Thrown Out of Business

Workers Find Office Contents Dumped at the Curb as Boom Times Skid to a Halt

The owners are nowhere to be found when the sheriff's deputy shows up. The landlord is ready, however, and unlocks the business and tells the crew of 25 men to start removing the contents. Everything.

Out go the computers, copy machines, desks, cubicles, conference tables, paper-stuffed file cabinets, posters that say "Ask About Our Zero-Origination Fee Programs," monthly sales charts, coffee makers, plastic plants, a pair of women's shoes left under a desk.

In the back of the cavernous office, the movers find the remains of a nightclub/party room, with stereo speakers, flat-screen TVs, cocktail tables and what looks to be a dance floor. Behind the bar, a sign hangs on the wall with a picture of a palm tree: Club ReMax.

All of it goes, though not very far. About 20 yards, actually. To the grassy public right of way between the parking lot of this suburban Maryland office park and the street. The tenants had been warned by the landlord and the sheriff's office. But they didn't pay and they didn't move. So now they're out.

Stories of people being evicted from their homes after falling behind on their rent or mortgages are all too common these days. But these days, the end of the boom times is hitting businesses as well.

Nationwide, U.S. business insolvencies grew 44 percent last year, a rate that was expected to increase this year, fueled largely by real estate failures, according to Euler Hermes, a global provider of credit insurance to businesses that publishes an annual global insolvency index.

In counties like Prince George's, where the ReMax office was, nearly 10,000 eviction notices are filed by landlords each month. A fraction of them are businesses -- the exact number is not clear -- necessitating a visit by the sheriff's office.

"It's never happy when we're coming to your door," said Prince George's County Sheriff Sgt. Robert Bauer. "It's depressing to see businesses going down like this. But you have to distance yourself from it, so it doesn't get to you."

Each eviction tells its own story. There's the dentist's office that was put out after falling behind on rent; the owner left for somewhere overseas and hasn't been heard from since. The computer repair shop struggling with a $1,500 monthly power bill that was served notice of eviction this week. The barbeque shop that cleared out before the landlord could evict but hasn't found a place to relocate. A doughnut franchise that received eviction papers, and is trying to sell to someone who wanted to make a go of it.

On a recent weekday morning in Hyattsville, the only son of a local cabinetmaker came face-to-face with the end of his father's business. He watched, shellshocked, as a crew of 25 men carry the contents of his father's woodworking shop to the curb of an industrial park.

John Robey had worked there for more than 20 years, said Charles Wenger, his landlord. When Wenger stopped by the office to check on his tenant, he discovered Robey had died. A local police official said he died of natural causes.

"He was my friend," Wenger said before leaving. But, he added, "I didn't have any other choice."