensive. It’s not just the sheer volume—seven is more than plenty for a city council race, for example—but also the claim that the overlay, according to the fliers, is the “only way” to protect the architectural integrity of the neighborhood.
About this time, Summers appears, rebutting Francescon with a rapid-fire cadence the veteran council member is known for. It isn’t so much what Summers says as his very presence that seems to provoke a strong reaction from Francescon, who, fully 10 yards down the hallway from Summers, wheels around and approaches the council member, eyes aflame with anger. The two have a history of tension. Francescon says Summers called him “a worthless piece of shit” after a neighborhood association meeting last spring. Francescon says Summers then became angry, grabbing his right biceps and pointing a finger in his chest. (Summers denies he called Francescon “a worthless piece of shit” and says he touched Francescon’s arm in a socially acceptable way, not aggressively.) Then last month, in a bagel shop, Francescon made a loud condescending remark as Summers walked in, and Summers responded by saying something about Francescon’s level of sobriety. “He’s so vile and repulsive in his actions, it’s a wonder someone hasn’t hit him,” Francescon said before Monday night’s vote.
In the hallway, Francescon comes close. The two are not exactly toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, but they’re close enough that if one flinches, the other might mistake it for aggression. It’s like a couple of pit bulls competing for a fire hydrant. Francescon tells Summers he still has more than 11 months to file assault charges. Summers tells Francescon to back off or he’ll call the big, burly cop who, up to a few minutes ago, was policing the neighborhood vote in the auditorium. The two part, but chances are John Summers hasn’t heard the last from his angriest neighbors.
Within the Metro Council, John Summers is known as one of the most neighborhood-friendly members and, by his own admission, he almost always defers to the neighborhood associations in his district before making decisions affecting them. On the Sylvan Park overlay issue, this deference has had an unexpected downside.
When opponents became aware of the overlay last spring, they began attending meetings and trying to disrupt the process before it got off the ground, Summers says. They heckled the neighborhood association secretary, Ken Nelson, until he quit in the middle of a meeting. (Opponents say his minutes didn’t accurately reflect the proceedings.) They demanded that the association hold a vote to show that a majority of Sylvan Park residents opposed the overlay before Summers could file a bill in the Metro Council. At least one of the opponents was accused of intimidating surveyors trying to gauge the neighborhood’s interest in an overlay.
To ward off a vote, Summers resorted to parliamentary tactics. Last January, he joined the association’s 15-member steering committee, which is responsible for the association’s strategic direction. According to the association bylaws, at least eight members must be present to conduct association business. Whenever opponents wanted to vote on the overlay, Summers and other steering committee members simply walked out, effectively defeating any attempt at a meaningful vote. Last month, the association’s general membership voted Summers off the steering committee, though the vote was largely symbolic because the bylaws have no procedure for removing committee members.
This last maneuver spilled over to Monday’s meeting. Both sides accused the other of packing the auditorium with voters. About 116 people paid dues to become association members just before the vote, leaving Summers, a 53-year-old statehouse lobbyist, in the awkward position of having to dismiss the vote of an association whose will he supposedly respected. “This was an exercise in turnout,” he says. “It was not representative of anything.”
It was definitely a measure of the hostility some Sylvan Park neighbors feel for their council member. They complain that he’s rude, condescending and self-absorbed. More than a few of his constituents say he’s told them to “shut up” during public meetings. (Summers says he’s asked residents to “be quiet.”)
“It’s not even an issue of the overlay anymore,” says Lanie Gannon, who owns a beautiful, modern home on Idaho Street that probably wouldn’t be permitted under overlay guidelines. (Her home is featured in a recent issue of Better Homes & Gardens magazine.) “It’s an issue of the Democratic process. John Summers has tried to push this through without the consent of his constituents. I don’t care so much about the overlay any more. He’s such a bully that it’s become a vote against him.”
That much was apparent Monday. After Summers cast his yellow ballot in a cardboard box, he walked out of the Cohn auditorium, prompting one of his neighbors to yell, “John Summers has left the building,” which was met with a round of applause. (He quickly returned.) Minutes before the vote, people ripped Summers’ approach to the zoning issue as contaminated and dishonest. It took the group more than 10 minutes to agree on how to vote even though neither method—a hand count or by the ballot box—was anonymous. Some residents wondered whether a delay in the vote would allow Summers to orchestrate another walkout.
At the rear of the auditorium, John Dean sat with three women who traveled from other neighborhoods to watch the vote. Dean, whom Summers accuses of piloting much of the opposition, is the longtime owner of McCabe Pub, which sits on the southern edge of Sylvan Park in the neighborhood’s business area. At one time, Dean and Summers were allies; Dean even hosted a party at the pub in Summers’ honor. Those days are ancient history. Gesturing toward the women with him, Dean says, “We’re all good people here, but we all hate that son of a bitch.”
Does Summers deserve the vitriol? In person, he’s much less confrontational than the reputation that proceeds him. He commands attention through lengthy monologue and a variety of hand gestures, such as sweeping his hands through his long, silver hair. From his vantage point, his detractors are simply overlay opponents who have resorted to their own bullying tactics. He has many allies, as evidenced by the 60 percent victory margin he posted in his last election. Even so, you get the feeling Summers’ neighborhood is teetering on the edge of mutiny.
“At this point, it’s a battle of wills,” he says.
