The Purchase Of a Lifetime

"This tenants association has already voted, and we want ownership," resident Nerissa Phillips snapped at one developer who offered a tax-credit deal. "So you can make your presentation, and we will listen. But that's our goal."

Only Lynch, 30, said he would find a way. He said he would seek financing from private lenders, foundations and government and obtain the help of a nonprofit housing development group.

Lynch grew up in the District, the son of a college professor from Trinidad and an economist from Colombia. A world-class gymnast, he graduated from Sidwell Friends School, then earned a degree in urban planning and engineering at Stanford University. In 1996, he won a silver medal at the Olympics in Atlanta. He returned to the District to launch his own development firm in a restored U Street rowhouse.

Capital Manor's tenants deserved to share in the corridor's rebirth, Lynch often said, because they had endured the worst of times. "They're survivors," he said. "They were here when things were tough."

Some tenants worried privately about Lynch's youth and relatively limited experience. But the March 2002 vote to retain his firm was unanimous.

One year into the ownership drive, Lynch and the tenants agreed on a plan: Refurbish and sell one of the three buildings as market-rate condos, then use the profits to repair the other buildings. Those buildings would become a low-income cooperative, collectively owned by the tenants. Lynch's firm would be paid about 10 percent of the cost of the project, conforming to the city's affordable-housing guidelines.

A few people expressed concern about giving up one building. But Lynch said it was doubtful that more than two-thirds of the tenants would commit to join the cooperative. Nowhere near that number had been paying monthly dues or showing up for meetings.

He pledged to help those who left the complex find decent places to live, as close by as possible, and the tenants agreed.

It was better, Thomas thought, than watching the entire complex soar beyond their reach.

"We need to demonstrate the commitment of this group to the lenders. "

Aaron W. O'Toole, tenants' attorney

Four more months had passed by the time Lynch announced the $1,500 deposit figure and people started bailing out. Thomas called an emergency meeting of the tenant board. They compared notes, tallied the number of tenants threatening to quit and started to panic.

Thomas appealed to O'Toole, the attorney, who said there was nothing sacred about the $1,500 amount -- it was just Lynch's estimate of what would cover costs and impress the banks.

What's the smallest amount that would impress them? Thomas asked.

What's the most you think the tenants can give? came the reply.

Together, they agreed to gamble on $500, still a huge amount for most tenants and perhaps enough to convince the banks.

Only $100 would be due at the July 23 tenants meeting, less than two weeks away. Tenants would have until Sept. 15 to come up with the other $400. If they succeeded, the rest of the down payment would be due when renovations began.

The day of reckoning was a sweltering evening that felt even worse inside the community room. About 40 people showed up, many more than had been coming in recent weeks. Lynch sat in the front row, watching and waiting. He had received an e-mail from O'Toole with the revised numbers. If the smaller deposits meant enough people would sign up, he would find a way to make it work. "This is a partnership," he said later. "You ask and sometimes they say no."

The tenants listened to presentations about city-funded programs available to poor home buyers and classes to teach them ways to save.

Then O'Toole stepped forward, holding the reservation agreement, which guaranteed a spot to all who signed up and paid.

"This is critical for us. Absolutely critical. We need to demonstrate the commitment of this group to the lenders," O'Toole said. "We want enough money to show that people are serious. But hopefully an amount that they can come up with. And that's . . . " -- he paused to glance at Lynch--" . . . $500."

O'Toole reminded the tenants that they needed commitments from at least half of the 102 households by the end of the summer -- but that more would be better. He began reviewing the four-page legal agreement, clause by clause, in English and then Spanish.

The line formed before he finished the second page. Black and Latino, young and old, at least two dozen tenants in all. Some clutched five crisp, $20 bills; others held freshly inked money orders.

Over the next seven weeks, 55 households put down deposits of $500, or as close to that as they could manage.

The last payment came 40 minutes after the deadline of midnight Sept. 15, when a woman knocked on Peggy Fitzgerald's door, panicked that she might be too late. Smiling even though she had been roused from her bed, Fitzgerald assured her that she was not.

Tomorrow in Metro: Financial problems and complaints from neighbors threaten to derail tenants' dreams.